I'm Turning Into A Geezer

I never thought of myself as getting old. My mind is still full of child like/childish thoughts and I think that at times, I even have a certain joie de vivre. However, today as I sit here trying to write this, I feel like I'm about 90.

I'm going to keep this short. I'm also not going to whine or throw a pity party, but man, do I feel beat up. I've told you about the physical therapy I'm doing for my back. To my dismay, the therapists read those particular posts and are now exacting their revenge under the guise of helping me. Despite their best efforts, I have not quit and refuse to cry in their presence. I just bide my time, fighting through the pain and thinking " As soon as I'm more flexible, I'm dropping all of you with a flying scissor kick." They suspect nothing and will be completely surprised when my ninja-like attack happens.

I was told today that I'm more flexible then when I started. I better be for all the stretching I'm doing. My hamstrings are taking on the consistency of salt water taffy. I started to notice my knees aching last week. At first I didn't say anything for fear of being labeled a candy ass and having my manhood called into question. My entire body seemed to be getting worse. I finally broke down and told one of the pain vendors, and they looked at me with mock sympathy. "Oh yeah, you'll feel worse before you feel better." Then he started rambling on about muscles and tendons, but his soliloquy was drowned out by the sound of my blood boiling. It was like I was listening to Charlie Brown's teacher all the while picturing that sweet sweet scissor kick.

I'll have to come to terms with time taking it's toll on me. "Wife" and "Daughter" can laugh all they want when I make my "old man" sounds as I get out of chairs and bed. I won't be defeated. I'll keep rolling on my green exercise ball until my core can support the weight of ten men and my legs will allow me to leap tall leaf piles in a single bound. Then, when my leaping is at it's pinnacle....scissor kick! Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Take Your Child To Work Day

The house is empty today because "Wife" took "Daughter" to work with her. No, "Daughter" was not kicked out of school for emitting noxious odors or threatening to shoot her classmates, it's National "Take Your Child To Work Day." Some of you may remember when this was just "Take Your Daughter To Work Day."

That was a quaint concept. Let the little girls go to work with mommy and see what it's like to fetch coffee for the boss then have to sit on his lap while taking dictation, all the while hoping that he doesn't grab your ass again when you're getting some documents from the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. I've never worked in an office, so I'm not sure that ever happened, but in my mind, that's how all offices run. Did I mention that my secretary is also wearing a short plaid skirt and librarian glasses? Oh, sorry I allowed my mind to wander and look where it took me. Back to the point. Girls would go to work with their moms to see what it was like to be in the business world. That may have been a good idea in 1965, when a lot of moms stayed home, but now, just about all the moms I know work. Kids know all about work even though they try to avoid it at all costs.

A few years ago, someone must have thrown a hissy because they didn't have a daughter and wanted to slack off for a day like their girl bredding co-workers. The day was changed and now little boys can go to work too. Now it's men and women bringing their sons and daughters to work and nothing is getting done. That's not a good representation of the workplace. Why not just video tape an average day at the office, complete with stress, gossip, back stabbing and unrealistic deadlines. Then you can play it for your kids. If that doesn't make them work harder in school so that they can someday be their own boss, nothing will.

I'm not sure I would want my kid to see where I worked. Granted, I have a weird job. I don't think "Daughter" needs to see me in some smoky bar verbally jousting with an inbred drunk. Let her keep her romantic notion that I'm a cool star for awhile. Even if I was in an office I'd leave her home. You are a hero to your kid. Do you really want them to see you taking orders from the boss that you call inept every night at the dinner table. Seeing their parent jammed into a little cubicle is not cool, no matter how may troll dolls you have on the ledge. I'm hoping a rumble doesn't break out between the boss' kids and the support staff kids. It would be like "West Side Story" with staplers.

To be honest, if I had to exist in the 9 to 5 world, I'd be looking for any excuse for a break too. I know "Wife" and "Daughter" are going out to lunch and there are a lot of things scheduled for the kids. It should be fun for "Daughter", and maybe she'll see how hard "Wife" works and be a little more grateful. I doubt it. Let's hope she grabs all the office supplies I told her to. I can use some more paper clips. Later....Brian

Star Spangled Beaner

Before anyone gets their panties in a bunch and starts flinging tamales at me, I picked the title of this post for a reason. First, "Jose can you see" was already taken and second to prove a point. Does the title offend you? Good! Now maybe people can understand the upsetment that is being caused by news that came out today.

A company has hired a number of Mexican and Latin American music artists to record a version of the "Star Spangled Banner" in Spanish. They want this version to be played in addition to the original version at events. I know I just typed those words, but I can't believe them myself. "Wait a minute Brian, you must be yanking our chorizo" you're undoubtedly thinking. No amigo, I'm not making this up. This is where the point I mentioned before comes in. I am so offended by this that I may not even have a cervesa on Cinco De Mayo.

Organizers are saying that the Spanish version will be "a way for immigrants to show their devotion to a new country." My ass! Here's a good way to show your devotion, learn the National Anthem the way it was written. If that means learning English, guess what, you're in the USA and that's the national language. I'm sure that if I moved to Mexico to open my Chicklet factory, they wouldn't change their songs for me. I would have to learn Spanish if I ever wanted to make a name for myself in the border sweets trade. The people putting this together say that the proceeds from the sale of this will go to fund the protest marches that are going on. Oh that's perfect. Everyone should be allowed to make a mockery of this country then use the profits to further the cause of people who break the law.

I'm all for free speech, and I think that if people want to protest, that's cool. What I don't like is that this country seems to losing all respect for itself. We're like the smart girl in high school who dumbs herself down so that the singlet wearing ape on the wrestling team will like her. We're allowing everything that made us special to be broken down by people who use racism as an answer to anyone who disagrees with them. It's not racist to expect people to obey the law, it's not racist to be proud of your country and expect people who come here to be proud of it too, and it's not racist to demand that your flag and national anthem be left alone. This country used to be a melting pot. That meant that all cultures came here and mixed together into the American culture. It didn't mean that you got to come over here and make your culture equal to this country's. Man, I'm worked into a lather. I'm sweating like an illegal running from the green INS van.

I feel like I'm beating a dead horse. What seems sad is that when you voice this opinion, you get labeled a racist. I'm sure there are a lot of folks who are using this argument as a veil for their racism. Saying you're not a racist makes everyone think you are, so I'll leave it at this, you can think what you want about me, I don't care. While you're judging me though, ask yourself this, do you think it's OK for high school kids in California to fly a Mexican flag over an American flag that's turned upside down? It's happening and we're letting it happen. Sing along won't you. In English this time ..."Oh say can you see....." Later....Brian

Happy Anniversary

Today is "Wife" and my 14th anniversary. I was going to write about something else today, but I couldn't think of a more important event in my life. You'll have to excuse me if today's post is a little sappy. I don't often say lovey dovey stuff to "Wife". I figure if I write it, it gets me out of actually having to say it.

You may be wondering how this fairy tale began. It started like many romances do, with the help of alcohol. I was at a dive bar called Cowboys with my cousin. We were enjoying some adult sodas and listening to an out of tune bar band butcher Garth Brooks songs. My cousin, being a tad clumsy, I won't say drunk, spilled his beer all over himself. Being the wilting flower that I am, I began laughing at a level that drowned out the band. It was at that moment that the ladies who were sitting behind us, peeked over the back of the booth to see what the commotion was about. There she was. Yeah, I remember what she was wearing, and how I picked her out of the group, but I don't need to share all the details with you. Some things I keep inside. I asked her to dance and the rest is history. "Daughter" sometimes asks if it was love at first sight when "Wife" and I met. I'm not sure, but it has lasted long enough to make me think so. I think she had been checking me out anyway. I cut quite a figure in my cowboy boots and tight jeans.

It's cold and rainy here today, just like it was the day we got married. They say that is a sign that your marriage will last. I keep praying for rain. We went through a lot to get to that day. There were times that running off to Vegas seemed like the way to go. "Wife" looked beautiful in her gown, even though it took forever to button up the train. We had a fun wedding and went on a beautiful honeymoon.

But time goes on and the honeymoon ends. Life keeps going. A lot of people who were at the wedding aren't alive anymore, and the care free kids who walked down the aisle have been replaced by adults that have a lot on their minds. I'm not an easy guy to live with and a weaker person would have bailed on me years ago. "Wife" has put up with me and believed in me more than anyone else. I'm lucky to have her and I think we're lucky to have each other. When times are tough, it's easy to think about how things could be different if you had chosen another path. They might be different, and we all think the grass might be greener, but if you took another path, you would have missed all the sights on the one you chose. All right, that's enough of that. I'm starting to get all Oprah book club and Hallmark.

I'm going to wrap this up before we all go into a diabetic coma. If I was too mushy, "Wife" would say that this post didn't have zip, and God knows, after being married to me for 14 years, she must love zip. So let me just say this..."Wife", I love you! Thanks for being by my side for all these years and sometimes even being in front. Happy Anniversary!

No you jackass, that's not a tear, it's my allergies. Later...Brian

The Old Railsplitter

Well we're back from our little weekend get away. I'm happy to report that I was able to control myself and the trip went pretty well. There were no melt downs, flare ups and the only talk of murder was in regards to Abe Lincoln.

"Wife" had made all the arrangements, so I was looking forward to blaming her when things went wrong. Try as I might, I really couldn't find much to criticize. We got to the hotel and I was greeted with the news that "Wife" had booked us a suite. This turned out to be fantastic. "Daughter" was going to sleep in the "sitting area" on a pull out couch, and "Wife" and I would be encamped in our own bedroom, complete with a locking door. Visions of hotel lovin' danced in my head. I don't know about you, but hotel lovin' is always more exciting than at home lovin'. Maybe it's because of the mystery, the sense of forbidden lust, or the thought of the hundreds of folks who have done the horizontal mambo on that Posturepedic, but I enjoy getting my swerve on in a hotel. Usually family vacations are a no love zone, but this time we had our own room. Va Va Voom! I'll leave it to your imagination to figure out what happened, but based on my past experiences, I think you can draw an accurate conclusion. While I'm focused in the bedroom, let me just say that I have never slept in a softer bed than I did this weekend. Not to go all Johnny Carson on you, but it was so soft that Democrats were using it as the basis for our immigration policy. "Wife" enjoyed it, but I felt like I was in some 70's bachelor pad on a leaky water bed. Finally, something to bitch about.

We took in all the historic Lincoln sites on Saturday. Normally I get bored with too much history, but the new Lincoln Presidential Museum was fascinating. It had a couple of cool video presentations which meant I could take a break from reading. I hadn't studied history in a while, and it was very cool to get swept up in it for a little bit. We got to go on a tour of Lincoln's house, and "Daughter" was curious/grossed out by the bathroom situation. The thought of using a chamber pot made her ill. I think it's a great idea, and even though I'm only a few feet from honest to goodness indoor plumbing, I may institute a chamber pot policy in my own home. That would be an extreme way for "Daughter" to earn an allowance, but a kid needs to learn the value of hard work. An interesting side bar, the Lincoln's had a three hole outhouse. If "Daughter" finds using a chamber pot unseemly, imagine the horror of sitting next to me and "Wife" while we drop some kids off at the lake in the morning. A family that (blanks) together stinks together.

So overall it was a very enjoyable weekend. I'm proud of myself. I controlled my temper and can't be accused of ruining anyone's good time. "Daughter" was laughing the whole weekend and even "Wife" allowed herself to have some fun. Let's see how long I can keep up the good behavior. It does make things easier. Later...Brian

Saddle Up Regulators

"Wife" is full of great ideas. They come flooding out of her so fast, that most of the time I just nod my head and act like I'm paying attention. This has gotten me in trouble before, and today is no exception.

Apparently a couple of months ago, "Wife" suggested that we go away for the weekend while "Daughter" is on Spring break. "Yeah, sounds good." I allegedly mumbled and that was all it took. You think I would have learned from past mistakes. We're back in Illinois because I nodded at the suggestion of moving back. Plans were made and hotels chosen and now we're off to Springfield for a fun/ learning weekend.

I don't travel well with others. I have my own style of travel, namely, head down and hurry up. I take no joy in the journey, only being at the destination. I also like to know what's on the agenda. I'm not really very good at the whole fly by the seat of your pants, let's see where the wind takes us method. I also don't like stopping for bathroom breaks and snacks. Today's trip should take about three hours. "Wife" and "Daughter" have packed enough snacks and beverages that you would think we're about to scale Everest. With all the fluids they plan on ingesting, not only will they be properly hydrated, but we'll be stopping at every rest stop so they can relieve themselves. That means I'll have to mingle with truckers, and that's a whole other set of problems. The estimated travel time is now six hours and twenty three minutes.

I'm already trying to put myself in the right mind set. I want this to be a fun experience for "Daughter" and us, but as usual, my sights are set pretty low. I plan on being hypnotized by the road and telling everyone that I really need to pay attention. "Daughter" will watch a movie, and "Wife" will sleep. I'm sure it will be fine, as long as they don't spill a lot of crumbs in my clean car. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Bikers Vs. Idiots

Last night on the news I saw something that really chapped my ass. If you've ever seen my ass, you know that's a lot of chapping. A group of small minded, heartless, "doing it in the name of God" fundamentalists have begun traveling the country and demonstrating at the funerals of servicemen and women who have been killed in Iraq. I don't want to give this group any importance by mentioning their name, but they are from some "church" in Kansas. They are saying that these soldiers are being killed because God is angry at America for being "pro-gay".

Where do I begin my dismantling of these yahoos. How dare someone disrespect the funeral of anyone by shouting hate speech at the congregation? I don't care what your feelings are on the war, these people were sent over there because they are in the service. They aren't there to further their own agendas, and I really doubt that this war is being waged over gay rights. The only connection may be petroleum based products. I guarantee these Soldiers, Marines, Sailors and Airmen would rather be alive and the rest would much rather be home than in some desert hell. Who made you God's mouthpiece? I'm sure that if God wanted someone to represent Him, he wouldn't pick Kansas as the epi-center of his search. He sure as hell wouldn't pick some drooling, mouth breathers who are afraid of their own shadows to spread His message. Where do these shallow end of the gene pool residents come up with their half-baked notions? Does it really seem plausible that God has chosen to smite some 18 year old Corporal from suburban Chicago to tell us that He's upset because the city issued permits for a gay pride parade? I'd tell these people to pull their heads out of their collective asses, but they enjoy the view up there so much it wouldn't do any good. I pray that when the tornadoes come and wipe their tailor parks off the map that they realize that maybe karma is a bitch and God just may be mad at them for using his name to spread hate and intolerance.

The only good thing to come out of this story is the Patriot Guard Riders. This is a grass roots group of bikers that has started following the morons to these military funerals. They position themselves between the Neanderthals and the grieving families and whenever idiots shout, they rev their engines drowning out the hate. This group has grown to over 25,000 members and they travel across the country. Way to go! I always knew that once you got past the leather, tattoos, weapons and meth, all bikers had a heart of gold. You can say a lot about bikers, but they sure are patriotic. I'm sure their presence alone is enough to scare the prairie skirt and flannel wearing crowd who are probably wondering why their God is allowing these heathens to bother them.

That's enough soap box preachin' for now. There's a lot wrong here, and if you can't see it, maybe you're part of the problem. Think about it, then go hug a biker. Later....Brian

"Daughter" And The Batting Coach

Yesterday I was telling you about the upcoming softball season and the lengths to which some crazy parents will go to create super athletes out of their children. Can you imagine? Coaches who specialize in hitting and pitching, what a world. If it were that easy to create a master race of ball players, why don't the Cubs do it? Ha! A slap in the face to all my Cub fan friends. Go White Sox!

Anyhow, I wish I could tell you I was above all this and was just happy to see "Daughter" enjoying herself, but come on, we all know that isn't the case. So Monday afternoon I took "Daughter" to her first lesson with a batting coach. I can't be held responsible for this. Point of fact, the Easter Bunny put a certificate for two lessons in "Daughter's" basket. I guess the Bunny was a little disappointed in her on base and slugging percentages in the pre-season and decided to step in. Since I am really in no position to argue with the Easter Bunny or even the Tooth Fairy for that matter it was off to the batting academy.

I always heard about the pros adjusting their swings and having coaches dissect every at bat in order to create the next Babe Ruth, but hadn't really given it much credence. Man, was I wrong. Within thirty minutes, the coach had made a few minor adjustments in "Daughter's" swing and the results were amazing. She was making solid contact with the ball and putting everything in play. The smile on her face should have been enough for me, but it wasn't until the coach said that she had "real power" that I breathed easy. "Daughter" really liked the coach and was able to remember everything he told her.

Now I'm hooked. Visions of scholarships and Olympic glory are flashing in my addled mind. I'm sure I'll go over the edge and make "Daughter" hate the thought of ever picking up a bat, but I hope not. I know that having fun is the most important thing, but let's be honest, it's easier to have fun if you don't suck. Sure, you might not always get a hit, but isn't it better to go to the plate knowing that the chances are better that you will hit the ball? Damn right it is! Everyone wants to blast a frozen rope down the throats of some cocky infielder taunting you with a "hey batter, batter." Now it's off to the batting cages. I have unfulfilled dreams to live out on the back of my kid. Later...Brian

Batter Up!

I have written many times about the competitive nature of suburbia. From lawn care to exterior illumination, there is no end to how far we of the manicured lawns and three car garages will go to out do each other. We'll even use our kids as pawns in our twisted games.

It's softball season here in Stepford, and "Daughter" is ready to play. I'll say up front that "Daughter" is not the best athlete in the world, and I don't expect her to be. She plays softball, soccer, and has started to learn to golf. She enjoys all of them and I would classify her in the average to a little above category depending on the day. My rational mind tells me that as long as she's having fun and trying her best, that should be enough. We all know how well I listen to my rational mind.

"Daughter" is on a team being coached by one of our neighbors. Some of her friends are on the team, so she's happy. There is something about watching nine and ten year old girls play sports. It's like watching a zombie movie. Most of them are content to look at the sky and gossip with their pals. They go about the game in a lackadaisical fashion, worrying about sweating or getting too dirty. There are always a couple who are really into it, but we all know that they are future lacrosse players or P.E. teachers. This laid back approach is fine for the girls, but horrible for the dads that are coaching or watching. We had been told early on that the pressure to make high school teams started at a young age. This is coming into focus more at each practice.

The coaches and dads are constantly shouting directions at the girls. Granted, some of the girls need constant direction. Seriously, they throw like girls, and lack the Pete Rose, Charlie Hustle gene. We do tend to overload the girls with our helpful tips. You can see steam coming out of the kids ears as they try to process all of the minutiae that their dream deprived dads shout to them. I guess all of the dads forget that if we were so good, we'd be pros instead of pushing our little angels toward the thrill of victory. Each dad secretly lives with the fear that his girl will be the worst on the team. You know the one, everyone let's out a little sigh when the kid comes to bat, or holds their breath when a ball is hit their way. Nobody wants their kid to be the lowly right fielder, exiled to the Mongolia of the softball field.

There have been whisperings on the fields of girls going to private coaches for hitting or fielding in hopes of improving their skills and increasing their chances of making a traveling team, which we have been told in conspiratorial tones, is the gateway to a high school team. How ridiculous! We never needed private coaches. We just went out and played baseball or softball. Some kids were good and some stunk. If you stunk, you either played more and got better, or you stayed in your basement playing Dungeons and Dragons, wearing your trench coat and reading comic books.

Sure it's ridiculous. Until my irrational mind takes over. "You know, I probably could have played college or pro ball if only I had the right training." Oh no. I should never listen to the voices in my head. In true episodic fashion....Tomorrow..."Daughter and the Batting Coach." Later...Brian

Rolling Back The Stone

Easter is over, but the recap is just beginning. Overall, it was a pretty good weekend, filled with family activities and holiday fun. There were the usual childhood memories that came flooding back to enhance/ruin the day.

Do we start with good or bad? Oh, the suspense must be killing you. Lets start with what I think is good, but may end up being odd and pathetic. I was in the grocery store with "Daughter" the other day and saw that they were having a big sale on lamb cakes. These aren't meat based deserts, but a lovely cake baked in the shape of a lamb. I don't want to get to convoluted here by going into the religious symbolism of Christ as the lamb and us devouring him after a scrumptious Easter feast, so let's move on. When I was a kid, my mom used to make lamb cakes every Easter. She would kick it up by making the lamb with pound cake. The more butter the better. Cake isn't really cake unless it clogs every artery. She would then cover the cake in delicious butter cream frosting. I can feel a stroke coming on just thinking about it. I would always try to get to the ass end of the lamb first. That piece had the most frosting and a greater risk for morbid obesity. Man, I could eat the ass out of a lamb cake like nobody's business. Did I succumb to the sales pressure and buy a reduced price lamb cake you may ask. Hell no! Those cakes were made with yellow cake, not pound cake. I may be a gluttonous lamb cake ass eater, but I'm a picky gluttonous lamb cake ass eater.

While we're on the subject of Easter and food, I would be remiss if I didn't share my worst Easter memory. I was in sixth or seventh grade, and we were having dinner the night before Easter. My mom had prepared a big dinner with ham and all the trimmings. I have never liked ham. It's one of the few foods I detest. I can't stand it. You get the picture. I can't explain it. I dig all other pig based meats. Being headstrong from a young age, I refused to eat the ham. I don't get why this turned into such a big deal, but it did. My mom was crying, begging me to eat the ham. It's as if the sugary crust had healing powers or something. I refused. My mom, perhaps showing how unbalanced her life had become, sobbed like I had taken the ham and thrown it to the next door neighbor's hounds. My dad couldn't stand it anymore and told me that if I didn't eat the ham, I'd get no Easter basket. Dude, you can't play me. I know the Easter Bunny brings the basket. I called his bluff. No ham!

Fast forward to Easter morning. My four brothers and I waking up early and running to the living room to see our baskets. There they were, five baskets lined up neatly in front of the couch. The only problem was, only four were filled. You read it right! I had been denied an Easter basket because I wouldn't eat ham. Mom and Dad had conspired with the Easter Bunny to show me who really ruled the roost. You could have flown Dr. Spock in and had him sitting right in our living room and even he would have told you this was extreme parenting. My heart sank as I watched my brothers tear into their chocolate treasures. I tried to hold it together, but I think I allowed one single tear to escape down my cheek. Right! I cried like a sissy. Did I learn a lesson? Yeah, I learned that there was no punishment too cruel for my parents to meter out. Wait till I tell you the one about Halloween.

Poignant isn't it? I still don't eat ham, and I allow"Daughter" not to eat food she doesn't like without threat of punishment. I'm not saying I'm a better parent, I just pick my battles a little better. "Daughter" is on Spring break this week, so I'm sure I'll have plenty of battles to pick from. Later...Brian

Good Friday...Says Who?

Today is Good Friday, the day that Christians the world over remember the crucifixion of Jesus. It is supposed to be a day of fasting and prayer, especially between the hours of noon and three which is when the Bible tells us Jesus died. I guess that's the case with a lot of people, but for another chunck of society, it's just an excuse to leave work early and get a jump on hiding your eggs.

Even as a kid, I never understood why they called it Good Friday. I'm no theologian, but hanging on a cross doesn't seem like a good way to kick off the weekend. I bet no one asked Jesus if Good Friday was a fitting monicker. I would imagine He would have called it "Geez Dad, are you sure this is really necessary Friday", or "you guys lied, I can't see my house from up here Friday", or "just remember, payback is a bitch Friday". Right now, zealots are probably lining up to burn me at the stake, but I figure if God hadn't wanted me to make jokes, He wouldn't have given me this wicked sense of humor.

I also don't understand how chocolate bunnies and hiding eggs became associated with Easter. I guess it's because of the whole "season of renewal" thing. I'll tell you something, if I ever rise from the dead, I want to be remembered in a more fitting way than people gorging themselves into a coma on marshmallow Peeps. Even if I manage to raise myself from the bed on time, I want a little more fanfare.

Well I'm off to therapy, and while I'm sure the pain is a hundred times less than crucifixion, I'll suffer none the less. Happy Easter, Passover or whatever you pick. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Big Daddy Is Watching

I was reading the paper this morning, and saw something that made my heart leap with joy. Sprint/Nextel is about to introduce cell phones that are equipped with GPS. For the uninitiated or technically ignorant, such as myself, GPS is a global positioning system. It's like the units they put in high end cars that make it possible for you to be located in case your car slides off an icy road into a snow filled ravine. They are marketing this phone to parents to give to their kids. Genius!

What a great idea. "Here you go, son/daughter, Daddy loves you so much he got you a cell phone." Oh how the children would thank daddy, all the while conjuring up plans for illicit activities and figuring that they could cover their tracks with the obligatory "call if you'll be late". Little would they suspect that Secret Agent Dad has just given them a phone with a tracking device. It's just like when the Homeland Security people put a tracer on Audrey's car in last weeks "24". Hopefully your kid doesn't have some nerdy friend like Chloe who has knowledge of de-bugging devices. Man, that would spoil all the fun. I'll have to make sure none of "Daughter's" friends are computer programmers.

I love high tech spying as a parenting tool. "Daughter" is already in the "why don't you trust me?" mode. Of course I want to trust my kid, we all do. It's just that all of us remember being kids and so we know that tabs must be kept, and what better way to keep tabs then secretly. Of course your kid won't do anything wrong if they know you're watching, but left to their own devices, well who knows. I love the idea that I'll be able to keep "Daughter" on a short leash without her knowledge. Let's look ahead to the dating years shall we. I finally relent to let "Daughter" out of the house with a member of the opposite sex. Granted, this is a long shot, but go with me for a minute. While "Daughter" is enjoying her dinner at Olive Garden (teens love breadsticks and salad) I'm in my bunker tracking her every movement. Later when "Daughter calls to check in and tells me that she and her beau have stopped at church to light candles and donate money for orphans, I can pop up next to the car, which in reality is parked at "Lookout Point", bang on the window, and put the kibosh on any romance. My psychic powers will seem unparalleled and no more boys will come to the house.

It may not come to that, but I still think it's a good idea. We need to keep an eye on our kids, for their safety and our sanity. If that eye happens to be in the sky all the better. By the way, I think I'm getting rid of my phone. The idea of somebody tracking me is very disturbing. Later...Brian

My Achin' Back Part Deux

Yesterday I began the tale of my back problems. No need to recap. If you missed it, just travel back in time and read yesterday's fascinating tale of woe. I just got home from a therapy session so let me continue my spinal saga.

When the doctor told me I would need physical therapy I pictured Swedish women massaging my aching muscles in a room filled with scented candles. I couldn't have been farther off the beam. The doc took me into the basement of his office. It reminded me of the room Ving Rhames and Bruce Willis found themselves in during the pivotal scenes from "Pulp Fiction". The was even an extra room in back for the "gimp". I was greeted by three smiling young men in peak pysical form. They seemed nice enough, but I was soon to discover that behind their smiles lurked the soul of the Marquis De Sade.

The torture triplets told me that the first thing we would have to do was stretch. They took perverse joy in seeing how non-flexible I really was. I was a little surprised myself. I didn't even know that I had a muscle running through my ass that needed to be stretched. I do , and it does. They kept stretching me and asking how it felt. How did it feel? It felt like everything I had been avoiding my entire life. Pain was never something I aspired to, but these guys were pain merchants.

I had to suck it up though, because the air in the dungeon was thick with testosterone. I didn't want to yelp like a sissy. I was only stretching, for God's sake. I focused on holding it together while my mind was screaming. That must be what it's like for those people who are in a coma, but still aware of there surroundings. On the surface I was calm, but inside I was a quivering hunk of man baby.

Then it was time to begin strengthening my "core". I never pictured myself with a core. I always just thought I had a gooey, nuget filled center. The dungeon master produced a large ball. I thought we were going to play four square, but again, I was wrong. I was ordered to sit on the ball and walk myself down so that only my heard and shoulders were resting on it. I really think there is no exercise for this. It's just a way to entertain the guys in the basement. I looked like that toy you see at the mall. You know, the one where it looks like a weasel is wrestling with a ball. I had to do "bridges" and then crunches. If a video tape was running during these proceedings, I could easily win some cash on "America's Funniest Videos". The Marquis told me that this would burn if it had been a while since I worked my abs. "Is a while 40 years?" I grunted through the pain. By the look on his face, you would have thought I punched his mama. "Damn, no that's a long time." "Well then, I guess it's been a long time." He didn't like my flippant response and made me do another set.

As much as it hurts, I'm going keep working at it. I can only imagine how my life will change with a strong core. The energy that will radiate from within will undoubtedly give me super powers. Either that or at least I'll be able to bend over to tie my shoe. Later...Brian

My Achin' Back

For a while now, I have been enduring some serious back pain. I'm not talking about a small "Oh, I think I pulled something" kind of pain either. No, I'm talking about a pain that drops you to your knees, makes you wet your pants and cry out for your mommy. Being a rough and tumble guy, I do none of those things. I do however occasionally whine to "Wife" about it and use the pain as an excuse to dodge some heavy yard work. A few weeks ago, I decided that enough was enough and I needed to get this taken care of. The thought of being in pain for the rest of my days and not being able to walk may have lead to my decision to call a chiropractor.

Like may of you, I'm wary of the dark arts of chiropractic medicine. We've all heard the stories about the unscrupulous "doctor" who prescribes 2500 sessions. I've had some luck with chiropractors in the past so I figured, " What the hell? I couldn't be any worse off than I am now." I went to a sports medicine and spine specialist.

After viewing my X-Rays, the doctor showed me how my lower spine was twisted. You didn't have to be a trained professional to see it either. My spine was straight as an arrow until it got to the lower four vertebrae. Then it shot farther to the right than a Bill O'Reilley rant. The doctor also informed me that my discs were degenerating and that there were bone spurs jutting out of my vertebrae like the bony fingers of paralysis. Man, what great news. I could see myself in the future, nestled into my wheel chair like Raymond Burr in "Ironside". While that was a great show, it didn't seem like the way I wanted to live. I doubt I could find a willing assistant to load me in and out of my tricked out van.

While I pondered a future that involved a "Rascal" scooter, the doc told me that with physical therapy I would be able to strengthen the muscles in my "core" and keep my back from twisting and turning like teens at a 1953 sock hop. Oh goody. I always wanted a strong "core" even though I wasn't sure what that meant. The doctor said I would need three sessions a week for the next three weeks and then took me to see the therapists.

I'll give you the details tomorrow. I like the "To be continued" format. It builds drama and keeps the reader hooked. It's like a great TV episodic. What will happen to me? Will the therapist kill me or only wound my pride. Those answers tomorrow. Same Bat time, same Bat channel. Later...Brian

Let Me In, Immigration Man

Today all over this great country, rallies are being held to protect the rights of criminals. Wow, how's that for an incendiary opening? I think I may have to get all political today. The rallies I'm talking about are being called a "campaign for immigrants dignity" What they really need to be called is a"campaign to ignore the law and let anybody come into this country who wants to."

I don't want to jump on the Rush Limbaugh or "Larry the Cable Guy" band wagon, but this is insane. What ever happened to having to do things the right way? I'm the product of immigration. My grandparents emigrated to this country, and worked to become citizens. Yeah, I said worked, not hid out for years and then cried that they should be allowed to stay. Millions of people have come to this country to seek a better life for themselves and their families, followed all the right steps and became citizens. To me it seems like an insult to all the people who did things by the book to just toss out the law and say that anybody can stay.

Supporters of a change in the law say that these "undocumented workers" are doing jobs that Americans don't want to do. First off, they're not "undocumented", they're illegal. You can label things whatever you want, but fat is still fat, dumb is still dumb, and illegal is still illegal. At this point I should be on some AM radio station in Oklahoma shouldn't I? Perhaps, but the point is valid. Sure, most people wouldn't want to be migrant farm workers, or clean up after your sloppy kids at McDonald's, but I'm sure that if the minimum wage was raised a little we could find some actual citizens to do the work. If we used that logic, Ronald McDonald would have to allow the Hamburgler to keep his ill gotten gains because he's the one who has to clean up after Grimmace when he's on a bender.

There is talk of building a wall along the Texas and U.S. border. I think that's OK. I have a fence to keep my neighbors out of my yard, and I kind of like them. Rarely do my neighbors drain the economy by using services that they haven't contributed tax money to. Why does the U.S. have to be the only country with open borders? Can you really be a country if you don't have borders? Even strip clubs have ropes to keep you out of the "Champaign Room" if you're not getting a lap dance. We've all seen the old movies where the border guards, wearing heavy wool coats and toting machine guns ask some shady traveler to see their "papers." Hell, I got strip searched coming back in from Canada after going to Niagara Falls for Chinese food.

Call me an isolationist if you want. I call myself a guy who obeys the law and expects others to do the same. While we were living in Los Angeles, a radio station put up a billboard touting "Los Angeles, Mexico." That stuff wouldn't fly anywhere else. I say it's time to stop being so damn PC, and start knowing that it's OK to protect yourself and your country. The welcome mat is out, but you need to come in through the front door to use it. Later...Brian

The Cookie Cabal

You may remember that I wrote about "Wife" being cookie mom for "Daughter's" Girl Scout troop. Thankfully cookie season has been over for awhile, but last night we were sucked back into the cookie vortex. The Noonan clan loaded up the TrailBlazer and headed out to a shindig honoring all the Scouts who had sold more than 400 boxes of cookies.

Before I turn critical, which is my nature, let me commend the girls. Out of over 7000 Girl Scouts, only 47 conned enough suckers into buying these bite size delights to be invited to the party. For the math geeks out there, I think that's around one percent. I say I think, because I'm no math geek, and I don't have a calculator handy. So congrats to the girls. Your hard work is appreciated.

The numbers that some of these green vested selling machines put up were impressive. I thought "Daughter" had done great, selling 414 boxes, until I witnessed the utter domination displayed by a handful of future Amway giants. There were a number of girls who sold six to eight hundred, a few that hit the thousand box mark, and then there was the "Top Seller". This young lady had somehow managed to get rid of over 2000 boxes. Two thousand eleven to be exact. 2011! I had to re-type it because I couldn't believe it myself. That is a staggering amount of cookies. I think it's enough to put our entire neighborhood into a diabetic coma.

Being the suspicious sort, I began wondering how many of these cookies the dedicated Girl Scout had actually unloaded herself. "Daughter" sells cookies the old school way. She and "Wife" hit the streets and go door to door begging, I mean asking, folks for their support. "Wife" sold a few (10%) at work, but the rest were sold with the help of many hours of foot power. Somehow I doubt that some pint size Willie Loman is schlepping 2000 boxes of cookies through the neighborhood in her Radio Flyer wagon. Even if Biff and Happy were helping, it would be a monstrous undertaking. By the way her dad yelped when her name was read, I suspect foul play. I picture dad as the head of some company. In order for his princess to be queen bee of the cookie hive, he forces his employees to buy every cookie imaginable. I can see it now. The scared maintenance man forced to sit in a hard backed chair, under a blinding light, while his evil boss makes him choose between six boxes of thin Mints or his frozen turkey Christmas bonus. I may not like the way he does it, but damn, I love the results.

I've got a few months to figure out a way for "Daughter" to quadruple her output. This may take the place of outdoor illumination as my new vision quest. I really need to re-examine my priorities. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Big Man In A Wee World

I make no bones about it, I'm a big dude. I don't walk around hunched over or keep my gut sucked in trying to fool myself or others into thinking I'm petite. While I'd like to be slimmer, I love being tall and have used my size to my advantage on a number of occasions. You'd be surprised how quickly some mouthy drunk will shut up when I get up from a chair and extend to my full glory. I'm talking about my height not my other full glory, although that might shut someone up too. Today, society went out of it's way to remind me just how big I am.

"Wife" and "Daughter" were kind enough to give me a new bike for my birthday. It's not the motorized hog that I dream of, but a nice "Comfort" bike. It's a great gift and I was looking forward to family rides on the trail, or riding into town to my favorite dive bar. This would kill two birds with one stone. First, I'd be exercising which I need, but I'd also be avoiding any potential DUIs. Win win if you ask me. The problem came when I examined the bike. "Comfort" bikes have shocks on the front fork, higher handle bars, a wider seat, (thank God) and a shock absorber on the post that holds the seat. My girth made that shock absorber more like a flat tire. Every time I tried to sit, the seat would sink about six inches, and when it did the front of the seat was driven into the lovely area commonly referred to as the "taint". I'm still sore hours after sitting on the bike, and there's no tactful way to ask "Wife" to kiss that boo-boo. Thankfully, I was able to switch out the post for a solid steel one more befitting the giant who would sit upon it.

My next stop was at the La-Z-Boy store. I've always wanted a La-Z-Boy, and now that I'm advancing in years and income, I'm going to get one. Who knew there were so many different sized recliners. When I told the sales woman what I was looking for, she told me, "oh, you need our big man's chair. They're in the back." Sure they are. You don't want beefy guys sitting in recliners in the front of the store. There would be a lot of snoring and farting and it would scare off the more fashion conscious customers. The woman was trying so hard to be PC that I had to give her a hard time. I asked the difference in the chairs and she said, "well theses are higher in the back and wider." "Just what I like, higher and wider." I said, and then she started stammering about not meaning wider necessarily, but built for a bigger guy. I pretended like I was crying and ran out. Not really, but that might have been really funny.

I'm still going to get a recliner. You can label it "Ginormous Couch Potato Docking Station", I'd still plop my happy ass in it. I'm big, now get over it and let's recline after our bike ride. Later...Brian

In The News

What a day. There is so much going on in the world that I felt an obligation to type about it. Let's start wide and narrow down our focus. Pencils up. Ready? Begin.

On the world stage, Saddam Hussein is back in court today. If it wasn't for the fact that he's a blood thirsty dictator that is accused of genocide, I'd love this guy. He's like somebody's drunk grandpa in court. No matter what charges are thrown at him, Saddam denies them and then attacks the court. Today he accused the new Shiite-run Interior Ministry of killing thousands of Iraqis. When the judge told him to be quiet Saddam told the judge, "you might be afraid of the Interior minister, but he doesn't scare my dog." Yesterday he said he would cut off somebody's ears and thumbs. I love crazy! This guy still calls himself the president of Iraq. Yeah, and I'm the arch-duke of Hooters. I can't wait for him to start using the "I know you are but what am I" defense. To quote the great Ari Gold of "Entourage", Saddam is going to "spin right off this planet."

A little closer to home, the Deputy Press Secretary for the US Department of Homeland Security was arrested as part of a sex sting operation in Florida. He faces charges of trying to seduce someone he thought was a 14 year old girl. Authorities came right to his door in Maryland while he was chatting up this undercover officer. Stone cold busted! Brian Doyle is a 55 year old man who now is making his reservation on the express train to hell. This freak made no secret of who he was when he started talking to the agents/girl. Feel secure yet? It's great to know that government official are so forthcoming with private information when they get a hard-on. How long before some crazy terrorist takes off his head dress and puts on some cyber pony tails to jerk intel out of another pervert. This may sound like the weak plot of a B movie, but I like to let my imagination run wild. I'm so disgusted by this story that I can't see straight. I love these sting operations. Catch all these predators and put them in a lion cage at the zoo. Let these soul-less wastes of life see what it's like to be the prey.

And finally....Katie Couric announced today that she will be leaving the "Today" show after fifteen years to go to CBS. The thing is, she's not leaving until the end of May. Now we'll be subjected to two months of good byes. Does she think she's the Who? Why such a long farewell tour? She should have just come on the show this morning and said "I'm outta here" and walked off. "See ya suckers" may have been a bit much, but you get my point. I like Katie. I didn't really care for her earlier incarnations as the plucky, spunky young reporter, but in the last few years, things have changed. Katie became a sexual dynamo. She highlighted her hair, and started wearing really short skirts and heels. Hubba hubba! Maybe it was because she lost her husband years before and was finally ready to get back in the game. I don't know, but it worked. My only concern now is that she'll be behind a desk at CBS. No legs. It's like hiding a candle under a basket. Maybe they can have her march in at the start of the broadcast.

What an update. Now I'm off to get out the Easter decorations. Yes, another round of suburban one upsmanship is set to begin. Later...Brian

What If?

What if I had a blog, and had nothing to write about? Hold on pal, that's exactly what's happening. My mind is a veritable wasteland today. Good ideas are nowhere to be found, and even I'm so bored with my life that I don't think I should subject anyone to it. I do however have some space to fill, so let's get to it.

Chicago is in a frenzy today. We are in the midst of one of the biggest road reconstructions in the history of road reconstruction. The Dan Ryan is being completely rebuilt. This means nothing to anyone who doesn't live here, or the snobs who live on the North or West sides of the city, but for the rest of us, it's a nightmare. I had the displeasure of driving into the city today using nothing but side streets. Talk about road rage. The trip that usually takes me 45 minutes took two hours. I felt like Travis Bickle driving my taxi around. I shaved my head into a Mohawk and went looking for a pubescent Jodi Foster in hot pants.

The World Champion Chicago White Stockings got their World Series rings today. Sometimes I think I have more than a little chick in me. I confess to getting a little teary eyed while listening to the presentation on the radio. I don't think I'm alone on this. Sometimes it's ok for guys to cry. When you're watching "Field of Dreams", when you're team wins the big one or when you realize that your other team isn't going to cover the spread and you've lost the house, weep away baby.

My birthday is over and I managed not to ruin it. I think I made "Daughter's" day. I stayed calm and really like the gift she and "Wife" gave me. Wow, look I'm coming to the end and I was able to fill the space. Talk about getting blood from a stone. Later...Brian

Happy Birthday To Me

Yeah, that's right, it's my birthday. Now shut up about it. Most people look forward to their birthdays, but not me. As we've established countless times, I'm nuts. I'm not sure when this happened. When did celebrating the day that the world was lucky enough to have me in it become a day of dread? I don't want to get into too much psychoanalysis today. Suffice it to say, that instead of enjoying the fact that I have a nice life and managed not to have a coronary for another year, I focus on the negative and throw a little pity party.

This is not an attractive attribute in a grown man and this year I'm working on not being an ass. "Wife" and "Daughter" know my insanity and choose to ignore it. "Daughter" did ask me why I'm always mad on my birthday. I couldn't answer, and it made me think. I want her to enjoy things, so I should try to set a good example. There are years of weirdness that need to be examined to find out what makes me the way I am. I don't have that kind of time, so I'll just have to start making changes from this point.

I have had a good year. We moved to a beautiful house, I'm closer to friends and family, and "Wife" still hasn't wised up and left me, so things are rosey. Sure things may not always go the way I want, but what makes me so special? This is my day and I'm going to try to enjoy it.

I know this hasn't been a very hilarious read, but that's the way it goes sometimes. I will tell you this. I read this morning that someone stole Jerry Garcia's toilet. That made me laugh. I don't admire anyone so much that I would want to own their toilet. I'm sure there is a joke about shitty music in there somewhere, but I don't want angry Deadheads trance dancing in my driveway. I bet whoever stole the toilet is going to make it into a giant bong. You can stick your whole head in. Talk about a long strange trip.

Well, I'm done whining for now. I'm off to embrace my birthday. Later...Brian