The Drought Is Over

Labor Day weekend marks the unofficial end of Summer, and also the unofficial end of my self imposed exile. I couldn' seem to get motivated in August to write anything, but the Fall always brings out a feeling of rebirth, which is ironic because it is the season that brings about the dormancy of all foliage. That's me though, an enigma. Believe it or not, my mind has been on this forum for awhile. I wish there was some sort of new fangeled technology that would allow me to dictate my blogs. I love talking, and hate typing, which is what makes the radio show successful and this blog only mildly entertaining. One of my neighbors, who counts himself among the half dozen or so loyal readers of my missives, scolded me the other day for not writing more regularly. Far be it from me to disappoint my loyal fan.

"Daughter" is back in school. I find it hard to believe that she's started sixth grade. (Cue sappy music) It seems like only yesterday that "Wife" and I walked her the three blocks to kindergarten. She is in band again this year, and because of that, needs to be at school before seven o'clock every morning. That means a six a.m. wake-up call from her personal concierge, me. What am I, a farmer? I know there are people who get up that early, or earlier, but unless you've got to yank on Bessie's teat for a pint of low-fat, I don't get it. The only good thing about my pre-dawn rising is, wait, there are no good things. I guess the fact that since I'm up I can get some work done early and have no excuse to skip writing may be considered a good thing. Only time will tell.

I spent the holiday weekend taking part in our town's annual "Fall Fest". This is small town America to the tenth power. The "Fest" consists of a huge craft fair, which I can't see the appeal of, a carnival, because you can never have enough toothless drifters roaming the streets and who doesn't need an AC/DC mirror, an overpriced food court, a huge "beer tent" that serves as an oasis from the various carved wood Christmas decorations and a parade. You couldn't have more Americana jammed into three days if you dug up the carcasses of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and the rest of the founding fathers and made them eat apple pie while playing a game of baseball. Since I am nothing if not civic minded, I volunteered for a shift in the beer tent on Friday night.

I have mentioned in the past my love for drunk suburban mommies. The phenomenon of watching these usually staid matrons downing countless margaritas and then acting like the "Mommies Gone Wild" film crew is on hand never fails to entertain. I will save many of my neighbors embarrassment by not giving out a lot of detail, but man oh man, did the mommies cut loose Friday night. There was a lot of mommy on mommy grinding and groping, mommy on everybody else grinding, and I loved every second of it. One mommy had my favorite quote of the night. After bending over and spanking her rump, she proudly proclaimed, "My ass is rockin'." Then she pulled her pants down to prove the point. Nice tattoo by the way. I'll find it hard to walk past these hellions post Fest and not remember their antics.

I must say that the beer tent was not all fun, games and erotic escapades, there was work to be done. I was assigned the job title of "Floater" and given a bright orange construction worker vest, to set me apart from the masses. The job was pretty simple, until one of the supervisors asked me to accompany her. She led me to the area where the porta-potties were and asked me to sit in a chair at the end of poop row to make sure no underage vagabonds jumped the fence and got into the beer tent. Now, I know that my celebrity status is called into question on occasion, but come on. I'm on the radio, I've been on TV and now I'm guarding a row of "Drop Zones" in a tent. How the mighty have fallen. At least some of the drunk mommies kept bringing me beer. I'm not sure getting buzzed was the best way to forget my out house security detail, but sometimes I make bad decisions.

So there we go, I'm back. The port-potties are safe, "Daughter" is now an early riser and the changing of the leaves has renewed my creative juices. Oh, and my ass is rockin'. Later...Brian