The Blog That Ate Brian

Sometime things start out as a simple idea and then take on a life of their own. This blog is one of those things. When I started this last December, it sounded pretty simple. I would write something every day. I would try to make it funny, and use this forum to air my views and grievances with reckless abandon. What the hell was I thinking?

Nothing is simple with me. I obsess over every decision I make. Early in this process I decided that five days a week would be fine. Then in a move of complete insanity, I put a self imposed length on my posts. Nobody asked me to make sure the blog was so many words long. I'm not some paid columnist for a large daily paper. I don't even know how many folks read this, but in my mind it had to be a certain length. Sometimes I'm sure it would be better to err on the side of brevity, maybe like today, but still I try to reach my self imposed minimum. I'm completely nuts.

Now this thing owns me. People ask about the blog, I try to come up with an idea everyday for the blog, I feel inadequate if I miss a blog, (yesterday I had an excuse) and some days I fear the blog? Why do it? Who knows? It's a weird psychological thing. I started this and now I have to stick with it. Sometimes I get a strange sense of pride that I am able to put up something. Maybe in the future I'll cut back to a few times a week, because let's face it, sometimes I'm just filling space. Ta-Da....mission accomplished.

Try to stay up tomorrow night and listen to the big show on WGN. We're interviewing an 18 year old kid who finished college in a year. I'm going to try real hard not to call him a nerd, or use the word nerd at all. That's why I put it here. Hopefully it's out of my system. Have a great weekend...Brian

Here We Go Again

It's been a while since I wrote about my horrible back pain. I know many people suffer from this particular ailment. So what makes mine so special that it deserves to be written about ad nauseum? Because it's mine that's why.

Tomorrow, I'm going in for another round of injections. This time though, instead of putting cortisone in my joints, the good doctor will be shooting something right into the nerves. Sounds swell doesn't it? They say it's an epidural. I thought those were only for women giving birth. My gut may be big, but I've never been mistaken for having a bun in the oven. I wonder how long I'll be numb, and if I'll be able to bend into crazy positions because I will feel no pain.

I hope this works. The other option sounded a little scary. The doctor told me they would go in and burn off the nerve that goes into that part of my back, in essence, killing the feeling. That sounds a tad dangerous. When I asked the doctor what keeps them from deadening my entire lower body, he shuffled his feet like a kid caught taking a cookie from the jar. (do people even use cookie jars anymore? Outdated sayings...discuss) "We monitor you all the way" he stammered and then said, "well let's not go into too much detail, that's just a last resort." How comforting.

I don't know if I'll be posting tomorrow. I may be too numb from the birthing process to sit up straight. I know these topics are a little self indulgent, but I have to write what I'm thinking about, so there you have it. I hope for all our sakes that soon I'll be writing a final back post hailing my miracle cure. Later...Brian

An Uncomfortable Day

Today was one of those days when time just got away from me. I could blame any number of things, but I'll put all the blame on two things that occupied my mind and invaded all my activities.
the White Sox and my underwear.

The Former World Champion Sox (man it sucks to write that, so I'll never do it again) broke the collective hearts of their fans last night when they got their asses handed to them by the Cleveland Indians. On the same night that the Sox were by all estimation, laying down, the Minnesota Twins won and clinched the play off spot the Sox had been eying. It's bad enough to lose, but to get embarrassed by a team that's twenty or so games out of the race makes you look like a bum. So the dream of back to back championships is over. Sox fans can take the gossamer off their eyes now and see the world for what it is, the same cruel place it was two years ago. Before the baseball gods smiled on our little corner of the world and let us breathe the sweet air of victory. Now we have to inhale the stench of loss, just like a Cubs fan. Sorry, my grief is making me lash out. It was a fun Summer. We went to quite a few games, and saw more winners than losers. We'll be back next year. Once you get a taste of winning, you can't give it up. Kind of like heroin, or Double Stuff Oreos.

The other problem today is my new underwear. I told you yesterday that this would be a problem and again, my psychic abilities win out. These new hinder binders are the same make and model as my old ones, but these aren't nearly as comfortable. My jewels are being bound in a way that I wouldn't pay a dominatrix for, and my sweet, juicy posterior is being mashed beyond recognition.

I will not give up. I will prevail over these uncomfortable garments, and stretch and mold them to my liking. Until then, I will offer my pain up to the baseball gods in exchange for a decent lead off man, some bull pen pitching and a hurricane in Detroit and Minneapolis. Later...Brian

I Need New Drawers

Today I may be falling into the category of "Too Much Information", so if you feel squeamish about learning of my personal habits, click away now and save yourself months of therapy and a mental picture that may never be erased. If you're still here, good for you. Today is a monumental day. I'm off to get new underwear.

Why is this such a big deal? It really shouldn't be. Most rational people buy new underwear all the time. Empires have been built on the notion that we want something soft and delicate to guard our soft and delicates from the harsh world. I think I'm like a lot of guys though. I only buy underwear when it's absolutely necessary, and even then, I usually exceed the expiration date by a few months. Well that time has come. I won't get into a lot of details. Suffice it to say that if a doctor needed some samples from me for a physical, I wouldn't have to go to a lab, I could just hand over that a pair of my unmentionables. That and the fact that I think waist bands are supposed to be connected to the material for the entire circumference of your undies. The problem is that these old undies are so comfortable. It feels like I'm going "commando" without the risk of a stray drop.

I know you must be wondering if I'm a boxer or brief kind of guy. I'm not telling. I think we need to keep a bit of mystery between us. It keeps the relationship fresh. I think you have read enough to figure out that I am very utilitarian when it comes to my under garments. I'll put your mind at ease a bit by assuring you that my naughty bits will not be nestled in a banana hammock. I leave that for mis-shapen Frenchmen. I'll be heading out to Wal-mart and picking up a couple packs. Then the problem of breaking them in begins. It's like a stranger has taken up residence in my pants. For the first few weeks things are too tight in some places, riding up in others and I fight a constant battle for nether region dominance. Finally, the material stretched into compliance and all is right with the world.

I would have put this off a little longer if I could have. We're going on a trip next month, and I figured this was a good time to upgrade. I don't want the airport security nosy parkers rummaging through my bags and coming up with undies that have hideous Shroud of Turin type markings on them. They would probably confiscate them as hazardous materials. Well I'm off. If I seem a little crankier the next few days, you'll know why. Don't tell me not to get my panties in a bunch either. I won't be able to help it. Later...Brian

Three Years Early

I knew when "Wife" gave birth to "Daughter" that I was in trouble. I didn't grow up with sisters and didn't have a lot of accumulated knowledge of women as my life went on. The prevailing logic was that I would have a relatively peaceful existence until ""Daughter"" hit puberty, around 13 I thought, then those pesky hormones would kick in and I would relocate to the basement. As usual, "Daughter" is not sticking to the schedule.

I don't know if it's pre-puberty, lack of sleep or an ingrown toe nail, but "Daughter" has been a pain lately. Is that wrong to say? Maybe if you're one of those touchy, feely, hippy types who don't have kids it is. If you're a parent you know exactly what I'm saying. Sometimes you wonder what evil you perpetrated in a past life to have to endure such suffering in this one. There is something unique to girls that makes every event a nominee for best drama. Every discussion ends with tears and the now infamous "you never listen to me." I listen, I just don't like what I'm hearing. I don't know where she got it, but "Daughter" always has the desire to get in the last word. Why can't she be more of a blushing flower like me?

I don't know if this is a girl thing or not, but "Daughter" also seems to only operate at two speeds, slow and stopped. It gets worse when we tell her to pick up the pace. You can almost see her brain switch to an as yet unused gear that makes the stopped gear look downright speedy. It's as if she were constantly moving forward by going in reverse. When I ask her why it takes her so long to do anything she rolls her eyes and gives me that huffing sound. I know that's her way of telling me to "F-off". For now she still knows better than to say it out loud. I love her and all, but my patience has it's limits. I'm not saying I'd deal with her the same way I would some drunk at the local pub, but there's something to be said for constant intimidation.

So what's a guy to do? I haven't gotten my 60 inch Plasma for the basement yet, so I guess I'll have to learn to deal with it. It's amazing how many times I have to take out the garbage and cut the grass. I gotta get that TV downstairs. Don't forget the big show tomorrow night/Sunday morning on WGN from 1-5am. It's getting better and better. Don't you want to say you were there from the beginning? Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Pride Of Ownership Or Royal Pain?

Let me start by saying I am not handy. I don't know if it's a genetic malfunction, lack of desire, or plain old fashioned laziness, but household repairs fill me with a feeling of inadequacy unparalleled even in the sack. So with that in mind, you can imagine my delight when I was told recently that some of my windows were rotting and I needed to replace them.

It all started simple enough. One of the crank out (probably not the technically correct term) windows in my family room wouldn't crank any more. Since we haven't been in this house too long, I thought something like this would be covered by our warranty. I must be drunk when I do my thinking because it wasn't. Having never repaired crank out windows, and knowing that in the past every job that I estimated would take about twenty minutes, turned into a three day project involving many trips to the hardware store and excessive cursing, I called a professional. After fixing my crank ( I'm doing all I can not to make a dirty crank joke) the repair man told me my sashes were rotting. Let's ignore for a second the fact that I had no idea what he was talking about. I know rotting is never a good thing. He told me they could replace the sashes. He then asked if I wanted them to install the windows or if I wanted to do it myself. I'll wait while you figure out my answer. Ready? Let's move on.

I hate being at the mercy of a repairman. I always think they're laughing at my lack of manual dexterity and knowledge of all things mechanical. Yesterday the guys brought the new sashes and installed the windows. It was then that they told me the windows would need to be painted, but I would have to wait a day. Great. Thankfully, I'm naturally curious, so I watched them put my windows in and today I was able to remove them. I hate painting. There., I said it. I don't have the patience for it nor do I ever care to learn said patience. I always end up completely covered in paint. I look like an arts and crafts room exploded on me. I hate the prep, I hate the cleanup, and I hate the silly white painter's pants, even though they hug my sweet behind and I can hang things from the loop. My theory is, there are people who make their living painting, why should I deprive their kids of Christmas by painting myself?

I'm waiting for my brother to come back and help me put the windows back in. Have I mentioned that they are six feet high? These are big windows. The better for me to look out and survey my kingdom. I have to figure out a way to make this blog pay off so I never have to do any sort of home repair again. Later...Brian

You're Not Hearing Me Correctly

As if there weren't enough trouble coming out of the Muslim world, now the Pope has to jump in and stir everybody up some more. I'm sure you've heard that Pope Benedict XVI decided it was a good idea to poke at the beehive of Islam by making offensive comments during a speech in his Fatherland, Germany. I don't know why he was in Bavaria. Maybe he was auditioning for the home town revival of "The Sound Of Music".

While addressing a group at Regensburg university the Pope, who now claims he was quoting a medieval emperor, said that some of the teachings of the prophet Muhammad were "evil and inhuman". Oh is that all? I can't believe that Muslims took that as a slight. Over the weekend, militant Muslims were attacking anything they could find to let Pope Benny know that he had angered them just a little. With all that's been happening lately and throughout history, you'd think that the Pontiff would have known that these folks don't take kindly to being dissed. While you may not agree with some of their teachings, you can't call out their prophet for a holy street fight. Millions of devoted hot heads have his back. It would be like the leader of another faith saying that Jesus' teaching of turning the other cheek meant mooning, and that the loaves and fishes he gave out were tainted with E.coli.

Now the Pope is using the old, "No, you misunderstood me." excuse. He claims that just because he quoted somebody, that those aren't his true feelings. Come on Your Holiness, that doesn't fly. If someone is giving a speech and keeps quoting Hitler, you gotta figure they're not going for bagels in the morning. It's easy to hide behind someone else's words, and use them to convey your feelings. There are some groups you can offend and nothing will happen, militant Muslims aren't that group. I would think the Church has enough problems without hanging another target on its back. Especially a target for folks who have no trouble shooting.

The Sox managed to win last night in an impressive fashion. I'm trying to keep hope alive. Even though I don't think God has time for baseball, maybe I'll toss out a good thought for the South Siders. On second thought, he's probably booked up trying to clean up His "messenger on Earth's" mess. Later...Brian

I Had A Feeling

Sometimes I think I may have psychic abilities. They don't show themselves very often, and sometimes it's a stretch to make a connection, but they are there none the less. It may just be that I have powerful intuitive skills, or trust my gut, but I like to think I have a special gift. It became clear again to me this week when it was discovered that spinach will make you sick.

I tried spinach a few times as a kid and hated it. There were probably many reasons I reacted so strongly to the green weed, but I'm going to go with a psychic hunch. I hated the taste, the texture and the fact that I was told it was good for me. In retrospect, I wish my parents had told me doughnuts and Butterfingers were good for me too. Then I would have hated sweets as well, and not been embroiled in a life long battle with them. Sometimes my stubborn streak makes no sense. All I remember about spinach was that it always tasted like dirt. Maybe my mom was too mean or lazy to wash it correctly. She probably felt that a little grit would do us good. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't tell anyone. Now look what happened.

Bagged spinach has been recalled because people in 19 states are getting sick from exposure to the E coli bacteria. See, I knew eating weeds, vegetables, whatever you want to call them, would be bad for you. I wasn't fooled by the cartoon propaganda disseminated by Popeye the Sailor Man beep beep. I figured if eating spinach made me turn out like Popeye, he could keep it. I never wanted a speech impediment, gigantic forearms, or the ability to make music with a pipe. I took one look at his misshapen jaw and realized that long term exposure to spinach would alter my DNA in horrible ways. Don't think I didn't notice that the only girl that was attracted to him was Olive Oyl. Nuff said on that horror story. Now instead of being sailors, everyone who eats spinach is becoming the driver of a porcelain bus. Any food that sends me to the bathroom for hours at a time, whining and wishing for death, is a food I'll skip thank you.

"Wife" and I are off to the "Cell" tonight to see the World Champion (for another two weeks at least) White Sox. Things are looking grim on the South Side, but we'll have fun anyway. I'm sure some adult sodas will help numb the pain. I have to cancel her request for spinach dip. Later...Brian

When Hope And Disappointment Collide

It's beginning to feel like Fall here in the city of wind. The wind is blowing a little harder, the temperature is dropping and the baseball and football seasons are overlapping. For generations, Chicago fans operated under a blanket of denial. Always hopeful for their team's success they ignored history and deluded themselves into believing that this was going to be the year. On too few occasions, the prayers of the faithful have been answered, but that seems to only lead to more problems.

Last year the White Sox won the World Series. Long suffering Sox fans heaved a collective sigh of relief and then took a few months to lord the victory over the heads of the hapless Cubs fans. They say the only thing harder than winning a championship is repeating, and the Sox are beginning to prove the adage correct. I'm not some cigar smoking, jock sniffing, sports writer, so I won't get into the minutiae of the incredibly Disappointing season. I will say this...What the F---!? This team is loaded with talent, but it seems like they can't get it together. Could it be that they're not hungry anymore? Could it be that last year was a fluke? Could it be that the Cubs fans bad mojo has taken hold of the South Side and brought an equal level of loserdom to the "Cell"? No the disappointment will always be greater on the South Side. We have seen the mountain top and were thrown off. The cubs have only heard rumors regarding a mountain.

On the flip side, the Bears have started the season with two monstrous victories, giving rise to thoughts of a Championship season. Suddenly, the "Monsters Of the Midway" are back, and guess what, they have an offense too.

What is a fan to do? I can't give up on the Sox. I'm like the nerd in school who got to hang with the cheer leader for a couple of weeks. She let me be in her world so that I would help her pass physics, but after she got her A she didn't care anymore and cast me aside. The Sox let me know what it feels like to root for a winner, and now they don't seem to care. I could shift all my attention to the Bears, but I hold out hope that my cheer leader girlfriend will come back. Maybe I'll just ignore them for awhile and see if they notice. Later...Brian

Take The Bus

I'm not surprised by much when I'm motoring about town, unless you count my constant amazement at the stupidity some people demonstrate while behind the wheel. Today however, I saw something I hadn't seen in a while and I was momentarily taken aback.

While zipping to a doctors appointment, I saw a guy hitch hiking. For a second, I flashed back to 1962, even though I had yet to be born. I was expecting to see some other hippies in a VA bus pull up, offer this guy some acid and then they could all keep truckin' down the yellow brick road. I haven't seen a hitch hiker in a long time. This guy was in full hitch hike mode too. He had a full, dirty beard, raggedy clothes, and a bundle of belongings sitting next to him. The thing that really got me was that he was sitting down. What kind of self respecting hitch hiker sits down? His arm was resting on his knee and his thumb was barely extended. This guy made slackers look industrious. I expect a little more from my hitch hikers. If you're going to beg for a ride, at least have enough class to stand up. Show me a little initiative. Stick your arm straight out and hold up that thumb in a way that says, I'm cool enough to keep walking, but a ride wouldn't hurt.

Who picks up hitch hikers anyway? Have you ever been driving along and seen a potential spree killer standing on the shoulder and thought, "Hey you know what? Today's the day I throw common sense and caution to the wind and give this Manson wannabe a lift." The only exception would be if a lonesome bikini model was angling for a free ride, but I think we all know the likelihood of that. I understand that money gets tight, but seriously, a bus ticket can't cost that much. Have you ever seen the passengers disembark from a cross country Greyhound trip. Of course you haven't you drive or fly, but let me tell you, I think they cast all those zombie movies at the bus station.

It's Friday, so I'm in full show prep mode. I hope you get a chance to listen to WGN tomorrow night/Sunday morning from 1-5 am. It should be an exciting program. The powers that be have taken leave of their collective senses and have given me the controls. One small step for man, one giant leap for broadcasting. Oh the possibilities. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

When Technology Attacks

It's after 9:30 and I really need to plop down in the Comfort King and veg out for a few minutes before falling into a fitful slumber. This has been a crazy day that made it painfully obvious that I am neither tech savvy nor good at making quick purchasing decisions.

Yesterday I was printing some stories in preparation for the big radio show. Everything was fine, but then my printer and my computer conspired against me. I don't know how, and I don't want to know, but the printer relayed the message that it was low on ink. The computer flashed a big warning to me, and not being one to ignore big warnings, I was off to buy some ink. I decided to go to Sam's Club while I was out, because warehouse size is how I roll. There really is very little we can use from Sam's, seeing as there are only three people in our family and Sam's products are designed to feed Mormon clans. Just my luck, they had the kind of ink I needed. Being Sam's however, it was bundled in a "value" pack. I always keep a keen eye out for a bargain, so I sprung for all the ink. Sure it was a bigger initial outlay, but I'd have this printer for awhile and I go through a lot of ink. I get home, replace the ink cartridges and, you guessed right, the printer craps out.

I have a hard time letting things go. I couldn't come to grips with the fact that my printer had died, even after being told that by a sympathetic, but ultimately useless tech from the printer company's help line. So today I was off to replace my printer. I figured it would be easy. I'll just get the same one I had, and since I already have enough ink to make a squid lust after me, I'll be all set. Am I the only person that doesn't know how fast technology advances? Somebody should have called me on my rotary phone or sent me a telegram. When I told the sales people at a couple of stores that I was trying to replace a two year old printer with an exact copy, they looked at me like I had asked where I could find a good word processor. The choices in the printer world are vast, and my patience is wee. I tried to narrow it down to a few choices, and then I did what I always do when it comes time to pull the trigger on a purchase, I called "Wife" at work and feigned an aneurysm.

"Wife" listened intently and them told me to dry my tears and buy this certain model. I've just spent over an hour hooking it up and trying to figure out all the features. I miss my old printer, that traitorous, unreliable piece of junk. I better be careful what I say, these things talk to each other. Later...Brian

The Gloves Are Too Big

For the second time in a week, astronauts working on the international space station have dropped a bolt while making repairs during a space walk. At first I didn't think this was a big deal. Then I read that space debris can puncture walls, jam mechanisms and maybe even poke someone's eye out. I always thought things adrift in space just floated gently around. That's what you get when all your space knowledge comes from Star Trek re-runs.

A Canadian astronaut (who knew? I thought it was just syrup and hockey up there) told mission control that he was removing the cover to some joint when one of the four bolts just "disappeared". That's the space equivalent of the dog ate my homework. I wonder if the scene resembled the on in my favorite holiday movie, "A Christmas Story". You remember. Ralphie is helping his crusty but lovable dad change a flat tire. Ralphie has been entrusted with the hubcap bearing the lug nuts. Whether he was bumped, had a spasm, or was shot at from the grassy knoll is up for debate, but Ralphie dropped the lug nuts, emitting the "mother of all swear words". I wonder if that happened to the space Mountie. In space, no one can hear you curse.

I sympathize with the space walking moose jockey. Who of us hasn't dropped something while trying to do an allegedly simple project around the house? For me, even the most mundane task is rife with horrible possibilities. I have dropped countless amounts of those tiny screws that hold switch plates on the wall. Why do they have to be so tiny? My big sausage fingers don't work that way. I'm not wearing those gigantic space gloves either. I think holding anything smaller than a Louisville Slugger with those things on would be impossible. They need to design some space gloves that are like the gloves the urchins wore in "Oliver Swift", the kind with the fingers cut out for easy space repairs.

The maple leaf Buck Rogers must be pretty embarrassed. He said he would "keep an eye out" for he bolt on his next space amble. Come on fly boy, give it up. It's like when I drop one of those tiny screws. I look for a couple of minutes, then it's off to Home Depot and another fifty eight cent expenditure. I guess he needs to say that. His run to the hardware store might take a while. Later...Brian

When It Rains....

The last few days have brought Chicago a lot of rain. If you listen to any of our local weather monkeys, you'll hear a lot of yammering about cold fronts and wind gusts and how lucky they are to have jobs where they don't have to be right. I suppose that if there has to be a job that doesn't depend on accuracy, weather monkey is better than just about any other. That must be why the weather monkey is always the buffoon of the newscast. What are they going to do? They have to take being the butt of the anchors jokes. They have no where else to go. Well, I guess they could become store front psychics, they get about the same amount of information right.

I had to go into the city today for some business. I did what the weather monkeys must do, I looked at the sky, saw it was cloudy, felt the humidity, and figured it was going to rain. Being the forward thinker that I am, I knew I was going to have to park a little way from the radio station, so I grabbed an umbrella. I should be promoted to silver back weather monkey, because it started pouring when I got downtown.

I've never been good with umbrellas. I always seem to have them pointing the wrong way, which inevitably leads to an embarrassing inside out situation. There is no way to look manly wrestling an umbrella while the wind flips your skirt up ala Marilyn Monroe and the rain completely ruins your hair. Yeah, I always dress like that when it's storming. I also have never figured out which hand to use to hold the umbrella. I always seem to come up against needing both my hands, then I'm forced to balance the umbrella on my nose. Being a big guy, I'm never really covered completely by my parasol either. I had one of those snappy black travel umbrellas, but unless you were a munchkin, the only way you'd be traveling is wet. This think kept the point of my pinhead dry, that's it. If I wanted that kind of coverage, I'd go to the fair and buy one of those multi-colored umbrella hats. Functional and stylish. My hands are free, and no one will bother me because they'll think I'm insane.

"Hey, Goof," you may be saying. "Get yourself one of those oversized golf umbrellas." Yeah, that make sense. I'll walk down a crowded city street with a bumbershoot big enough to shelter a small family. That seems practical. Why not just get a giant hamster ball and roll through the rain? When we used to complain about being rained on as a kid, my mom would always tell us, "You're not made of sugar. You're not sweet enough to melt." She's right. There's nothing sweet about me. Unless you count my sweet new umbrella hat. Stay dry. Later...Brian

Of Course We Remember

Today is the fifth anniversary of the Sept. 11 attacks. The news shows and papers are filled with remembrances and commentary. Various television outlets have spent the last week airing every sort of documentary and fictionalized account of the attack you can imagine. We are being bombarded with images of one of the worst days in this country's history. I know this is an important day, and I know the news media needs to cover it, but does anyone really think that we've forgotten what happened?

I've been struggling all day to figure out how I would write about this. I don't want to add this post to the list of trite commentary that tells us how "our lives were changed forever." Of course they were, on a number of levels. No one who lived through that day will ever forget it. We were living in Los Angeles in 2001. "Wife" had gotten up for work and I was still sleeping at 6:46. The phone ringing woke me up and I'm sure I uttered some choice words, wondering what kind of inconsiderate oaf would be calling at that ungodly hour. Suddenly "Wife" burst through the bedroom door telling me to wake up. Her sister had called from Michigan to tell us that the country was under attack and rumors were that L.A. and other large cities were next. I remember laying in bed watching the news and like all of us, not believing what I was seeing. Wife left for work, but was home about fifteen minutes later. Her boss had called and told her that all the buildings in downtown L.A. were being evacuated and that she needed to go home. Nervously we walked "Daughter" to kindergarten, secure in the knowledge that we were only a couple blocks away if we needed to get her.

The rest of the day, and the majority of that next week were spent watching the news. We tried to do things around the house and make the day productive, but information kept streaming in, and we needed to know what was happening. We tried the best we could to explain everything to "Daughter", but a five year old only needs to know so much. I know I'm not alone when I say I cried a lot that week. I would cry when I saw generals and law enforcement officials, men who had seen horrible things countless times, break down. Other times I would cry just thinking of how terrifying it must have been for the victims, or hearing about the fire and police personnel who ran in. We all wondered what we would have done.

The point is, I remember. I know you do too. I don't think we need the constant stream of images thrown at us. I'm not saying we shouldn't remember. Maybe it's because the wound is still relatively fresh. In the whole scheme of things, five years is nothing. In ten, twenty, forty years, we'll still remember, but then perhaps time will have taken a little more of the pain away. Unlike the Pearl Harbor attack, we all saw this one played out right before our eyes, and so that gives it more weight. "Daughter" had "Red, White, and Blue Day" at school today. I think that's a good thing for kids. It helps them remember, while not dwelling on the horror. We all remember and we always will. Later...Brian

Standin' At The Crossroads

My mind is reeling today. I'm fighting to not fall into the psychological black hole that I'm prone to inhabit. It might be hereditary. The Irish are known for their manic minds. If you've ever been to an Irish pub and then read some Eugene O'Neill, you'll understand. If you're happy and you know it, wait a second, that will change. Maybe it's the bag pipes.

Why am I telling you this? The only reason I can come up with is that it's all I'm thinking of today, and the alternative is missing a post, and I know how that would disappoint you. Then your disappointment would feed into my psychosis, and accelerate my mental decline, then I'd miss posting Monday and, well I think you see where I'm going with this. It's probably better to type for a few minutes.

My life is at a crossroads. Not the cool, Robert Johnson, sell your soul to the Devil for unparalleled musical talent cross roads, the crossroads sung about by Eric Clapton and numerous old Blues men. No, this is the "I have no idea what the future holds and how I'll handle it cross roads." A lot of people would think this would be an exciting place to be, but not for yours truly. I won't go into details. There's no need for you to be pulled into my psychic abyss. Suffice it to say times they are a changin'.

I'll figure it out like I always do, by shutting out everyone I care about and fighting through the problem. I don't buy into Barbara Striesand's claim that people who need people are the luckiest people in the world. I think showing people you are in need gives them the leverage they need to plot your demise. There's a feel good for your weekend. If you're up late tomorrow night, don't forget to listen to the big show on WGN. I promise to shake this off by then. Have a great weekend. Later.....Brian

The Rules Don't Apply

Man it's late. I was in the city all afternoon with pressing radio station business. I really enjoy blowing things out of proportion. I must do it a million times a day. I'm going to keep this short because I have to go watch the rest of the World Champion White Sox game. I have to type that as many times as I can for the rest of this season. If you've been following the team, you know that I need to bask in the glory while I can.

We were greeted today with the news that Paris Hilton had been arrested in Hollywood for drunk driving. I don't know how anyone could tell she was drunk. If you've ever seen her or heard her in an interview, you know she sounds wasted most of the time. It's amazing how stupidity and drunkenness sound so similar. Allegedly, Hilton was driving erratically and was pulled over. She then blew a .08, the minimum level for an arrest. I surprised she didn't blow a better number. If you've ever seen her video, you know that chic can blow. She claimed she was "speeding a little bit" because she was trying to get something to eat. Paris put it this way, saying she was "starving because I had not ate all day." See stupidity and drunkenness do sound alike. Who is she kidding, she doesn't eat.

Now if you or I had gotten busted for DUI, we would have a little shame, but not Paris. She spent the morning talking to everybody's favorite metro sexual Ryan Seacrest. Then she put her spin machine into overdrive. Paris' people were quick to tell us that the incident wouldn't hurt her image. Of course not. Now at least we can add drunk to vacuous, no talent, vapid, spoiled, ignorant, anorexic and whore when we think about her image. Her publicist said, "The people who enjoy Paris as a comedian actress on TV or singer from her CD, a woman who seems to have captured the imagination of so many people, I don't think this is going to have any impact on them one way or another." Comedian? Actress? Singer? Does this guy just go home and drink a bottle of Bourbon while scrubbing himself in a shower after selling that filth all day.

This is just another great example of how celebrity trumps common decency. I can't wait until I get a little bit of fame. I'm going to milk it for all it's worth. Expect a lot of coverage on my drinking, arms dealing and human trafficking. Then I'll give Seacrest a buzz and all will be forgiven. Later...Brian

A Trick Of The Tail

My apologies to the great rock group Genesis for bastardizing the title of one of their albums, but it really seems to fit today's topic. I would be remiss if I let the passing of the "Crocodile Hunter" Steve Irwin pass with out mentioning it.

Unless you've been underwater at the Great Barrier Reef, you know that Irwin died the other day after being stung by a stingray. Come to think of it, if you were under water at the Great Barrier Reef, you probably know all about it because you witnessed it. From all accounts, Irwin was swimming above some stingrays, filming an episode of some show about the dangers of the sea. I spell ironic with an "i", how bout you? The stingray, not a fan of crazy Aussies rolling up on him, did what stingrays do, he stung. Normally this would only make a human sick, but seeing as how Irwin was bigger than life anyway, he got a special sting. The ray's barbed tail went under Irwin's rib cage and punctured his heart. I wonder if Irwin was prompted to recall the first line of the Bon Jovi classic "You give love a bad name"? Don't pretend you don't know it. "Shot to the heart, and you're to blame."

I make light of this tragic event, because, well I'm still here to do it. You know why I'm still here? Because I don't taunt stingrays, bother crocodiles and tell poisonous snakes that their mammas are ugly. To paraphrase Kiefer Sutherland in "A Few Good Men", "Steve Irwin is dead and that is a tragedy, but he is dead because he messed with Nature and God was watching." It wasn't really a question of if Irwin would become a tasty treat for some wild beast, it was a question of when. You can only tempt fate for so long and then fate will deal you the ultimate bitch slap. Mr. Irwin, meet Slap the stingray.

I feel bad for Irwin. Despite becoming an international celebrity and world renowned wild life expert, he was always going to be the second "Crocodile" guy to come out of Australia. He could never outrun the long shadow cast by Crocodile Dundee, and it finally killed him. He tried everything, even using his kid as croc bait, but he was always number two. I hope in death he finally gets his due. Hold on. Did Paul Hogan just get mauled by a koala?

My first thought when I heard the tragic news was that hundreds of sub par comics had just lost their main impression. I'm sure you've never been to your local chuckle hut and not heard some hack do his "Crocodile Hunter" impression, probably putting him in a no doubt hilarious situation. Crikey! Maybe they'll just have to make the impression a loving tribute. Either that or go back to selling shoes. If we learn anything form this tragedy, I hope it's this, everything can kill you so just stay home. Later...Brian

What A Way To End It

Labor day weekend is the unofficial end of Summer. If that's the case, then I ended it with a bang. This may have been one of the busiest weekend we've had in quite a while. "What happened Brian? We can't wait to hear." All right, sit back and I'll tell you all about it.

I mentioned Friday that I had to work the beer tent at our town's Fall Festival. This is our first Fest as legitimate residents so I had no idea what to expect. The deal is, all the subdivisions take shifts manning the BETA tent. BETA is supposed to stand for "Beer and Entertainment Tent Association". What the regulars call it is "Better Education Through Alcohol". I like the second name better, but since a chunk of this money goes toward scholarships, it's not politically correct. It would be like having Phillip Morris sponsor a 5K run. The great thing about volunteering is that while you work, you can drink for free. The bad thing about volunteering is that while you work you can drink for free. I was stationed at the entrance, putting wrist bands on everyone who paid and was over 21. My crazy neighbors were bar tending and took it upon themselves to make sure I didn't get dehydrated putting on all those wrist bands. It is a tiring job and a man can work up a powerful thirst. Suffice it to say I ended up quite hydrated and home earlier than "Wife" expected me.

A lot of guys would use that as an excuse to sleep in on Saturday. Not me. We were up and out early to enjoy the real draw of Fall Fest, the craft fair. I have no use for crafts and even less use for crafters. Seriously, how many baked dough Christmas ornaments does one family need? I truly believe that some people have way too much time on their hands. If your life revolves around painting walnuts to resemble various sports figures, or you spend your Saturday nights sewing footy pajamas for dolls, come see me at the beer tent, because you're missing out on life. I dutifully walked in the crushing crowds for three hours with "Wife" and "Daughter" and barely complained. "Wife" was doing great until the end, and then as if by some sort of craft god intervention, she broke down and bought a couple of things. I was able to use the excuse of having to do my show to finally go home and nap.

Sunday should be my day of rest. I don't get home from the radio station until 6AM. But I was up early again to watch "Daughter" march in the Fall Fest parade. I may write about parades another time, but let's just say, I don't get it. "Wife" loves the small town feel of it all. By this time I was more than done with the Fest. That afternoon, my cousin got married, so "Wife" and I got dressed up and headed into the city. "Wife" cleans up pretty good, and if I do say so myself, I cut a dashing figure. The wedding came off without a hitch. My cousin looked beautiful and by the tie we left, no one had gotten drunk and started a fight. While I lost some money on the fight pool, I was happy for the newly weds that the authorities did not have to crash the affair.

Yesterday we did absolutely nothing. We took a break from our labor and "Wife" pretended she was Hugh Hefner by staying in her P.J.'s all day. Today seems like the official start of Fall and the run toward the holidays. I hope your weekend was fun. Now let's get back to work. Later...Brian

What, Me Labor?

Like a lot of places, the corporate offices of Brian Noonan Worldwide will be closing early today. In that regard, I'm going to keep this short. You know it's Labor Day weekend, and if there's one thing I know it's labor. Not really, but I like to imagine that I work hard and every once in a while deserve a break.

I have neither the time or the inclination to look up the exact origins of Labor Day, so I'll do what I always do, work from a position of supposition and conjecture. Wasn't that the name of a talk show on Fox News? Anyway, if I recall correctly, Labor Day is a day set aside to honor American workers. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that what a paycheck does? Nothing honors me more than someone giving me cash. I also find it extremely ironic that most people don't have to work on labor Day. Hell, work is right in the title. Why not just call it "Another excuse for the American worker to take it easy Day." I know that's a mouthful, but we should have to work at something.

I think if we really want to honor the worker, we should find a way to raise minimum wage and let all workers have access to affordable health care. Doesn't that seem more honorable than giving people another day off to enjoy furniture sales and $5 used car extavaganzas that they can't afford because they have too many days off. Whew, all that speechafyin' made me tired. I guess a day off to honor all my efforts to better society through half baked theories is a great idea.

Time to close up shop. I can't fix all the problems of the world in one afternoon. Besides, I have to work in a beer tent tonight at the big Fall Festival in my town. I need to rest up. It's a holiday weekend, so there's no excuse not to stay up late Saturday night and listen to me on WGN from 1-5 am. I'm taking Monday off, not to honor anyone, but because it is a legal excuse for laziness. Have a great weekend and a restful Labor Day. Later...Brian