Now The Drapes Match The Carpet

I've been MIA the last couple days because I've been trying to deal with everything Britney. It all started last weekend when I saw the footage that shocked the world. You know what I'm talking about. Britney walked into a beauty shop (are they even called that any more?) and shaved her head. It was the latest hair removal plan for the former Mouseketeer, and only slightly more acceptable in public than the smooth landing strip she flashed us all a couple months ago. I don't know what's more shocking, the fact that Britney looks like a young Sinead O'Conner or that she chose to take care of her beauty needs in "the valley". If you're a crazy, rich, bloated pop star, shouldn't you be waxing your dome in Beverly Hills? When asked why she decided to go Kojak, Brit explained it as only she could. "Hey Y'all" she said between snaps of Big Red, "I'm tired of people touching me, I want people to stop touching me." That may not be a direct quote since I'm not sure the brand of gum she was snappin', but it's pretty close. Doesn't want people touching her? Who's following bald chicks around? Unless Captain Kirk is in the area, and you happen to be blue, I think you're safe. This no touching thing will come as a surprise to her two children, since kids are notorious for wanting to touch their moms. Judging from the looks of things, I don't think Britney is too worried about the kids.

Then the welcome news came yesterday that Miss B had checked into a plush rehab facility in Malibu. At least she didn't go to a half way house in Reseda. Someone must have talked to her. Thank goodness I thought, finally the Britney train will be back on track. How long will we have to wait for the ultra hot Britney of old to return to form so that she can be lusted after by millions and keep the leeches in her entourage filled? True to form, Britney fled rehab without even earning her one day chip. I know a little about rehab, and twelve hours usually isn't enough time for things to stick. Now she's on the loose with no more hair to shave and limited skin surface to tattoo. Did you ever think K-Fed would seem like the reasonable one?

I can't feel sorry for Britney. I have some feelings, hey bald is kind of kinky, but anger is the overwhelming one. I don't know why I'm upset. It seems like she's fulfilling her destiny. She always has been a hillbilly from Louisiana, and seemed like the only thing separating her from "white trash' was her zip code, and now her life is playing out like an episode of "Cops". Doesn't she have a mother? Listen lady, I know you've been suckling off the teet of your daughter for years, but it's time to take charge. The gravy train is out of control and on a collision course with Anna Nicole. I'll stop preaching for now. Maybe everyone around Britney and Britney herself will wise up and put in a grueling 72 hours of rehab to keep the pop princess from becoming a showbiz statistic. Later...Brian

My Brain Is Thawing, Let's Dance

I'm not sure if it was the sub zero temperatures or a saccharine coma brought on by my Valentines' Day post, but my mind wasn't in gear for posting yesterday. I have spent the morning with my head under warm compresses and have emerged inspired and a bit damp.

The PC police are at it again. For the last few years, groups of do-gooders have been running all over the country trying to get teams to drop any Native American symbols as mascots for their teams. One of the first cases was against the NFL's Washington Redskins. The latest happened right in my back yard. Today it was announced that after a year of fighting, the University of Illinois would no longer have "Chief Illiniwek" appear at any of the University's athletic events, ending a tradition that has lasted over 80 years. The NCAA had deemed the Chief "hostile and abusive" and prohibited the school from hosting any post season championships.

OK, I'll be the first to admit that I'm not Native American, but I don't get this at all. Except for "Redskin', which I understand is a slur, I can't see how the representation of a chief doing a dance is hostile or abusive. You don't see me calling the ACLU because Notre Dame has a drunken leprechaun as the "Fighting Irish" mascot. I think that could be considered a lot more offensive than the depiction of a courageous Indian brave, or a tribal chief doing a "war dance" to rally the team. Sometimes the truth hurts. The Irish drink and fight, Indians have been known to do a dance and, in extreme case, use a tomahawk chop on an unfortunate cavalry soldier or pioneer.

We all just need to lighten up a little. I'm not saying it's OK to have a team mascot that is overtly offensive, but if we look hard enough, any mascot could be hostile and abusive. Let's look at a few shall we? These are in no particular order and there are no connections to specific schools, I'm just going off the top of my head.

-Crusaders. Sure they discovered new worlds, but they raped, pillaged and plundered all the places they found.

-Ravens. Birds of prey that pick over the dead bodies of their kill. Eeewwweeee, that's hostile.

-Bears. Carnivorous beasts that can kill a man with one swipe of their razor sharp claws, also know thieves when picnic baskets are concerned.

-Buccaneers, Pirates, Titans, Vikings. See "Crusaders", only amp up the looting etc.

Do I need to go on? The only other really offensive name I could think of was Packers. I'll let you figure it out. The point is, if you really want to, you can be offended by anything. Why not save your indignation for things that are really important, like figuring out if Zsa Zsa's crazy prince of a husband really bumped uglies with Anna Nicole and exactly how many candidates for paternity had their genetic material swimming around in her baby cauldron. I think the Pope and myself are the only ones not tossing our names and other parts into the ring. Now that's offensive!

Don't forget to tune into the big show Saturday night/Sunday morning on WGN from 1-5 am. I don't know what's going to be on yet, but it's always good and rarely "hostile and abusive". Have a great weekend. Later..Brian

It's Not Always Easy

Today is Valentine's Day. Across the globe, people are pitching woo at each other in the shape of flowers, candy or silky unmentionables. That's not really the case in our house. As you may have gleaned from your readings here, I'm not a very romantic guy. I'm not one of the bitter dolts who shout "Valentine's Day is just a Hallmark holiday. Fight the power of corporate greed and forget this trumped up affair. Besides, love stinks." I'm not one of those guys because they're dumb. There, I said it. While I don't think you should wait for one cold day in February to tell your sweety how you feel, what's the harm other than a gargantuan caloric intake of chocolate?

WARNING!!!! The following may get mushy. I'm not sure what's happening to me, I'm feeling emotional and a little bloated. "Daughter" asks all the time if "Wife" and I were in love when we first saw each other. Then she asks if we're in love now. I always laugh and say something stupid since that's my usual M.O. When some of us think of love, we picture princesses or sultry heroines being swept up by muscle bound Fabio types on the cover of romance novels. We rarely think of the day to day love. The love that has to endure tough times, tragedy and yes, sometimes even meanness. It's the type of love that takes work. It's not as much fun as the first bloom of love, or the rush that people get when they first meet. it's the comfortable kind of love that lasts forever. That's the kind of love we have. Sometimes in love, like in poker, you just gotta stick.

I'm a fairly difficult person to live with, but for whatever reason, "Wife" puts up with me. I'm glad she does. You may be asking, well, Captain Romance, how do you show your gratitude to the woman who tolerates and believes in you? You must have bought the GNP of Hershey Pa. just to show your devotion." No chance bub. Here's a tip for all you young lovers out there. Pay attention to your partner. I always make mental notes of things "Wife" says she likes and then I try to surprise her with one of those things. How's that for romantic?
I'm off. I'm cooking a special dinner for my two special ladies and then maybe I'll get a little Valentine's Day payback. That's not why I do it, but you won't hear me complain. Happy Valentine's Day! Later...Brian

Snowbound

It seems like just a week ago I was telling you that I was getting snowed in. In fact it was exactly a week ago. I guess I taunted Mother Nature, that vindictive hussy, and she decided to pay us all back with another snow storm.

The local news outlets have been wetting themselves for the last few days in anticipation of the approaching "severe Winter storm". Breathless anchors and jovial meteorologists have been doing their best Paul Revere impressions, warning us the the invading snow was coming both by land and by sea (well, the lake actually, but water is water.) People have been filling their cars with gas, resulting in a curious price jump of sixteen cents overnight. I don't mean to go all Oliver Stone on you, but I dare say I smell conspiracy. The grocery stores were full yesterday with people hording mass quantities of yogurt and frozen pizzas for the inevitable frozen Armageddon.

Usually I discount any forecast of "sever weather". Most times, the storm is "bearing down on us" and will "wreak untold havoc within the hour", then miraculously we are spared. Today is different. The storm has arrived. The wind is howling like a coyote in a trap and snow is both blowing and drifting. The weather service is calling for "blizzard conditions" which I don't think means I'll be enjoying a frozen Dairy Queen treat. The expected snow total for my area is eight to twelve inches. While that is usually a good forecast for the ladies, when it comes to snow, I'm not happy. Remind me again why I left California. I would usually try to stay home on a day like this, since I have been warned repeatedly not to venture onto the roads unless it is an emergency because God only knows what will happen to me. Tomorrow being Valentine's Day however, I have to go to target and get valentines for "Daughter" to take to school. You'd think that this would have been taken care of before, since Valentine's Day happens this time every year, but I guess no one was talking about it this year and it slipped everyone's mind.

I hope I'm not becoming one of those frightened people who don't want to drive in the snow. I used to love it, but I think the years in California made me soft. I confess to buying extra groceries yesterday. It wasn't really that I was afraid to go out, I just don't want to. I'm nice and cozy as I write this, and it really looks nasty out my window. Add to that the fact that most people driving today will have lost their minds. Why is it that snow makes folks forget that there are separate lanes on the road?

Oh well, "Daughter" is home because of a "snow day" and I need to make her lunch. Then I'm going to "sack up" and head out for the Valentine's. I think I'll load the car with food, blankets and a candle. I have to go a whole two miles. Later...Brian

A Bad Week To Be A Crazy Chick

Bad news from the world of women keeps rolling in. Earlier in the week we were treated to the wild ride of a Space Crazy, diaper wearing, mallet toting astronaut. Last night we learned of the tragic death of spaced out bombshell Anna Nicole Smith. One had been to space and one had a body that men wanted to orbit. Space symmetry...catch it.

The news coverage of Anna's untimely demise is on par with what we saw recently when President Ford passed away. While I enjoy looking at Anna more than the former President, I'm not sure we, as a nation are keeping things in perspective. It probably goes to my theory that hot chicks can get whatever they want. it's no secret that Anna Nicole wanted attention. Well now she's got it in spades. not that I'm complaining. I love seeing the video clips and photos that make up the history of this exotic shell with an empty center. it's amazing to see the transformation she underwent from fresh faced stripper, to Marilyn Monroe impersonating Playmate of the year, to sultry jeans model. Then things start to go South. There's the picture of her as shameless gold digger, marrying an octogenarian who would die and leave her millions. Then there is the Anna of the reality TV days, looking like someone had shoved an air hose up her ample behind causing her to expand to parade float proportions and in the process depriving her of the ability to speak clear English. Finally there are the pictures of her near miraculous return to her former hottie self. Amazing.

Of course behind the images is a wild tale of a women with no discernible talent other than the ability to breast feed Uganda and help a lot of boys pull themselves through puberty, becoming one of the most recognizable faces on the planet. Her life was a circus. She was surrounded by leeches who rode her until she broke. She has endured court battles, bankruptcy, and the death of her son, who at times seemed to be her care taker rather than the other way around. Through all this, the cameras hunted her down. Sure, she brought this on herself, but I can't help but have a little sympathy. Hell, I liked seeing her naked, that makes me cut her some slack.

Now the vultures will pick at her bones and the story will not die. What will happen to her infant daughter? This poor kid has two strikes against her already. Her mom just dies and nobody knows who the father is. Plus there's a little issue of millions of dollars still being fought over in court. i suppose it's because I'm a parent, but I worry about the kid. As for Anna Nicole. She had a rack that could launch a million fantasies, but she was a train wreck waiting to happen. Unfortunately for her, the tracks lead right into the side of a mountain like in a Road Runner cartoon.

If you're up late tomorrow, tune into the big show on WGN from 1-5 am. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

She's Outta This World

You've got to feel bad for Lisa Nowak. Here's a woman that was valedictorian of her high school class, graduated from the Naval Academy, earned a Masters degree in aeronautical engineering, flew as a test pilot while caring for an infant (Probably not at the same time, but that would have been impressive. I'd like to see someone breast feed at Mach 3), and became a full fledged astronaut, and now the only thing she'll be remembered for is wearing a diaper.

On the surface, this story is hilarious. A brilliant woman, caught up in some real or imagined love triangle decides to confront her rival for another astronaut's affection. Not content with flying the 900 miles from Houston to Orlando, that's too slow, and besides, her mallet, knife and BB gun wouldn't clear security, she hops in her car for her own private Gumball Rally. Lisa is used to long trips, having been to space and all, and she knows that time is of the essence. I can't presume to know what was going through her troubled mind, but in my troubled mind it must have gone something like this. "East bound and down, loaded up and truckin'." Wait, that's Smokey and the Bandit. I think it was more like this. "I've got to get to Florida, stat, and take care of that astronaut hussy. How can I shave off a few minutes? I know, I'll wear a diaper and stew in my own juice for twelve hours. That way, I'll save time and be extra aggravated when I get there." To me that's the only reason to put on a space diaper. How long does it take to use the bathroom anyway? I know I've grown impatient waiting for "Wife" and "Daughter" a few times, but never enough to suggest they don some Pampers.

Since we all know hindsight is 20/20, reports are coming out now saying that there were signs that something was wrong with Nowak before the attempted kidnapping and murder. I have another theory. Space Madness. Bare with me. I saw it happen to Steve Buscemi in Armageddon and to both Ren and Stimpy in one of their cartoons. I think the pressure of being a space traveler and mother finally got to her. That and I have a feeling the object of her affection played a part in this. What better way to seduce a woman than by telling her you're an astronaut, especially if she's one too. Imagine the anti-gravity fun you could have in the simulator. I can only speculate on the carnal ecstasy that can be enjoyed while floating in space. The robotic arm could prove quite an enhancement.

I think it just boils down to someone going temporarily space crazy for love. We've all done something stupid under Cupid's influence. While I never put on a wig and trench coat and loitered at an airport waiting for my prey, I have spent hours listening to Desperado by the Eagles and driving past a girls house for days on end. I would expect someone as smart as Lisa Nowak undoubtedly is, to take things to a new level. A high school drop out just throws a rock through her rival's window and yells "bitch" while driving away in her '87 Honda. An aeronautical engineer, heads out on a cross country trek with rubber tubing and a vendetta. All her years of hard work and dedication were tossed aside and only her obsession remained. I hope her doctors figure out what shorted out her brain. I'm not backing off the "Space Madness" diagnosis just yet. But until we know for sure, I'm still loving the image of a crazy chick in a diaper. Blast off! Later...Brian

I'm Tunneling Out

Usually saying I'm going to keep this short is the kiss of death for brevity. I can't stay long today though, because we could be experiencing the end of the world.

It's been snowing steadily for the last 81/2 hours. There is so much white stuff on the ground, Bolivians are air lifting in. I've already cleared the driveway once and am about ready to go at it again. Fear and panic are beginning to take hold of me. I may need to hook the dogs up to a sled and have them pull me to the grocery store so I can begin hoarding food and fresh water. Sure I have an SUV with four wheel drive, but that just goes to show you how the panic is affecting my rational thought.

I think guys who drive snow plows for the city sit at the end of the block waiting for people to finish clearing their driveways. Then they fly down the street completely covering the bottom third with a mixture of slush and snow that weighs as much as their snow plow. While I have nothing but respect for civil servants, I did have a few homicidal urges when my local plow jockey showered my freshly cleaned drive way.

OK, I really have to go. I'm starting to feel like Jack Nicholson in "The Shining". The snow continues to fall and I know that I have an axe somewhere. I'll talk to you later. All work and no play.....Later...Brian

A Day Of Mourning

It will be hard for me to write today through my veil of blue and orange tears. The Bears came up short last night in the Super Bowl, and a city that is suffering through a deep freeze felt another horrific chill. Pretty poetic huh?

The Bears couldn't get it done last night. I won't dissect the whole game, even though I just spent two hours reading every column in both Chicago papers and feel that I'm now qualified to offer expert opinions on all things football. The deed is done. There's no need to dwell on it anymore. The Colts deserve the credit. They played better and made our once ferocious defense look like doormen at a South Beach hotel. The offense never could get things moving, maybe because there was one stretch of almost an hour when they didn't get on the field. At least we won't have to listen to any more dribble about Peyton Manning's destiny. Ok, you fulfilled it. You're better than your daddy. Can we please move on? That's just my bitterness talking. I could say that Indianapolis should enjoy it since they really have nothing else to brag about, but that would just seem petty. They won. Congratulations.

Now it's time for Bears fans to start the long wait for July and training camp. The next five months will no doubt be spent mulling over every bit on minutiae from this season and asking the tough questions. Will the Bears give Lovey a big contract? Will Urlacher finally get his ring? Will Rex Grossman learn to run without tripping and how to keep his hands solidly on Olin Kruetz's ass long enough to hold onto a snap. Those are questions for the pundits. As for me, I really enjoyed the season. It was fun to get caught up in the hoopla (since you really can only say hoopla at a time like this) and suffer from a bout of Bears Fever.

I'm looking forward to next year, as all Chicago fans are used to doing. Until then, it's only a couple of weeks until the Sox report to Spring training. I also still have the new TV. At least I didn't spend all my money on a trip to the Super Bowl that ended with heart break and soggy shoes. Until next year...Go Bears! Later...Brian

What? No Catchy Title?

I wasn't able to tie the two things I wanted to write about neatly together under one heading. Sometimes two things need to be addressed, but are so far removed that even someone with my cognitive skills and unparalleled wit must accept defeat and move on. Go ahead you try to connect them. The two locales are Miami and a field in Pennsylvania.

Today is Groundhog's Day. What started as an obscure German superstition has grown into an annual party in the small burg of Punxsutawney, Pa. A few hours ago "Punxsutawney Phil" popped his rodent head out of his hole, searched for his shadow, didn't see it and was then scooped up by a guy dressed like a vintage London carriage driver. According to legend, Phil not seeing his shadow means that Spring will arrive a little earlier this year. Over 1,500 people came to watch Phil's prediction. Those are 1,500 people who need something better to do. They're in Pennsylvania, don't they need to busy themselves growing bushy mustaches, paying high speeding fines on their turnpikes, eating "shoo- fly" pie with the Amish, or learning to pronounce the letter "r"? I guess listening to a groundhog for your weather forecast isn't that much different from watching the news every night. The "meteorologists" aren't much more accurate and they have radar assistance. At least Phil goes back in his hole when he's done.

My favorite part of Groundhog's Day is hearing news anchors say where the event takes place. Some chicken out and just say the name of the town, but some throw caution to the wind and proclaim the name of the specific location. "Gobbler's Knob" is where Phil actually resides. If you didn't at least smile when you read Gobbler's Knob, then something is wrong with you. Gobbler's Knob. I can't stop typing it. Sure it's juvenile. Gobbler's Knob. I love when self important, respected news people have to say things that make them uncomfortable or things that are slightly risque that they just don't understand. Gobbler's Knob. It was great when the anchors had to keep saying "penis" during the whole Clinton scandal. Gobbler's Knob. What am I, six?

The other big event this weekend is the Super Bowl. I don't know if you heard anything about it since coverage has been a little slim. If the Bears were not involved, I wouldn't be paying attention to the endless stories coming out of Miami. Now, I can't get enough. Some people are saying that all the hype and the non-stop coverage is overkill. No way! I need to know the color of Thomas Jones new Ferrari, what Brian Urlacher ate for his mid-morning snack and how many times Rex Grossman Googled "Gobbler's Knob". It's been a long time since the Bears have been to the big dance, so let's belly up to the media trough and enjoy all the empty calories. I'm part of the media onslaught too. Stay up late Saturday night and listen to the big show on WGN from 1-5 am. We'll have a live report form Miami which will be mui caliente, we'll also be playing Bears Trivia during the "Overnight Arcade" at 2 and who knows what else. You can sleep when you're dead.

Have you figured out a way to tie the two together yet? Maybe it's this. The Bears will treat the Colts like the rodents in a "Whack A Mole" game. Rodent symmetry, get it? I know it's a stretch, but oh well. Have a great weekend. GO BEARS! Gobbler's Knob. Brian

Basking In The Glow

If you ask me what I like to do, the list is pretty short. My pleasures are few, but one that ranks near the top is my love for television. I love to watch TV. It my be hereditary. My dad could watch TV while the house burned around him. It may have been his way of escaping the madness that a house with five sons brought, but I think it went deeper. I could spend days in front of the television. I know it "rots the mind" and is a "vast wasteland", but so is Nevada and I still dig Vegas. Over the last few days, my love has been enhanced in a way that I never dared dream.

"Wife" awoke Saturday morning and immediately told me that we needed to "upgrade" our television. After checking her for a fever, I wondered aloud what she was talking about. "Well our old TV is too small for the new Family room." She then looked at me like I was the dumbest being to ever walk erect. How does one argue with that kind of logic. Our TV did seem a little small. When we bought it a few years ago, we were living in a house in California that at best could be described as "cozy". Our family room was pretty small, so the 36 inch Sony seemed to dwarf us. It was a top of the line set in it's day. When we bought it, we spent more on it than I ever imagined spending on a TV. "Wife" justified that purchase by simply saying, "that's what we like to do." When she's right, she's right.

If you haven't bought a television lately, are you in for a shock. The choices will test your knowledge of physics, spatial relations and fiscal judgment. You don't just talk to a salesman, you talk to a "Home Theater Consultant". That would be fine if all the "consultants" were operating from the same playbook. Every guy we talked to had different information. Plasma is good for this, DLP is great for that, LCD means you wipe your butt with hundred dollar bills. After hours of exhaustive research both on-line and in the stores, we decided on the TV I had liked right out of the blocks. We are now the proud owners of a 61 inch Samsung DLP/HD TV. Yeah, dig me. Don't hate the player, hate the fact that the player will be watching the game on his monster TV.

I may never leave the house again. Not only is the TV great, I hooked up a home theater system. Now I sit in the Comfort King and know how the other half lives. I watched a movie last night and realized I may never have to venture out to the local cineplex for the rest of my natural days. Why subject my delicate psyche to yappy teens, crying babies and people who scarf down buckets of popcorn like freed hostages? Thanks to "Wife's" bout of Bears Fever, we have created our own video oasis. I may spill some Pepsi on the floor so I don't miss out on the whole theater experience. It was actually hard to pull myself away from the TV's siren song long enough to write this. I fear that I have embraced the thing that will prove to be my ultimate demise. Oh well, if I've gotta go, I'll do it with a crystal clear picture and surround sound. Later...Brian