Flipper To The Rescue

"Everyone loves the king of the sea. Ever so kind and gentle is he." Those words introduced baby boomers to Flipper the spunky dolphin who was "faster than lightening" who could always be counted on to save the day because "no one you see, is smarter than he." Does it bother anyone else that I know all the words to the "Flipper" theme? Who doesn't love dolphins? Maybe tuna fishermen, but do any of us really hang out with Mr. Paul on a regular basis and listen to his maritime complaints? I didn't think so. We love dolphins if we're fortunate enough to see them in the wild, at an aquarium or jumping through hoops for our amusement in some back alley aquatics show. Now we'll have one more reason to love them, because they may save this country.

The Navy has been training dolphins (Sea lions too, but who cares about sea lions? They're loud, slimy and they stink. Don't believe me, take a whiff of one and get back to me.) to protect the Bangor Naval base on the Puget Sound. These crafty creatures are being taught to put leg cuffs on terrorists, set off alarm beacons and other tasks to protect the Trident submarines that inhabit the Sound. I can see it now. Some unnamed terrorist group thinks it will be slick by sending some frogmen to destroy the subs. As they enter the Sound, their tiny hearts beat with anticipation of the dreaded act. Suddenly they are surrounded by sea mammals who slap the cuffs on them and give them an underwater beat down that would make the LAPD jealous. Then to celebrate, the dolphins would pull a show girl around on a boogie board and be given a couple of mackerel for their trouble. It all sounds great.

There always has to be a fly in the ointment however. A group of "environmentalists" is saying that this is cruel to the dolphins. They claim the water is too cold in the Puget Sound for our flippered friends who are used to more temperate climates. Too bad. I was used to a more temperate climate when I was in California, but I had a job to do so I moved to Chicago. Listen Bubbles. Somebody has to go in that water to protect our shores, and it ain't gonna be me. Sure, you're blow hole may constrict a little and your flippers will experience a little "shrinkage", but sacrifices must be made. The Navy says they'll look into it. I say start making dolphin sized wet suits.

The only problem I can envision is this. If we can train a dolphin to do good, how long until someone trains them to do evil? Am I the only one who saw "Day of the Dolphin"? Really? Just me? It was a "science fiction" movie about a scientist who trained dolphins to speak. They were stolen by an evil group and trained to place a mine on the President's yacht thus blowing him to smithereens. Sure, in 1973 that seemed like a crazy, acid induced slice of Hollywood insanity. It doesn't seem so crazy any more now, does it? Dolphins would have the perfect cover. We all trust them. You could see a dolphin standing on your front porch and think nothing of it, then BLAM! It could be going on already. I saw a guy milling around the post office who had a gray slimy head and a high pitched voice. I don't want to scare you. Just be on alert and carry some fish in your pockets. They're suckers for fish.

Don't forget to join me on WGN late Saturday night/early Sunday morning from 1-5 Am. I'd tell you I have a great show planned, but you know that already. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

It's Not Easy Getting Green

Spring is here and with it the problem that will vex me until the leaves fall from the trees, lawn care. Until I bought this house, I never really cared about my lawn. If it was green, I didn't really worry about the color source. My "lawn" could have been filled with weeds, ivy or lizards, as long as when I looked out the window I thought I was in Ireland. I can't have that kind of laiz e faire attitude anymore. How good your lawn looks in this neighborhood is the equivalent of guys standing in their driveways and hanging pork to measure their manhood. Not that I'm giving in to peer pressure or anything. "Wife" has laid down the law too. "I don't want our house to be the only one with a brown yard" she warned me before turning her back on me in a move that left no doubt to it's meaning. I for one would welcome a dirt yard. People would think I was nuts and stay away.

Again this year I debated getting a service to take care of my lawn fertilization needs. That seems like cheating. Sure, I know almost nothing about chemicals, soil acidity or grow rates of grasses, but that's what the Internet is for. Left to my own devices, there's a chance I'd be mixing chemicals in the yard only to end up having my last vision be that of a mushroom cloud over my patio. I started doing a little research to figure out how to help my grass look it's best, and I again came to the realization that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. First I learned that I should fertilize four times a year. That seemed simple enough, but then I learned you need four different fertilizers, spread at specific times. This seems like a pain in the ass to be honest with you. Then I remembered "Wife's" threat and I got to work.

It was supposed to rain this afternoon, so I had to get my first application (that's what fertilizer experts call it) down this morning since I was already down to the wire as far as the correct schedule went. Have you ever read a bag of fertilizer? It's enough to make you dial 9-1 and keep the phone handy. How can something that makes it possible for me to frolic on a carpet- soft lawn be so deadly. Apparently I was supposed to get all John Travolta and apply this stuff in a bubble. You're not supposed to have any contact with it, get it on your clothes, let your dogs even look at it or get it on any other living vegetation. I should have known from it's Agent Orange color that I was dealing with stuff meant for an episode of "24". I raced to apply my chemical killer before the rain started. Thankfully I was successful. I don't want to think about what would have happened if rain had hit a large quantity of this stuff.

After I was done I took a serious shower, kind of like Meryl Streep in "Silkwood" or the victim of an attack. I think I got all traces of the fertilizer off me, but I'll let you know if I grow another head. I've been standing at the window watching my grass, hoping to see some change, but so far, nothing. I hope the green comes back soon. "Wife" is waiting and my neighbors are reaching for their zippers. Later...Brian

You've Got To Read The Fine Print

The autopsy that was supposed to answer all the questions surrounding the death of Anna Nicole Smith was released yesterday. The main finding was that Anna died of an "accidental drug overdose". The one question it didn't answer was, "didn't anyone she knew know how to read?

The coroner found nine different prescription drugs in her system including some kind of crazy, old school sleeping syrup that she supposedly was swigging right out of the bottle. If anyone had bothered to check, they would have seen that many of these drugs didn't go together very well. You'd think that just from watching TV, someone would have been a little worried about side effects, since you can't enjoy a fun filled episode of "24" with out hearing how the latest pill to combat cholesterol will give you loose stool and a third eye. The medical examiner, Dr. Perper, (which sounds strangely similar to a refreshing beverage) reported that ANS was weakened from a bout with stomach flu and an infected area on her ass that was the result of repeated injections. What was going on in that suite at the Hard Rock? Couldn't someone have taken a look at the bottles and maybe cut back a little?

I hope I never have to undergo an autopsy. Every tiny detail of your body and your innards is in the report, and if you're famous, that report is released to a very nosey public. From the report we learned all about ANS' tattoos, real hair color, that she had the "genitals of a fully formed adult woman" and best of all, that her anus was "unremarkable". What possible reason could there be for us to know that? Who here would consider their anus anything but unremarkable? I just assume mine is and go about my day. Forget about wearing clean underwear like your mom used to tell you. Now you need to worry that your "leather Cheerio" is spruced up for possible examination. What a way to be remembered. I guess it's better than hearing that your anus is sub par, but not as good as hearing that it's fabulous.

Promise me something. When I die, think not of my ass. If you must, say I was an ass but remember me for something else. By the way, my big toe is spectacular. Later...Brian

Death Is All That's Left

It's said that only two things in life are certain, death and taxes. Since I spent the morning with my accountant doing my taxes, I'll be extra careful crossing the street today. It just dawned on me that I used the term "my accountant". How cool is that? I actually have "people". The next thing you'll know, I'll have a lawyer on retainer, a personal chef and some guy to walk around behind me, gladiator style, to remind me that I'm not a god. I'm getting closer to becoming Oprah every day.

Like just about everyone in America, I dread doing my taxes. Dealing with the IRS is like having a sit down with Ray Liotta and Joe Pesci in "Goodfellas". I just keep waiting for an audit notice to come bearing the edict "F*** You, Pay Me!" Love, your government. The IRS is a mysterious bunch. You only hear about them once a year, but if you forget them, they come after you like a psychotic one night stand. You can get away with a lot of horrible things in this country, but if you mess with the IRS and don't pay your taxes, you're looking at many years of dodging your new cell mate/husband, and wishing you hadn't tried to deduct your trip to Maui with that stripper as a research exploration.

I'm in a weird position when it comes to tax time. Since I'm self employed, there are a whole bunch of deductions I can take and things I need to make sure I document. "Wife" always asks why we can't just use one of those computer programs that claim to do your taxes in twelve minutes and to be as accurate as Ray Charles playing darts. I can barely post on of these missives, do you really think I'm going to entrust my financial future and firm backside to some program I picked up out of the clearance bin at Wal-Mart? The tax laws are changing as fast as the line-up in the Pitt-Jolie house and somehow I don't think I'm going to be up on all the subtleties. The way it is now, I'm always surprised that for a guy who isn't exactly drowning in cash, my tax return is as thick as the Quad Cities phone book.

My accountant lists my occupation as "entertainer". She always takes great joy in telling me that she also does the taxes of a couple of "ladies of negotiable affection" and that they are listed as entertainers too. That's terrific. Being in show business already makes me feel dirty, but now to be in the same league as a high end trollop adds a new level of pride. I guess it's fitting. I do sell my services to the highest bidder and want everyone to be satisfied when I'm done. I look great in spandex and blue eye shadow too. Not really, I was just taking things the next logical step. I like looser fitting clothes. I hope that if I ever do have to go in for an audit , the IRS agent doesn't expect a different entertainer to come bouncing through the door. That would be an extension I would not accept. Later...Brian

Updating Through The Fog

The other day I was telling you about getting called into WGN at the last minute and how it was affecting my mental state. Guess what? I had the pleasure of filling in this morning from 2-5 am. I had everything planned out. I got home around six, made coffee for "Wife" and at seven got "Daughter" up for school. It was my day to drive to band, so I was trying to get "Daughter" moving. My plan was to come home and get a few hours sleep. I didn't want to sleep too long, because that would screw me up for tonight, and I figured I would need to get back on my regular schedule.

This afternoon, I got a call asking me to fill in all week. It's very exciting and I'm looking forward to it. The problem is I haven't slept. I'm actually getting ready for a nap, but not until I pick "Daughter" up from Girl Scouts and get dinner ready. Look how selfless I am. Always thinking of others. I guess I could make Daughter" walk home. I am resting up for a major market radio show after all. It's sad that sleep has become so important to me. I remember a time when, without any chemical help, I could stay up forever and still be fascinating. Now, if I don't sleep, I'm like a crazy person, shouting out gibberish and falling down.

Tomorrow I'll have something more topical, but today I'm seeing two keyboards. Unfortunately,that's not making this twice as interesting. Here is the shameless plug. I'll be filling in for Steve and Johnnie all this week from 2-5 AM on the fifty thousand watt blowtorch WGN. I hope you can listen. I gotta go, I'm starting to hallucinate. Later, Brian

Drunk Me, I'm Kiss

Woo hoo! Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day. A day to celebrate Irish heritage? Sure it is, but I think you know better. It's a day for every Tom, Dick and Bridget to put on green clothes and drink themselves into a widely accepted stupor. Across the land, bars that only last week were playing country music on the jukebox and calling people who drink Guinness "book readin' girly men" will be transformed into "Irish pubs. Parade routes will be clogged with revelers looking for a place to vomit, pee, or a combination of both, and lasses wearing tight green shirts and "Kiss me I'm Irish" buttons will shed not only their inhibitions but their dignity, as they practice the rhythm method on the hood of a car. 'Tis a great day for the Irish.

I don't mean to be a stick in the mud. I've had my share of St. Patrick's Day fun. One year I was enjoying myself so much that I thought it would be a good idea to replace my ear ring (it was a long time ago, the 80's made us all do weird things) with a shamrock shaped Budweiser lapel pin. Hey, a hole is a hole right. The pints I had inhaled helped numb the pain. Sure it impressed some young Colleens at the pub, but the person who benefited the most was my doctor after charging me an arm and a leg for the anti-biotic to kill the infection I got from my inebriated accessorizing. I also have availed myself of an occasional alley and even had some luck while dressed as a leprechaun. Don't ask.

This year, like the last few will be a little more tame. "Wife", "Daughter" and I will be having lunch at our favorite Irish bar. It's pretty authentic for being located behind a wing joint in the Chicago suburbs. They are promoting "family friendly" activities during the day. Sounds like a blast. That just mean the soccer moms will try to manage their buzz until the brats can be put to bed before they try to kiss every one's Blarney Stones. I'll have a couple pints and a nice corned beef sandwich, but since I have to do the big show on WGN (1-5 am Sunday morning, in case you forgot) I will show some rare restraint.

Hearing so much Irish music this week makes me want to learn to play the bag pipes. Every time I hear them, I am filled with woe. Nothing is more depressing than the bagpipes, and yet, I can't get enough of them. I can just picture my neighbor's reaction when they hear me on the patio practicing. It will sound like I'm slaughtering goats. The joy that will bring may be enough to erase the woe. Maybe I'm drawn to the pipes because once I master them, I'll get to wear a kilt. I know I could wear a skirt now if I wanted to, but it's not as socially acceptable. I would wear my kilt every day, not just during parade season. I may go commando, I'm not telling. I will say I enjoy a nice breeze. Last year i saw a couple of biker guys wearing dirty kilts. they looked pretty tough. If you can wear a skirt and still look like a bad ass, that's saying something.

So go out and enjoy the day. If you're not Irish, I don't care. It's said that there are two kinds of people in the world, the Irish and those who wish they were. Let your wish come true for a day. Just rinse out your mouth if you want me to kiss you. Have a great weekend. Happy St. Patrick's Day! Later...Brian

Flow This!

I've written at length about the various things that make me seem, oh what's a delicate way to put it, nuts. Something just happened that made me literally look in a mirror and right after I commented on how dashing I looked, say "Are you crazy?"

I had the rest of my day planned out. I'm cooking a corned beef for dinner. I figure I'll get a jump on St. Patrick's Day and whip up some fine boiled meat for myself and the family. I love a good corned beef sandwich, especially when I'm washing it down with a few pints. By the way, a few pints were on the schedule too. then it was going to be off to the "Comfort King" for some T.V., some work, then off to bed. Man, when I look at it in print, my night seems boring as hell. Well, screw you. It's my life and if a few beers and T.V. make me happy, who are you to judge. I'm sorry. I'm a little put out because my night has been altered.

I just got a call from my boss at WGN asking if I could do a last minute fill-in shift late tonight/early tomorrow morning. I'm thrilled of course. Any time I get to blab on the 50,000 watt blow torch, I'm ready to go, but like I told you, I'm boiling meat. This is how crazy I am. For a split second I almost said no. Now is when you should be yelling at me. I didn't of course and am looking forward to a great show.

I don't know where all this rigidity comes from. In my mind I'm a "go with the flow" kind of guy. Of course I schedule those thoughts quite stringently. I do make myself go with the flow, but it's always after an initial panic. I think hippies are the only people who ever really go with the flow. Hippies and the homeless. And deadheads, but they might also be in the other two categories. The rest of us have lives that need to be scheduled. Go to work, take the kids to their activities, boil meat. You get the idea. I plan on trying to be more "free flow". Sure I do. Right after I finish my scheduled nap.

Reality Check In The Back Yard

March is a crazy month in Chicago. One day you can be freezing and the next day it seems like Spring is here to stay. Today is one of the latter. It's 70 degrees and sunny and my mood was soaring like the mercury in my Elvis patio thermometer until I took a look into the yard and came to a horrifying realization.

For the last two months my yard has resembled Green Bay, Wisconsin. I have been subjected to looking out the patio doors and seeing a frozen tundra, grey, stark and snow covered. Unlike Green Bay, my yard contained no cheese shops, strip clubs or guys in Packers jerseys. It didn't bother me, since I rarely went out to the back yard during the winter. I didn't go out there, but my dogs did. Therein lies my dilemma. The glacier that was in my yard has melted, exposing hidden "treasures" that even Captain Jack Sparrow would forgo. I have to collect two months worth of doggy gifts so that the yard is inhabitable again. I used to say that I found a zen like peace in the solitude of my mission, but to be honest that was a load of dog gift.

I was trying to remain a "man of the people". By saying that I enjoyed or even looked forward to some of these menial tasks, I thought I could keep hold of my tenuous relationship with the masses. I came to the realization today, as I surveyed my land that I wanted nothing to do with the masses. I wanted to be an elitist and hire someone to clean up after my dogs. That's right, I wanted to sit in my big chair and watch as someone I didn't know or care about, spent hours cleaning up after my pampered mutts. I would feel guilty for a minute, but then I would laugh and wave my hand in a majestic manner while calling out from my perch, "Don't miss any, I plan on cavorting barefoot once you leave." Then I would lose all ties with reality and hire people to do all my work for me. "Not so much starch in my collars my good man." "Yes, I'd love quail and peppermint ice cream for dinner chef." "Doesn't someone have garbage to take out? I know you don't expect me to do it." When I disavow my "man of the people" status, I go all the way. I would do nothing that the common people do. I would have a staff of hundreds to do my bidding. About the only duties I would still take on would be my husbandly duties, and that's because I wouldn't dream of denying "Wife" a little quality time with me.

Well, fantasy time is over. It was fun being an elitist monarch for a few minutes, but a fog is gathering over the yard and unfortunately, I must pick up my yoke of commonality and start scoopin'. Later...Brian

I'm BAAACCKKK!

Where the hell have I been? Did you even know I was gone? Did you miss me? Am I too needy? Why am I so inquisitive? I took the last couple weeks off from this forum and I wish I could give you a definitive reason why. Laziness is the first thing that pops to mind, but I can't lay all the blame at the feet of my favorite of the deadly sins. Sloth can only take you so far. Actually sloth prevents you from going anywhere. I guess I could blame some of the other deadly sins, but to tell you that I was being gluttonous while lusting after a woman and envying her man's hold on her, all the while greedily chasing the almighty dollar and then unleashing my wrath on the object of my lust would seem sad. I'm too filled with pride to admit to something like that. No, what I think happened was a simple case of writer's block. There was a lot going on around here, and I just couldn't clear my head enough for even a marginally good idea to squeeze in. If I couldn't give you something on par with my past gems, then I didn't want to give you anything at all. Pride, remember? That might be my second favorite "deadly".

So what has pulled the proverbial thumb out of the proverbial dike? The world yanked it out. I felt helpless sitting on the sidelines when all around me the hand basket was loading up for a cruise on the river Styx. Britney attacks a defenseless SUV with a stylish bumbershoot then claims she's the devil while in rehab, James brown and Anna Nicole finally get to take their dirt naps, and the Oscars come and go without my keen analysis. Not to mention the fact that Chicago is trying to get the 2016 Olympics, I'm having facial hair issues and people of below average intelligence continue to vex me.

Man, there's good stuff to write about everywhere. I think the blockage has passed like a swallowed condom through a drug mule. My eyes are open, my batteries recharged and my anger level is high. So as David Letterman is fond of saying, "Wake the kids, phone the neighbors" I'm back.

Don't worry, I know I'm deluding myself to think that this matters. See favorite sin #2. Later...Brian