The Doctor Will See You.....Later

I'm running very late today. I had to take "Daughter" to the doctor late this morning. She had complained of some lumps behind her ear, and being the hysterical parents we are, it was off to the clinic. It turned out not to be tumors, conjoined twins or an alien growing out of her head, which was disappointing to me, but just some swollen glands from an ear infection that was getting started. "Daughter" always gets nervous when she has to see the doctor. I'm not good at alleviating her nervousness, so I just come up with the most horrible scenarios for what might happen. This gets her nuts. When everything turns out fine, I can say "See it wasn't as bad as I told you it would be." I'm no Dr. Kildare, but my bed side manner works for me.

While we're talking about doctors, why is it that they never seem able to keep their appointments on time. We waited almost an hour today. I know that there are emergencies, but hey, I'm a busy guy. I've got a blog to write and I'm sure there's something else I need to do. Sitting in a waiting room full of snotty nosed kids with whooping cough isn't one of them. How 'bout this? Schedule your appointments a little further apart. That way if things go bad and you have to give a kid some monster injection, you've left a little buffer. The doctor won't be as harried either. I want a calm physician, not one racing from vomit in room one to strep throat in room four and cholera in room five.

I just finished a conference call. It was my first one, so I'm still woozy. I'm going to be on WGN again this Friday morning (June 2) from 2-5am. The management really liked the show that I did with Laura Hirsch a couple weeks ago, so they're having us back. I'd do a little jig now, but since only the dogs would see it, I'll pass. If you're up at that time, I hope you'll listen.

All right, that's it for today. My schedule is all messed up and I'm nothing if not a creature of habit. I've got to go get "Daughter's" prescription. I really wish it had been an alien growing out of her head. Just think of the great "Wrath of Kahn" posts I could have written. Oh well. Later...Brian

It's Not The Heat....

I hope everyone enjoyed the holiday weekend. I tried my best to have a good time, but Mother nature was doing her best to mess me up.

One of the "joys" of living in the Midwest is humidity. If you're not familiar with the concept, drop to your knees right now and thank whatever higher power you believe in. There are times when the air is so heavy with moisture that you feel like someone threw a wet blanket over you. This weekend, the temperature climbed to over 90. That would be great for a long weekend. Sunny skies, warm temps, a nice breeze. No chance. The humidity was also over 90 percent.

As I told you Friday we were going to Irish Fest on Saturday. Under the best conditions these things are festivals of bad hygiene. Nothing turns the stomach faster than having to use a port-a-potty that has been baking on the black top for hours. Now add in breath stifling humidity and you have a toxic sauna that makes you wish you had a bag on your hip. The fest was everything I could have hoped for. Lots of great music and beer, and the people didn't let me down. There were tons of bad tattoos, shorts that should have been retired years ago and carneys that looked like they had just convinced the parole board that they wouldn't burn down any more schools.

Back to the humidity. It was so bad the last couple of days that you burst out sweating the minute you went outside. I was doing some work in the yard, and after about thirty seconds there was so much sweat flowing off me that I looked like Albert Brooks in "Broadcast News". I swear, people were creating so many personal drippings that they were making their own gravy. I had so many salt stains on my shirt that deer were licking me. You get the picture, as disgusting as it is. One of my neighbors jokingly said that I should be used to the heat, seeing as we moved from California. After I wrung my shirt out over her head, I explained that there really is a difference between our sauna and "dry heat". Dry heat is like an oven, but you can bare it. This weather is, to quote Matthew Broderick in "Biloxi Blues", "Africa hot".

I don't even want to start on the horrible mosquitoes. That's whining for another post. I have a feeling I'll either be spending most of the Summer in the air conditioned comfort of my dark basement, or I'll melt away to a shadow of my current self. Either way, you'll hear about it. Remember to hydrate! Later...Brian

Let The Summer Begin

I was going to take today off and start the Memorial Day holiday early, but I didn't think that was a fitting way to remember the men and women who have served our country. I doubt that many people will actually take the time Monday to think of those who gave their lives in service of this great land, heck, that would harsh the mellow of the cookout. So before we go much further let me say thanks. There, I tried not to get too maudlin. Now on to the weekend.

Memorial Day is the official kick off of Summer. Today people are leaving work early, loading their families into horrendous pop up trailers and heading out for the first taste of warm weather fun. Here in the Midwest, folks have been chomping at the bit for months. You can only take so much cold and gloom before you want to take the family to a deserted mountain hotel and hit them all with an axe. Come to think of it, if I were trapped in a camper with my family for a few days there might be some "redrum" on the horizon.

This weekend there are the first festivals of the season. You know the ones, "Irish fest", "rib fest", bad hygiene fest. Most of them end up being bad hygiene fests anyway. You can only put people on a blacktop parking lot for a day of drinking and hazardous carnival rides for so long before the stench starts to choke you. I'm actually looking forward to hitting some fests this summer. We weren't privy to any out in California. The thought of driving three hours to "Garlic fest" didn't hold much allure.

These fests usually attract quite a diverse crowd. You get your typical suburban families. The poor dad pushing the stroller packed with ungrateful rug rats, trying not to sweat through his new Polo shirt. He's trying so hard not to get caught staring at the hotties in their "Daisey Dukes" and half shirts that he runs the stroller into the back of his wife's legs causing a huge fight, his only solace, a stolen moment in the beer tent when she puts the kids on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Wow, I paint a vivid picture of domestic hell don't I? Then you have the white trash element that always loves a chance to show off their new summer mullet. Nothing says summer fashion like a sleeveless Def Lepard t-shirt, tight cut off blue jeans and BK hightops from 1986. The final group is made up of packs of disenfranchised youths. They wander the fests in packs like rabid dogs, some coupled off with their hands in each others back pockets and the rest just trolling for trouble and hoping they find the guy who'll get them a six pack for the parking lot.

Convinced yet? Maybe this will flip your skirt. Fests are the best place to see bands that you thought were great on their "We blew all our money and now we're playing a park" tour. In the mood for a little Quiet Riot, Rick Springfield, or Night Ranger? Who isn't! Cum on, feel the noiz, you working class dog, I'll bring Sister Christian and we'll have a blow out. There's no better value than paying a five dollar fest cover to see just how far the mighty have fallen. I saw Night Ranger at a fest a few years ago. The stage was in front of the train tacks. Wait for it. That's right. At the exact moment when they were launching into the chorus of their biggest song, Choo Choo Charlie came rumbling by blowing his horn. Rock on!

I'm actually hitting Irish fest this weekend. There's nothing better than seeing thousands of pale skinned Irishmen in shorts for the first time. The skin will be glowing so bright I'll bet you'll see it from space. There may be no beer left in Chicago when this is over, but I can't wait to be drunk and weep with my countrymen and those who strive to be like us when we launch into "Danny Boy" late Saturday night.

Have a safe and enjoyable holiday. I'll talk to you Tuesday. Yeah, I'm taking Monday off. Use the day to process your disappointment. Later...Brian

You've Made Your Choice

Some of you may be happy and others saddened by the news, but this will be the final American Idol post for a while. Unless you've been living under a rock, you know that AI had it's blockbuster season finale last night. We've already covered the fact that it's extremely pathetic for a grown man to be this connected to a high school talent show, so let's move on and revel in it. There sure is a lot to cover.

The Noonan house was positively giddy with anticipation over the finale. We had all done a tribal rain dance in hopes that "Daughter's" softball game would be rained out. The great water spirit in the sky loved our dance so much that he sent severe thunderstorms. Talk about overkill. One flash of lightening and the game was cancelled. I guess no one wants a kid zapped while holding their aluminum bats. If you met some of these kids you might change your mind, but I digress. We were in front of the TV in time for the red carpet show. It was hosted by the insipid trio that host the Fox morning show in LA. I forgot how shallow and vapid LA can be, but listening to them blather on and try to out talk each other brought it flooding back. One of the women has had so much work done that she looks like a 22 year old that was created by Mattell.

The fact that the show could end in about twenty seconds didn't stop Fox from milking it for a full two hours. Was it just me, or did Seacrest seem in a bad mood. He was breaking bad on everyone with snide little comments and bored looks. Maybe he's starting to realize that he's just a talking head in trendy clothes, and that self actualization is making him dream of a shotgun barrel. Speaking of dead looks. If you looked in Chris Daughtry's eyes last night while he was having to share the stage with "Chicken Little" and the rest of the "Up With People" popsters, you could see only despair. He made his deal with the devil, and now BeelzibIdol owns him for a year. It's hard to hold onto your rock and roll cred while you're singing "Arthur's Theme" in a monkey suit. At least he got to sing one rock and roll song with Live, but between Chris and the lead singer, I thought I was watching a bald headed version of the "Parent Trap".

While I'm at it, I might as well let loose on the rest of the show. Why do we need to bring back some of the most irritating and untalented auditioners for "awards"? These people got their 15 minutes of fame when the producers put them on the show the first time. I don't need to see some hideous impersonater pretending to be a no talent crack whore swearing for three minutes. Well I do, but not on TV. I really didn't need the flaming Clay wannabe with his bad teeth and horrendous voice come out only to have him shocked by the real Clay. Good Lord, why doesn't Clay just come out in a rainbow suit? You're not fooling anyone. His hair looked like a "Flock of Seagulls" after a down pour. Just look at him and you can see the bitchy, preening diva that lurks not far under the surface. It's the same look that Katherine had since she ousted Chris a few weeks ago.

Here's a quick list of other things I feel I need to mention:

- "Chicken Little" is neither tough nor a ladies man. If I had a pistol, I would have gone all Elvis and shot the set while he was singing "What's Up Pussycat?"

-Poor Kelly Pickler. The competition seems to be taking it's toll on her. Not only has she lost her cute looks, she will forever be cast as the American Idiot. I know it's not a stretch for her. Are lobsters really that scary? I'm sure she's had worse things in her mouth than snails too.

-How the hell does Mandesa forget the words to "Say A Little Prayer"? Come on baby, put down the cheesecake and pick up a lyric sheet.

-I applaud the camera work while Toni Braxton was on stage. If the angle had been any lower, "In the Ghetto" would have taken on a new meaning.

-His name is Prince and he's still funky, but why was he there? He's a weird little man. Nice pompadour though.

-I wanted to vomit when Katherine's mother said that Kat had "so much celebrity around her now." Why not just wear a sign that reads "unfulfilled stage mother" around your neck? We get it. You never made it, so you've bread an automaton singer to make it for you.

-Dionn Warwick can still sing her ass off.

Now that you've been reading this for what seems like two hours, let's get the results. After over sixty million votes, which according to Seacrest was, "More than any President in the history of this country, (that's a sad statement) the winner is....I'll tell you after the break.

((((BREAK)))))

Taylor Hicks.

See, even here it loses something. Soul triumphs over the soul less and America has a new spoiled celebrity on their hands. It's our fault, but I don't care. I got caught up in the drama and the back story, and next January I'll do it again. Now, how can I get some sweet seats for the "Idols Live" tour? Later...Brian

Thanks For Nothing

Every time I go to fill up my trusty vehicle I wonder why the low prices we were promised have never materialized. I'm sure there's not a single person who doesn't curse the oil companies as they watch the digital tally speed by on the pump, a constant reminder that driving the kids to soccer practice now costs more than Pele's first contract. After we flip off big oil, we then mentally flog ourselves for lusting after big, comfortable, gas guzzling vehicles. I'd like to drive an electric car or one of those roadsters that run on McDonald's used French Fry grease, but have you seen the size of them? I need something a little bigger. I like my cars like I like my women. "Low and wide, that's the Cadillac ride." That's how I roll.

Today I thought there was some help on the horizon. GM announced a plan to cap gas prices at $1.99 a gallon for people who drove their vehicles. How great is that? What a benevolent company. It made me proud to drive a GM product. Then I read past the headline.

GM will cap the price only in California and Florida. When we lived in California, I knew gas was higher than here in Illinois. The party line was that it had something to do with pipelines, or refineries or price gouging. You know, the usual things. I'm not sure of the situation in Florida. Maybe the prices are higher because the oil companies figure all the senior citizens can't read the big signs at the gas stations since they can barely see over the steering wheel anyway. I've always found Florida to be one big trailer park, so I don't see why they get special treatment. It's not like they'd know how to vote anyone out of office if there was a problem.

Not only is GM limiting where the cap will be in effect, you need to purchase a new vehicle, and not an efficient car like a Metro or one of the other soup cans that get better mileage. No, you need to buy or lease one of the vehicles that burn enough fuel to make Iraqi oil field fires seem like a place to roast marshmallows. Some of the vehicles on the approved list include the Chevy Suburban, GMC Yukon and the Hummer 2&3. Hummers? When you have to spend $150 bucks to fill the tank just to run out for milk, I don't think a cap on gas prices matters to you. I really don't believe that the yahoos with a Napoleonic complex and penis envy who drive Hummers are worried about what they pay at the pump. I'm sure they just worry about their own inability to pump.

So now you've bought your monster truck, and you live in one of the chosen lands. That's enough right? Man are you gullible. You also have to sign up for OnStar service. That'll cost you at least $16.95 a month. That way GM will always know where the biggest suckers are. Big Brother is watching and laughing. Then they'll send you a check every month for the difference between what you pay for gas, and the $1.99 "big savings" price. It's estimated that someone living in California who drives 1000 miles a month can save a whopping $100 dollars. Woo Hoo! That's ten percent of the payment on my Hummer. That might seem like a large car payment, but you can't put a price on pretending to be Norman Schwartzkoff.

My friend believes that the high gas prices are some evil plot by the oil companies to see how far they can push the public. How high will we let the prices go before we revolt. People have already started stealing gas. Pretty soon the revolution will come and we'll all end up like Mad Max in "The Road Warrior", driving around looking for people who we can knock over for petrol. I'm down with that. I look great in leather and I love driving fast. Viva La Revolution! Later....Brian

All Is Well....For Now

Last night my mind was put at ease. Thanks to the miracle of TiVo, I was able to watch the evil plans of Russian separatists get foiled and a corrupt President be brought to justice. No, I wasn't watching a re-broadcast of CNN, I was engrossed in the season finale of "24".

I completely bought in to the hype by Fox that this would be a "non-stop season" and they delivered. If you don't watch the show, turn away from this and go get a life. You heard me. How can you not get behind the efforts of super agent Jack Bauer? What are you, a Commie? I've mentioned "24" before because truth be told, I may have no life.

The finale was a great end to the season. In the first hour, Jack was able to board a Russian submarine and foil the terrorist's plan to launch missiles at various targets on the West Coast. Some of the targets may not have been worth saving, but that's not the point. We all know that Jack is the man, but taking on heavily armed wackos with just your mortal enemy and a disposable agent at your side goes above and beyond the call of duty. I was a little irked at "24" for stealing a page out of the "Star Trek" bible and sending the extra agent. You remember the always un-named ensign in "Star Trek" who would beam down to a distant planet with Captain Kirk. You just knew that this guys number was up as soon as the alien popped up. Same with this agent. He had barely come down the ladder when he was mowed down in a hail of bullets. At least he'll get his SAG residuals. After the missiles had been disarmed, Jack in a true Charles Bronson moment executed his arch nemesis for crimes against the country and more importantly Jack. This time it was personal. Dude, I've got goose bumps.

Then Jack set out to unseat the corrupt and immoral President Logan. I won't bore you anymore with the details but suffice it to say, when Jack was asked how far he was willing to go to get a confession and he answered, "as far as I have to", you knew he meant it. The President was brought to justice, Jack and Audrey shared a triumphant kiss and Chloe found time to grieve for Edgar despite her usually surly demeanor. By the way, where did her ex-husband come from, and how did he get time off from the "Full Monty"?

So everything was all tied up in a nice bow. The country was once again safe and it seemed like Jack would finally get to kick back, use the rest room, and catch a cat nap. Oh wait, a call from his estranged daughter Kim? "I'll be right back." Jack told Audrey. Sure you will. No sooner had Jack saved the day then those sneaky Chinese shanghaied him and after dispensing a truly brutal ass whipping put old Jackie on a slow boat to China. "You didn't think we'd forget did you?" asked Ming the Merciless. Jack didn't and neither will I. I don't know what I'll do until January, but I know I won't rest easy. The world seems a bit less safe with Jack in the clutches of a foreign government. I'll keep watch, but don't expect me to commandeer any helicopters to save the day. Later....Brian

What A Weekend

Once again, time is the tyrant today. A buddy of mine is in town and my routine has been thrown out of whack. As you can imagine, that is making me very happy. One of the benefits of having him here is that I can postpone some of my more mundane chores by using him as an excuse. I guess I'll buy toilet paper tomorrow.

The weekend was great. It started Friday when I went to the first game of Chicago's cross town classic with my brother. I drove to the "Cell" with a friend of mine and we enjoyed the fellowship that comes from tailgating. Nothing bonds people more that drinking in a parking lot and watching drunks try not to fall into the makeshift grills they are using to char some pork chops. My brother is usually able to score great tickets for any event. Friday was not his day. We had seats so high in the upper deck that they almost allowed me to, in the words of the late Ronald Reagan, "loose the surly bonds of Earth and touch the face of God." I'm not kidding, we were sitting higher that the bald eagle that flew in for the National Anthem. Despite the thin atmosphere and blustery conditions, the game was fantastic. The World Champion (I can't help it) White Sox easily dispatched the hapless Cubs, and the trashy hot female fans were out in force for both sides. Nothing says team spirit like a woman with 38 D's in a child size jersey. Batter up!

Saturday night I had the pleasure of hosting a show on WCKG. The management let me bring my own co-host. I brought in Mike Schmidt, a friend and fellow comic as well as a Chicago native. We had a great time. Mike and I have very similar senses of humor and the ability to riff on any number of topics. The mics came on and we started talking. Two hours later we had covered everything from riding mowers to ninja smoke pellets. Some people said we talked too fast, but I think they listened too slow. The feed back was all positive and hopefully soon we will take over the airwaves and make a generation of radio listeners pick up the pace and pay attention.

Yesterday was my brother Dennis' 40th birthday. Dennis has had a tough year and has come through it pretty well. After some coaxing from yours truly, he agreed to a small get together to celebrate the fact that he had made it this far. It was a typical Noonan get together with ten people talking over each other and the volume driving everyone else from the restaurant. In all seriousness, I'm proud of him. I won't get into details because I've been warned about divulging too much information, but suffice it to say he has had to work hard. My four brothers and I rarely share terms of endearment with each other. We never have, and for good or bad, that's how it stays. I know I can count on them, and them, me and that's the most important thing. So Happy Birthday Dennis! Keep up the good work.

I'm out, as the kids say. I've got a little more time with my pal, so I'll talk to you tomorrow. Later...Brian

No Time To Say Hello, Goodbye!

No time to talk today. I got a last minute call from my brother inviting me to Game 1 of Chicago's cross town classic. I'm going to see the World Champion (I love writing that) White Sox take on, and with all probability defeat the hapless Chicago Cubs.

At a later date we can delve deeper into the rivalry that splits the city into two hate filled, booze fueled camps. Right now I'll boil it down to this. Sox fans are real people. They come from all socio-economic backgrounds and seem to be better judges of what constitutes good baseball. Cubs fans are winy, privileged snobs who use Wrigley Field as a spot to network. They don't care what kind of team is on the field and take a perverse pride in "waiting until next year." I know that will infuriate my friends who love the Cubs, (I do have some, those poor misguided souls) but Championship rings talk, suckers walk. I'm getting my taunts ready for today.

Before I go, I would be remiss if I didn't remind you to listen to another of my shots at radio glory. Tomorrow, (Sat. May 20) I will be on WCKG Chicago's Free FM from 5 until 7pm. This is my second shot there. This time the station honchos have been wise enough to let me bring my own people for the show. I will be joined by my pal comedian/writer/cynical sueth sayer Mike Schmidt. It's going to be a great two hours of radio fun, so don't miss it! Gotta go, there's tailgating to be done. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Whadda Yamin He's Gone?

Last week in an act of self incrimination I railed against the American public for voting gravel voiced rocker Chris Daughtry off "American Idol". Since I don't have a lot of time today, and I was deeply affected last night, I'll sound off again.

What the hell is wrong with you America? There, I got that off my chest. Last night in "one of the closest votes in Idol history", Elliott Yamin was sent packing. This bothers me for a number of reasons. First I had Elliott in an A.I. pool, so him going home cost me 150 bucks. Don't think I won't remember this America. Somebody owes me, and like Henry Hill said in "Good Fellas", "F--- You! Pay me." The other reason is that I really think he was one of the two best singers left in the competition. Why do I care so much? It's a slow news day.

I have to admit I was skeptical of Yamin at first. He had some ghetto fabulous shaved haircut that made him look like a monkey. He looked like a late model Vanilla Ice with a razor shaped beard and bad teeth. I had to close my eyes when he sang. When I did though, I was treated to an old school soul crooner. Leave it to television to take control. As the series wore on, Elliott was transformed from singing monkey to monkey suited singer. The style department descended on Yamin faster than you could say "Damn, that dude's ugly." Finally the look started to match the voice. "Wife" could never get past Yamin's mug, plus, she lacks the swerve to be down with blue eyed soul music.

I'm savvy to how TV can distort things, but in the same breath, Elliott seemed like a decent guy. He also had a great back story. Counter clerk at a pharmacy struggles to find his way and when given the chance overcomes his simian looks to become loved by America. (just not enough of America.) He took his mom everywhere with him and said he was "blessed " to be able to share it with her. (Just a side bar. Looks wise, the apple didn't fall far from the tree.) I found myself unnaturally moved watching Yamin return to his hometown and seeing the out pouring of support he received. Does that make my life empty? No! It makes you a soulless jerk for mocking me. That's my job.

So Yamin is gone. Only Taylor and Katherine remain. I'm officially now a member of the "soul patrol." Shut up, I mean it. "Wife" hates Kat because she beat her boy Chris and now cost us money. I can hardly wait until next week. In a final act of self incrimination, I'll tell you this. We voted this week. I'm so lonely. Later....Brian

She's Toxic

You've heard the old saying "you need a license to drive a car, but any idiot can have a baby." Proof of that is all around us. Take a trip to Wal-Mart any weekend and you'll be bombarded with the evidence. Sure, you may think that bad parenting is exclusive to trailer living, mullet wearing, book spurning folks, but it extends to the highest level of entertainment too.

Britney Spears is in the news again today for yet another glaring example of why hillbillies, even rich ones, shouldn't be allowed to reproduce. You may recall that twice in the past couple of months, our Miss Spears has been the focus of the DCFS. First there was the picture of her driving with her newborn son on her lap. Then came the mysterious "fall" out of the high chair that prompted another visit from the man. Now, a picture was released of her driving with the baby again. This time she did put the baby in a car seat, but it was facing the wrong way and from the way the baby's body was leaning, authorities are saying that the seat belts were not tightened correctly.

Britney's people are firing back that California doesn't have a law requiring that car seats face backwards, only ten states do and that since the baby weighs over 20 pounds she's not breaking any laws. It would be nice if these same people spent less time spinning stories and more time helping Brit buckle the kid up. There's also no law against sugar, but I don't feed "Daughter" a diet of Pixie sticks. There are some things it's ok to make excuses about, not doing everything you can to keep you child safe isn't one of them.

I kind of feel bad for Britney. She was forced to grow up fast and turned into a sexual object at a young age. Now she's tired and wants to get back to her roots. You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can't take the trailer park out of the girl. If it was just her, that would be fine. Let her eat Cheetos and walk barefoot in gas station bathrooms. If she wants to hook up with some loser back up dancer who's already fathered kids with another woman, go for it. She really wants a "normal" life, but it's never gonna come. You can't be regular folk when your "old man" can't pull up his pants and keeps impregnating you to hang onto his meal ticket. Have your people send this guy to the drug store. There's a whole aisle of condoms. This genetic line must be cut.

I think some people are just too self absorbed to have kids. Young celebrities are so used to getting their asses kissed that they have no idea what kind of responsibility a child is. There are some exceptions, but Britney isn't one of them. It seems like the kid is just another accessory for her trashy life.

I hate coming down on Mrs. K-Fed so hard. I like to remember her as the fresh faced Lolita, driving men crazy in her school girl outfit, or the simmering dominatrix from her "Onyx Hotel" tour. (Why do I know that?) Now she reminds me of an over the hill stripper or one of those backwoods lottery winners. She's got the cash, but lacks the class. The good news is there's another baby on the way, so the fun has just begun. Buckle up. Later...Brian

Ciderella, Your Dress Has Arrived

I saw a story on CNN this morning that almost warmed my icy heart. It was about a high school girl in New Orleans. Her family lost everything during hurricane Katrina, including her pink prom dress. Seeing as teen girls have a different set of priorities than the rest of us, this was a huge deal. Her future was in jeopardy. How would she face her prom date? Just when all seemed lost, good fortune stepped in.

A high school in Maryland had been watching the Katrina coverage like the rest of us. While most of us were outraged at the conditions and worried about the welfare of the citizenry, this fine young woman had a different focus. She began collecting prom dresses to send to her fashion ravaged sisters South of the Mason/Dixon. She had hoped to collect one hundred dresses, but because of the generosity and sisterhood not normally demonstrated by teenage girls, she received enough to fill a semi. The girl in New Orleans got her pretty pink prom dress (damn I love alliteration). Now her Molly Ringwald fantasies can become reality. I hope Ducky shows up to sweep her off her feet. Oh Ducky, always misunderstood.

That's a sweet story isn't it? The only problem is that it reminded me of my own prom. Mine was not the prom of a John Hughes movie. No, mine was the prom from a Steven King movie. My date didn't set fire to the ballroom or shower me with pig's blood, but the experience was just as horrifying. Expectations for these kind of events are always high. It is the social centerpiece of your high school years and the pressure to have it live up to the legend is almost unbearable.

High school was not a barrel of laughs for me. I look back at it as a four year stretch in a minimum security prison. I got to leave at night, but I knew I had to go back in the morning. I didn't really fit in with the preppy, Ivy League bound crowd that populated my "College prep". Things started to look up in my Senior year. I knew that I would be released soon and my future looked rosy. The fates had even blessed me with a girlfriend. I know, pretty cool. I had my prom date all set, no need to search one out, or have to go through the hassle of disguising one of my cousins as a girl I knew from "a school out of state."

That's great! All was swell until two weeks before prom when we broke up. Now the smart thing would have been to stay home. I think you all know me well enough by now to know that even at that age, I didn't always do the smart thing. I took my ex to the prom, where we spent all night ignoring each other. Oh the fun we had. I kept looking at the girl I wished I was there with and she stared at the floor wishing that she, I , or both of us were dead. To paraphrase supergroup Chicago, "color my world with pain and misery." The dance was followed by a party and a trip to the beach, where I downed as many 7-ounce Miller High Lifes as I could. In for a penny, in for a pound.

I'm glad the kids in New Orleans get to live out their dreams. Maybe they will create beautiful memories to last a lifetime. Don't count on it. Later...Brian

A Voice Calling Out In The Darkness

Sunday morning I had an experience that I will remember for the rest of my life. In the wee small hours of 1-5 a.m., I co-hosted a show on the "Voice of Chicago" WGN radio. As I've mentioned before, I've been pursuing a job in radio for the last year. I did radio before I was a stand up, and always knew that someday I would return, answering the siren's song, to a radio studio.

Growing up in Chicago, WGN was THE station. When I was young, WGN was the only station my parents listened to. The radio was on top of the refrigerator, and I really think that besides the power and volume knob, there was no way to change the station. WGN would be playing when we got up in the morning, we listened religiously to hear if school would be closed for a snow day, and then mom would have it on all day. As I got older and found rock and roll, and my own favorite stations, 'GN was still the only thing heard in the house. It was from the legendary Roy Leonard, that my mom got the crazy notion that KISS dressed in woman's clothing and would lead me down a path to the devil. Maybe. As I got older, I could always count on my mom sitting in the kitchen listening to Eddie Schwartz when I came home late, trying to hide the fact that I may have had a few Old Styles. This station IS Chicago, and now I was going to be a part of it.

This was the equivalent of a minor leaguer getting called up to the "Show". When I got the call Friday, I was elated, and then terrified. It's like the old saying "be careful what you wish for." I made the mistake of telling "Wife" and "Daughter" that I was nervous. "Wife" shot me a dirty look and told me not to be stupid, and "Daughter" said, "I don't mean to be rude Dad, but you lack self confidence." I can always count on a Knute Rockne pep talk form the home team. I was ready. Years of life experience and performing had honed my conversational skills to a razor's point. I couldn't wait to get started. Hold on, I've got to throw up.

I got to the station and was warmly welcomed by Christy, the young woman who would be producing the show. She immediately put me at ease and I knew things would go fine. About a half hour before the show, My co-host, Laura arrived. There's something kind of crazy about expecting two people to meet and then in a few minutes go on the air together like they've known each other their whole lives. It's a credit to both of us that we did it seamlessly. Laura found me fascinating, and who can blame her. She was bright and funny, and the four hours flew by. We covered a variety of subject from Mother's Day gifts to butt facials and just about everything in between. My favorite moment came when I got to do my first legal I.D. at the top of the hour and throw it to the news man. I knew I had arrived.

I stayed awake, didn't swear and tried my best not to be rude to the callers. I had to temper some of my usual rhetoric, but found that it's OK to be a nice guy once in awhile. I was able to maintain most of my sarcastic, irreverent self and I think I made a connection with the audience. It's an unusual bunch that is up all night, but I think we go well together. I'm not sure of the next step, but it is an incredible journey. Keep your fingers crossed and your radios on. I'll keep you posted. Later...Brian

Yo Mama

This Sunday is Mother's Day, so it seems only right for me to give a shout out to my ma and all the mothers out there. I will try not to get too sappy. That's not really the kind of relationship my ma and I have.

It's hard to sum up the feelings that I have for my mom. It would be easy to just say "I love you" and leave it at that, but you know me. Nothing is ever easy. I do love my mom and hope that you love your moms too. Duh, man did I go out on a limb there. Let's get to the meat of it. My ma is nuts. Not in a clinical way, even though I suspect that under a professional's gaze she may be questionable. No she's just nuts in that way that mom's can be. I'm the oldest child, and so was she. If you had a degree in psychology, you may find some link that would explain our relationship. With five sons, my mom was completely out numbered and out gunned. People say that mom must be a saint after raising us. I always joke that she wasn't a saint, she was a warden. I think Ma may have over compensated for not having a daughter by trying to get overly involved in her sons lives. I know this has caused some consternation with my brothers and I in the past. Guys reach an age when they don't want their mom butting into their business. Whenever we would complain, my ma would always say"You're damn lucky to have me." I think that's what we'll put on her tombstone. She actually says it so much that now it has become a joke with "Wife" and me.

For all our teasing, we are lucky to have her. We can always count on her to be there if we need her for anything. I know my brother's and I get frustrated with her because she won't listen to our advice. I guess that's part of being a mom too. Even though you raise your children to be smart, successful, free thinking individuals, in the end, you're still the mom and they're not the boss of you.

So all that being said, buckle up for the mush. I love ya ma! Happy Mother's Day!Thanks for being there for me, and all of us. Remember, Oprah doesn't really care about you, but we do. Listen to us, we care!

By the way, Happy Mother's Day to "Wife" too. You do a great job with "Daughter" even though she fights you tooth and nail. I still say it's payback for when you were a girl.

In other news. I got a great call yesterday. This Sunday morning from 1 until 5, I will be co-hosting "WGN Overnight" on WGN Radio 720. This is a great opportunity and I'm very excited about it. I have been talking to the station for a while and the guys who like me are now in a position to bring me in and give me a shot. I hope you can listen. Take a nap.

So Happy Mother's Day to all you mammas. Enjoy your day. Have a great weekend! Later...Brian

It's Your Fault America

The campaign of shock and awe was re-wakened last night. Thankfully it did not take place on a battlefield in the Mid East, and cost people their lives, but in the minds of many it was just as tragic. What event could send shock waves across the world and have them land with a thud smack dab in the middle of my family room? Bald, gravely voiced rocker Chris Daughtry was voted off "American Idol".

I know I haven't written about Idol since it first came on this season, but don't be fooled into thinking I haven't been following it religiously. I have! I've been on the edge of my seat from the auditions through the whittling down period all the way up to the final three. I plan on seeing this through to the end. I've cheered as the evil twins were sent packing and then arrested, I've loudly begged the public to, for the love of God, please vote off that pip squeak who looked like "Chicken Little" and actually believed he was a sex symbol. I marveled at the way Kelly Pickler's chest and butt defied gravity. Oh the memories. Their have been a number of surprises. Mandesa was sent home too soon. How the hell did Ace keep up that fake earnestness for so many weeks? Is my life really so empty that any of this matters? Perhaps.

I liked Chris from the beginning. He brought a little edge to an otherwise bubble gum affair. "Wife" loved him. We had dubbed Chris her "boy", and I swear she would blush a little and get quiet when he sang. He had the whole package. He had a good voice, a unique look and one hell of a back story. Who wouldn't root for a guy who married some hillbilly with two kids, worked in the stock room of Toys R Us and sang rock and roll at night? "I'm doing this to make a better life for my family." That's what he said. Cue the sappy music. It's almost as manipulative as an Olympic moment or a long distance commercial. Despite all of that, I still thought the guy could sing. So did most people. He was the favorite to win the whole thing. Everything was going great, and then the public went and screwed the pooch.

America was too lazy to pick up the phone and vote. I guess we all got too comfortable and figured that Chris didn't need our votes. He's doing great, why spend the 95 cents for a toll call to keep his dream alive? It's this kind of complacency that allows all types of atrocities to occur. Why do you think "Yes Dear" is still on the air and Ashlee Simpson can sell millions of CDs? We must stand up and stop the madness! I can't bear to watch tears form in "Wife's" eyes , or listen to her muffled cries throughout the night. I almost feel bad for not voting.

We will move on. Chris will be fine. But now it's time to rebuild and regroup. There are two episodes left. Three contestants out of thousands have made their way to the finals. Paula has gone completely insane and judging from this post, so have I. Against all odds, I'm throwing all of my support behind Elliott Yamin. He's got a good voice, but more importantly, I have him in the pool. It's always about me. Later...Brian

Buy Me Some Peanuts And Crackerjack

I've wasted over an hour putting off today's post. I think it may be the self imposed pressure of starting a new hundred that has me a bit skittish. It's amazing how many things I can find to do when I'm deep in procrastination mode. I answered the phone and then ended up talking to my mom for half an hour, I dusted off the screen on my monitor, and then I wasted all our time with this first paragraph.

Last night I went to the baseball game with "Daughter" and my friend, who for purposes of anonymity, we'll call "Load." "Load " has these seats for a few games and was nice enough to offer me a ticket. (The phone just rang again and I couldn't help myself. What is my problem today?) Back to the story. "Load" offered me the ticket and wasn't able to find any clients or friends who wanted the other ones, so he asked if "Daughter" wanted to go. That's pretty cool for a single guy. I don't think I would want to give up guys night at the Sox game to hang with my pal's nine year old daughter, but "Load" may be a nicer guy than me. Either that or he's really desperate for company.

Going to a major league game is a great experience, especially when your team is winning. Right now the White Sox rule and seem unbeatable, so that makes things a lot more fun. I have to differ with the whole "America's Pastime" moniker though. It's only a pastime for those Americans with a ton of cash. Have you been to a game lately? It's like Calcutta. Everyone has their hand out for cash, the only difference being the beggars are wearing red vests and demanding large sums. I know the players salaries are high, but seven bucks for a beer? How can a regular Joe six pack enjoy his six pack? We'll all have to do our binge drinking in the parking lot. That way we can already be hung over by the end of the game for the drive home. I bought "Daughter" a hotdog, some peanuts, and a coke, and then told her that she had just devoured her first year of college. She also got some "Dippin' Dots". There goes law school. These prices make airports seem like the dollar store.

I have always found walking into a ballpark magical. When you come out of the tunnel and see the field for the first time, it takes your breath away. I still get that feeling, only now it's jealousy. I'm fixated on the grass. "How do they do that? There are no brown spots or dandelions. " I spend the whole game coveting my favorite team's lawn. That might break the eleventh commandment, I don't know.

Last night something happened that made me realize I may not be the craziest person in the world. Sometime late in the game, we heard a loud roar from the upper deck. We figured some drunk was getting thrown over the rail, but the roar went on for a while, and usually a drunk only screams for a second before the thud. The upper deck hooligans had started doing the wave. After a few minutes the craze had taken hold and was sweeping the park. I don't do the wave. It's not some high minded code or anything, I just hate standing up that many times. At about the second wave, an angry voice behind me started shouting "We don't do that here! Down in front. Watch the game." I turned around to see some curmudgeon who looked like the crypt keeper, going nuts. He had on an ill fitting Sox hat that looked like it may have been given to him by Abner Doubleday. It was perched on his craggy head that was getting redder with rage at each passing wave. I almost got involved just to give this coot a coronary. I thought I over react to unimportant things. This guy was soiling himself because people were having fun. To my horror "Load" agreed with him. There are some things I'd rather not know about my friends.

We had a great time and I'm looking forward to my next visit to the yard, as the players call
it. That's what convicts call their recreation area too. With the prices being so high I may have to hold up a liquor store to subsidize our next visit. Then with my luck, I'll see both yards. Later...Brian

The First 100 Blogs

This is my 100th posting. It seems hard to believe that 99 blogs ago we were just being introduced and now look at us. I really can't believe that I have stuck with it this long. Normally I get bored with things and find any excuse to blow them off. Not this though. I don't know if it's vanity, dedication or the fact that I don't want to hear "Wife" call me a lazy quitter.

I don't really know why I'm so dedicated to this forum. I would like to think that it's out of loyalty to the readers, but since I only know three people who read this thing everyday, with me being one of them (Thanks "Wife" and Mike), it must be something else. Could it be that I find this a creative outlet for my thoughts, a way to make the mundane funny, or a cyber soapbox for my wacky views? Maybe. Could it be a way for me to forge some kind of immortality by getting my words written down for the ages. Yeah, that could be it too. Am I, as one of my friends described me "the drunk guy in the bar at the end of the night who really needs to be heard at last."? The drunk part seems right but I don't know about the rest. It may be all of those things, or none of those things. As the cartoon owl in the miter board wisely put it in the old Tootsie Roll commercials, "The world may never know."

Whatever it is that keeps bringing me back, I'm glad I'm here. I'll keep writing, and you keep reading. Tell people about it. I'm very needy, and only the validation of strangers makes me feel whole. I promise to work hard to make the next 100 posts and the 100 after that worth reading. I can't guarantee anything after that. I'm only one man, and the stress is wearing on me. I may be developing carpal tunnel syndrome. I like you people, but I won't wear a wrist brace for anyone. I'm off to watch the World champion White Sox throttle the Angels. I'm taking "Daughter" but she doesn't know it yet. Guess what I'll write about tomorrow? Later...Brian

You Too Wasteful!

You may remember from some of my earlier posts that I had a little trouble with a few folks while I was in Des Moines, Iowa. I tried my best not to paint all the residents with the same brush, but news from Iowa again has me wondering what the hell they're putting in the water out there.

A woman and her family were tossed out of a Chinese buffet the other day and told not to come back because they were wasting too much food. We'll argue the merits of the buffet culture in a second, first let's focus on this particular heifer. It was reported that this woman, her boyfriend and her three kids were at the Dragon House buffet in Des Moines. They paid their $5.95 (way cheap if you ask me) and descended on the buffet like locusts. I wasn't there, but I can imagine the feeding frenzy that ensued. After a while, the manager scolded the group for throwing away too much food. "They take four egg rolls and crab rangoon, take one bite of egg roll and then throw it out. That's wasting food." said Ken Cao, the manager of the restaurant. It's not only wasteful, it also seems unrealistic. Who can take just one bite of an egg roll? They are so yummy.

Apparently this wasn't the first time this kind of thing has happened. The manager said she had done this on previous visits. The woman claimed that this was their favorite restaurant. She also had the nerve to say that since she had paid the princely sum of $5.95, she was entitled to all the food she wanted, even if she didn't eat it. She also tried to use her kids as an excuse, saying "you know how kids are. They take one bite and then want something else." Talk about passing the buck. That's the way lady, put all the blame on your kids. What about the fact that you never taught your junior eating machines that it's not right to waste food. This goof had the audacity to blame the restaurant too, saying that they should have posted a sign saying that you should take what you want, but eat what you take. Really? Did they need to post a sign reminding you to chew your food, and another reminding you to wipe yourself after you process your egg foo yung? Maybe you should take responsibility for your own actions you hump. Just cause you had six bucks burning a hole in your pocket, doesn't give you the right to throw out ten dollars worth of chow.

This is one of the reasons I hate buffets. Let's forget for a minute that the food is usually sub par. You know what you're getting when you only pay a few bucks. You take your chances grazing among the steam tables. Maybe you'll get lucky, or maybe you'll be forced to gorge yourself on Salisbury steak and mac and cheese. No, the food isn't the problem. I hate to be surrounded by the buffet customers. It's always a genetic freak show. Back in the day, my friends and I would partake in various buffets from time to time. We would pride ourselves in the damage we could put on a chafing dish of chicken wings and the amount of mojo potatoes we could devour at one sitting. That's fine for a joke now and again, but if you become a regular you get sucked into the eating vortex. These places are always filled with misshapen monsters all decked out in their special "eating pants". They pile up their plates with mounds of food, usually not knowing what all of it is, but hey, since it's there we should eat it. I guess they don't know that the fine buffet folks will keep filling the troughs. You can go back as may times as you want, and they do. I love to see the people who need to "Rest" between rounds. Good Lord! If you're eating so much that it tires you out, push back from the feeding tube. They get a wide eyed post coital look on their faces and revel in the starch induced bliss. I enjoy eating as much as the next guy, but if I ever get orgasmic over a steamship round of beef, check me into a program.

I like Chinese buffets. The people working there are usually very surly and efficient. They could be Germans if they put their minds to it. Every Chinese buffet is the same, and I think that's what makes them so comforting when I'm on the road. They always have these chicken skewers that make me crazy. At least I think they're chicken. I always find it best not to look too close. Man all this food talk has made me hungry. It's lunch time and I happen to be wearing sweat pants. Lots of room for expansion. Later...Brian

A Matter Of Trust

Some people say that having a dog is like having a kid. Since I have both, I feel I'm qualified to voice my opinion. While both are a responsibility, we all know that kids are a bigger pain in the ass. Kids do get the edge in a few areas, including the fact that after a few years, I was able to stop cleaning up "Daughter's " poop. No such luck with the hounds. People who say dogs are like kids are probably the same ones who dress their dogs in human clothing. Every time I see a dog in a beret, I want to punch it's owner. Do you think that your pooch looks cool? Don't be stupid. The other dogs are laughing at your dog. If he had lunch money, the other dogs would take it, and then use those funny pants you bought him to exact an atomic wedgie on your sissified pup.

That being said, I treat my dogs pretty well. On most days, if given a choice between pulling them out of a burning building or saving the lives of some of the idiots I come across, guess what? "Sorry dude, you shouldn't have cut me off in the parking lot, I think there's some water over there." Yes, I take care of my dogs, but I still remember that they're dogs. Usually it's not hard to remember, since I get to see them sniffing each others butts or eating their own vomit. I don't fully trust them either. I know they've been domesticated, but deep down, nature can not be silenced. I see the way they look at me when I'm sinking my teeth into a juicy steak. They're just biding their time until the inevitable showdown. Right now, they know I'm the lead dog in the pack, but I can see it in their eyes. One night while I'm asleep, they'll turn on me and then it's on.

It's very important for dogs to know the hierarchy of the house. They still live by the pack mentality. When we got our first dog, we received a handbook from the Humane Society. It suggested that in order for a dog to know you are the pack leader, you had to get your dog to submit. The book suggested wrestling your dog onto it's back until it quit fighting. At that point, you were the big dog. One of my brothers took it a step further and gently bit down on his dog's neck to drive the point home. It worked. I loved that, so I did it with both my dogs. Let's just say, there is no question who is the big dog of the Noonan pack.

Today I took a big risk. Our insane dog Spike usually stays in his crate or "house" when we go anywhere. Baloo gets free reign, but Spike was dubbed "El Destructo" when he was a puppy because of his insistence on eating everything in sight. He had a particular fondness for "Wife's" dirty underwear, that he would repeatedly dig out of the hamper. I care for him deeply, but I must say that he is not the brightest of canines. While I don't think he would have to wear a helmet and take the short bus to the kennel, he won't be training for one of those dog agility courses any time soon, If it was up to him to pull me out of a burning building or tell the family that I had fallen down a well, my story would not have a happy ending. Today I decided to tempt the fates. With an OK from "Wife" I let Spike stay out while I ran some errands. Sometimes you just have to trust that the good side of someone will win out. To my delight, I just returned home to find Spike and Baloo lounging together and after a quick inspection of the house, there is no damage. One giant step for Spike. One giant leap for man/dog relations.

So we've reached a milestone. I still believe that if I pay close enough attention I can see a conspiratorial look in their eyes, and one day I'll wake up with one or both of the dogs standing over me salivating. But for now, they are obeying the law of the pack. If only I could get the other pack members to follow directions this well. Have a great weekend. Later....Brian

I Ride By Night

I'm a little woozy as I write this. After much deliberation, I decided to drive home last night from Columbus. A couple of factors helped with the decision. First, I really like sleeping in my own bed. I know this may shock you, but quality mattresses are not a high priority in comedy "condos". Secondly, I'm always revved up after a show and it makes more sense to just take off. No good can come from me hanging out at the bar in the club with people who want to buy me drinks and tell me how funny I am. Too much of that foolishness and I'll never get to visit my excellent mattress.

Just a quick note to finish the Columbus saga. Last night the club was full and the pressure was on. It was made clear to me that the owner was making a special trip in to watch me. How did I do? Wait for it...I D-Stroyed with a capital stroyed. I think if the crowd had been of heartier stock, they would have carried me out on their shoulders. Now you may be thinking, "Wow, after a show like that, the owner must have been begging you to work for him." Who's being funny now? When I asked sarcastically if I had made the cut, I was told, "Oh yeah. I see you have the time, but that doesn't mean I'll definitely have work for you." To quote the lovely and dead Doris Day, "Que Sera Sera." Just another day in show biz.

Back to the point. I love driving at night. As I said, I'm already souped up on laughter and Pepsi, so a five hour trek doesn't seem so bad. I especially like night drives during warm weather. I roll down the windows and crank up the jams. Suddenly I'm not an under appreciated comic anymore, I'm some character out of a Bruce Springsteen song. Damn right! "It's a town full of losers, I'm pullin' out of here to win." If I had hair, it would be blowing gloriously in the wind, and blinding me, but alas, all that happens is my scalp ripples a little. It doesn't matter what kind of music I'm cranking, it all seems relevant as I speed through the darkness, alternating between air guitar riffs and drum solos on the steering wheel. That's one of the reasons I like driving alone too. It's hard to belt out my best Goo Goo Dolls impression while others are watching.

Another great thing about the night drive is a lack of traffic. In the overnight hours, it's just me and the few truckers too tweaked on meth to sleep. I enjoy seeing all the trucks stopped along the exit ramps and rest stops. For a moment, I think of all the unholy things that must be happening in the cabs of those Peterbuilts and it makes me smile. Not the unholy acts per se, but the fact that for the moment at least, they are not blocking my way. I was able to set my cruise control and just go. Sleep well you Dickies wearing road warriors, I'm zipping along unimpeded.

Well I'm off. I've been driving all night, my hands wet on the wheel, or key board, which ever, you get the reference. Later...Brian

Your "Lifestyle" Is Ready

Well, as promised here's my update from Columbus. The first show went great. Even though the specter of "auditioning" is hanging over my head, I will not crumble. I've been a comic for too long to let that kind of thing bother me anymore. In the past, I would have collapsed under the pressure and been quivering in the corner like a wet dog, but no more. Now I can drink my worries away. Much better. It didn't hurt matters that a woman came up after the show and told me I was "One of the funniest guys we've ever seen here." The manager was standing next to me, so score one for your favorite guy. Yes, I'm tooting my own horn for a second, but I never know who's reading this, so I need to get the word out.

The club is located in a new "Lifestyle Center". That's a fancy term for a kick ass mall. These things are popping up all over the country. Developers are trying to trick us into thinking that these malls are the equivalent of small town America. A place where good, God fearin' folk can gather and buy over priced Banana Republic T-shirts. They fashion them after a town square, with little streets lined with specialty shops and charming vegan bistros all surrounding a mall with the usual stores and a 30 screen multiplex that only shows 12 movies. Do we really need to see "RV" on six screens? There are a number of bars and chain restaurants too. The aim of all this is to get you to part with all your hard earned dollars in one place. That is if you have any money left after buying the gas to drive to the "Town Center".

If you don't have a "Lifestyle Center" near you, it's because you're not cool enough. That's right. These centers are usually built in affluent areas where trendy, suburban hipsters hang out. What's the point of having a center with three Starbucks in an area where most people think fine coffee comes out of a machine at the gas station? This place is like the Disneyland of shopping. Everything is clean, and there is a "Main Street USA" feel to the whole place. I think if you were to look behind the walls you'd find an army of mole people keeping the whole thing going. Even the homeless are wearing Aeropostle.

I was told that this particular "Lifestyle Center" was the brainchild of the man who owns Victoria's Secret. When I heard this , all I could picture was an army of lingerie wearing models parading around the mall. Imagine having your car valet parked by an anorexic beauty in a garter belt and stockings, or having the custodians picking up trash in some lacey boy shorts, a demi bra and angel wings. Is this heaven? No, it's the mall. Unfortunately, there are no models to be found, only the usual assortment of teens with bad attitudes and baggy pants.

I spent some time this morning on the "Wags and Elliott" show on Q-FM in Columbus. It was a blast. I know I've said this before, but I love doing radio. I especially love going on a show where the hosts are funny, secure in their positions and just want to have fun. These guys have been in this market with great success for a long time. We had a ball. If you get to Columbus, tune in or check them out at qfm96.com

I think it's time to wrap up. I've been here at Panera Bread for a while and my ass is starting to hurt. Time to walk around the "Town Center" and pretend I'm in a high school production of "Our Town". If I look hard enough, I'm sure I can find one of those lingerie models. Later...Brian

We Need Yuks ....STAT!

Sometimes I'm just sitting at home, minding my own business and I get a call from a club desperate to fill a hole in their schedule. Yesterday was that kind of day. I had just finished my latest web log masterpiece (which garnered me a lot of praise from "Wife") and the phone rang.

The call was from a club that I hadn't worked in a long time. I'm about to give you another glimpse behind the curtain, so if you don't want your illusion of show biz shattered, turn away. Many club owners and bookers have a Janet Jackson approach to booking, namely, "What have you done for me lately?" There is little to no loyalty to the comics. Most days , it's like the scene in the "Godfather" when Clemensa, knowing he's about to sleep with the fishes tells Tom, "It was never personal, it's just business." I guess all business is the same, but there is a romantic notion about my business that I try to keep alive. I'm either an idealist or a retard, you can decide.

The guy asked if I could make it out for tonight and tomorrow. He explained that he hadn't seen me in a while so he wanted me to do a couple of shows so that he could see my genius in person. I was torn. Hadn't word of my unparalleled tour de force spread across the nation? Weren't people clamoring for my presence in every town and hamlet of this great land? Doesn't he know who I think I am? Hell no, I thought. How dare he question my skills and make me come in for what amounts to an audition? I won't lower myself to that level. "Sure, I'll be there." So I'm off to Columbus, Ohio to prove myself once again. I'm looking forward to it actually. I always liked this club, and in fairness the guy has always been a straight shooter. He controls a bunch of work, so what harm can it do?The move back to Chicago has put me in a unique position of having to start over with some people, but I'm ready. I hope they are.

So I've loaded up the trusty TrailBlazer and I'm heading East. I'm like Paladin in the old TV show, "have jokes, will travel." If you're a Buckeye, or know one, send them to the Funny Bone. I'll keep you posted. Later...Brian

Daddy's Little Girl

Friday night I escorted "Daughter" to the Girl Scouts Father/Daughter Dance. "Daughter" had been looking forward to the dance for weeks. True to form, I had been dreading it. It's not that I don't like spending time with "Daughter", I do. It's just that in this instance I was going to have to spend time making small talk with other dads in a high school cafeteria. As the day drew closer, my level of anxiety increased exponentially. The one bright spot was that I wasn't going to have to wear a suit. I rarely, if ever, dress up. I'm one of those guys who only wears a suit for weddings and funerals. Don't get me wrong, I look damn good all cleaned up, but I prefer my unique style of "vacation casual". In their infinite wisdom, the powers that be had decided that this dance would have a luau theme, thus instituting a dress code of tropical dresses and aloha shirts. This was right in my wheel house. If you know anything about me, you know my fondness for the tropical shirt. Nothing covers up my sculpted physique like the untucked camp shirt. I told "Daughter" to just walk into my closet and pick out what she wanted me to wear. So far the dance was shaping up nicely.

There are points of this story that may get mushy, and I know that coming on the heels of my anniversary post, you may be thinking that I'm going soft. I don't think that's possible. There is just something about the relationship between fathers and daughters that brings out the sap in all of us. I had gotten "Daughter" a wrist corsage for the evening. I did this for a couple of reasons. First, because that's just what you do if you're a guy with any class, and second to teach "Daughter" that she should expect this type of behavior in the future. So for any punks reading this who may want to date my daughter in the future, pony up the cash for some flowers, or keep your ass at home.

We got to the dance at the appointed time, and discovered to my horror, that not only did the dance have a luau theme, but a tropical temperature as well. I guess that the school board doesn't authorize after hours cooling. If you've never been to a function like this, it's a lot of waiting in line. First you wait in a line to check in, then you wait in line to get your picture taken, then you wait in line to get your food. I had wondered why the dance was scheduled for four hours, it's because after all that waiting, you can actually dance for about seventeen minutes. I was happy to learn that my good friend Mike was also at the dance, as were a couple of my neighbors. This was good, since I already kind of like talking to these guys and I wouldn't have to mingle with any strangers. The dads all sat together while the girls ran around and had fun with their friends. I could have made a fortune if I had the Girl Scout beer concession. All the dads had that glazed look that screamed out for a cocktail. Next time I'm bringing a flask of Mai Tai's.

"So Brian, did you get up and bust a move?" You bet I did! I had threatened "Daughter" with catastophic humiliation by showing her some of my best moves before we left the house. I told her that I would be popping and doing the robot to beat the band. I decided that some things are better left at home. We did dance a couple of slow songs. There's something about your daughter looking up at you while you're dancing that makes even the toughest guy a little weak in the knees. While "Daddy's Little Girl" was playing I was thinking ahead to "Daughter's" wedding and realizing that she's growing up way too fast. We did the "Chicken Dance" and the "Hokey Pokey". I had never done either of those dances sober. Those are usually done at weddings, and I spend the whole time waiting for a drunken bridesmaid to have a wardrobe malfunction or someone's drunk aunt to fall down and expose herself.

All in all it was a great night. I spent some quality time with "Daughter" and hope she created a memory that will last her for a long time. Maybe it will come in handy on those occasions when I'm an ass. She can remember laughing with me and know that I'm not all bad. I also won a steak dinner in the raffle. The only thing I love more than dancing is free beef. Tomorrow I can go back to being jaded, but today I'm going to burn my own memory of dancing with my daughter, looking down and seeing her beaming up at me. That will help me more than she knows. Later...Brian