Hi

That's about all I have time for today, but I've been on a bit of a roll, so I wanted to make sure I stopped by. I've been working on projects here at the compound all day. It's almost December, so keen observers of this forum can probably guess what kept me out in the freezing temperature for over seven hours. Here's a hint. Bah Humbug!

Just a quick update on my doctor visit yesterday. I got a clean bill of health for the most part. The doctor kept his hands where I could see them and I didn't have to bend over and recreate a scene from the gritty prison drama OZ. Sometimes it's the little things that matter most.

Try to stay up late tomorrow night, or get up at an ungodly hour Sunday morning so you don't miss the big WGN Overnight radio extravaganza. There will be guests, games and something else that starts with a "g". That one will be a surprise. In case you suffered a head injury, the "four hours of broadcast supremacy" will commence at 1am. Have a great weekend. Later....Brian

What's Up Doc?

I don't go to the doctor. I know that's a bold statement, but for the most part it's true. If I injure myself, (which seems to be happening with greater frequency) or sprout some tonsil related infection in my over worked throat, I will head to an emergency room or urgent care center, get a prescription and go on about my business. The fine health care professionals always ask me the name of my "primary care physician" and I always look at the floor, shuffle my feet and mumble, "I don't have one". For years I have worn my physician less status as a badge of honor. "I don't get sick" has always been my mantra, my boastful, youthful rant. Now, like so many things from my youth, (Pixie stix, all night parties, parachute pants) I am setting my protestations aside and getting myself a "Primary Care Physician".

"Good Lord Brian, is something the matter? Are you ill? Have you been overtaken by male pattern baldness or eczema?" Not to worry. I'm fine as far as I know, but since I am on the business side of 40, I decided it was time to add a medical professional to my staff of "people", bringing the grand total to two. My friends have all been getting tests and physicals for years, and since you know my competitive nature, you can imagine my chagrin at being left out of the loop. I would grow green with envy listening to my outwardly healthy pals discuss MRIs, stress tests and various fluid samples they were asked to give. I had to get involved in this whole health care craze. I'm also a little paranoid and figure it's better to spot some horrible malady in advance rather than waiting for it to befall me.

Harder than deciding to see a doctor is deciding what doctor to see. That last sentence had a Dr. Seuss feel to it didn't it? Anyway, after looking at the list of physicians provided my my insurance company I had no clue and was ready to just throw a dart and trust my future health to my questionable aim. Thankfully, in mid toss, my friend called and asked what I was up to. After giving her the usual litany of made up tasks, I told her of my search. "You should see my doctor, he's great." fantastic, a recommendation. Once I made sure this guy wasn't some "Chic Doctor" who would diagnose my bloating. I made an appointment.

Last week, in preparation for my physical I had to get blood work done. That sounds like something out of The Godfather or Soldier of Fortune magazine. I'm unnaturally skittish getting blood drawn, but I was able to hold myself together and give up two viles of my potent plasma. I didn't know I would be asked to fill a cup with another sample, and that proved problematic. The nurse gave me a Dixie Cup with "Urine Sample" in large letters on the side and pointed me to a small restroom right next to the reception desk. I will confess to having what we men call "shy bladder". After about five minutes, I knew this experiment was going to have to wait. I told the nurse, who at this time was the only other person in the office, and sat down with a magazine. As the other ladies on the office staff arrived, Nurse Loose Lips told them why a giant man was reading Marie Claire in the waiting room. About twenty minutes into my reading, I stared getting asked the tough questions. "Are you ready yet? Do you Want to try again? You know, we only need a little." If I was under pressure before, now I was like Atlas trying to hold a globe while filling a cup. I decided to try again. As I stood in the rest room praying for flow, I could hear all the nurses right outside the door. I'm sure they weren't listening to me, but in my mind, my sample was the primary topic of conversation. After what seemed like hours of running the faucet, thinking of crashing waves, and kegs of beer, my job was done and I slunk out of the office a broken but empty man.

Today is the day of the physical. I'm sure there will be more humiliating tests involving fingers etc., but it has to be done. Who knows, I might like it and decide that I'm one of those people who goes to the doctor all the time. If that's the case, I'll drink plenty of water before my visit. Later...Brian

Dude, Where's My Wife?

ALLEGEDLY! There, now I've got the legalese out of the way. I've seen enough court room dramas and police procedurals to know that I need a disclaimer to protect me from what I'm sure will be some scandalous remarks. Am I wimping out by protecting myself this way? Perhaps, but I'm sure today's subject needs some cash and Lord knows I'm swimming in it. (Typing stops while laughter engulfs me.)

Unless you've been busy disposing of your spouse's body, you know the story of Stacy Peterson, the young mother who has been missing for almost a month. You also know that her creepy husband Drew Peterson is a suspect in her disappearance. On the surface, that doesn't seem like a story that would hold the nation's media outlets spellbound. You need to throw in all the other details to make this a story right out of a pulp novel.

A sleazy cop with a porn mustache and a penchant for ill fitting Hawaiian shirts (he's a Jimmy Buffet fan after all, but who isn't? Well I know a couple of people, but they're no fun anyway. Why wouldn't you like...Wait a second, I need to get back on point), starts hitting on a hotel desk clerk thirty years his junior. Creepy right? I'm not old enough to even think about dating someone thirty years younger that me for about six years. Wait, didn't I tell you, he's still married to his third wife. Yeah, third. His other wives left for a number of reasons including physical and mental abuse. Wow big daddy, what a catch. So creepy cop's third wife divorces him so he can marry the poor gullible teen queen, and then, mysteriously winds up dead in a bathtub. Did she drown? Maybe, but there's no water in the tub. Was she beaten and then put in the tub by some serial abuser who was now involved with a child? Do you believe the new autopsy that says she was murdered? Creepy cop says he had nothing to do with the death of Wife #3. He is a victim of bad luck. Then Wife#4 goes missing. More bad luck?

Drew Peterson has been blaming the media for all the suspicion that has been focused on him. At first, he wouldn't make any comments to the media, running out of his suburban tract house, kerchief pulled over his mouth, dressed like someone planning a train robbery. That was when he was a "person of interest". Now that he's a suspect, he is courting the media like it is a teenage girl that will soon be Wife #5. He went on the Today show twice and regaled Matt Lauer with tales of PMS and "other men" while barely being able to quash his laughter. He begged for a lawyer and no surprise, got one. Now a day doesn't go by when the "clown prince of crime" isn't holding court with the reporters who have set up camp outside his house. He's mugging for the cameras, joking with the female reporters (possible targets of his muskiness?) and yesterday began his post serial killer career as a video film maker by taking us all on a guided tour of his home and life. Someone should tell him that snuff films don't sell very well in case he's getting ideas. He also posed for People Magazine, landing on the cover and bumping poor Carrie Underwood to the side column. The nerve! Now comes news that Drew received an unsigned letter from someone claiming to have seen Stacy in Peoria, Illinois at a grocery store. That makes sense. If I were to run away from my family causing a massive search and national coverage, I'd head to the "Jewel of the Midwest" and loiter in the dairy section of the local Kroger.

I don't want to say this guy is guilty, but I wouldn't keep any blue barrels around the house if he was mad at me. Does anyone believe his story other than OJ and Craig Stebic ?(Husband of missing wife Lisa. Remember her? Of course not. Her story lacked all the extra slime of this one, and her husband has squirreled himself away hoping to avoid the intense scrutiny of "Johnny Law".) How much bad luck can one guy have? I think he knows he's going to be caught, and is just living it up until the inevitable knock at the door comes. I'm sure if "Wife" ever "left me for another man" (wink, wink) I would listen to my lawyer and keep my mouth shut. Not our man Drew though. He's so sure he got away with everything that he can go on mounting his crazy campaign against the media and Lady Luck both of whom have done him wrong.

I do blame the media a little because we can't stop covering the story even when there is nothing new to report. Since I am a cursory member of the media, I will now do the responsible thing and shut up. I think I'll go take a bath. I better hurry. I don't want Drew to hear about this and offer to loofah my back. Just in case, remember, I'm way to big to drown in the tub, I'm not leaving "Wife" for another woman and my peanuts were delivered in a small barrel, not a big blue one. Later...Brian

When You're Going Through Hell....

Keep walking. Man, I wish I was the clever soul who coined that particular phrase, but alas, the credit goes to Winston Churchill. A friend of mine dropped that pearl of wisdom on me last week, and it's been bouncing around in my noggin ever since. Suffice it to say that things have not been all that rosy here at the compound for the last few weeks, and in my current state, some things have fallen by the wayside, this forum being the first thing to go. I'm not going to bore you with details, because, let's be honest, we all have times in our lives when things begin to fall apart, and nobody wants to hear another person whining about their problems. To me, my problems seem monumental, but to you, they might seem like minor irritations and vice versa, so why wallow in the depths of our self pity? Everybody likes a party, but nobody wants to go to a pity party. My, my, how pithy and profound. That's a lot of alliteration.

So in keeping with Winston's words of wisdom, I need to pull on my moccasins and keep walking. (No, they are not another man's moccasins and I haven't walked a mile in them, but no one has borrowed mine for a hike either.) What other options are there? Well, I guess I could "take to my bed" and spend days at a time lying in the darkness ruminating on my situation. That sounds like a hassle though. I would have to explain to "Wife" and "Daughter" what I was doing, and having to explain such an act takes all the "poor me" fun out of it. Not to mention, the dogs would have a field day on the carpets while I was developing bed sores the size of flap jacks. I could begin drinking to excess like many a great Irishman who found themselves on the brink, but I enjoy tropical cocktails and the sound of the blender would, no doubt, irritate my fragile condition.

No, none of those would work. Like most of you, I will do what we always do, suck it up and move on. Freud said that the Irish are the "one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever." That may be true. To me, talking about problems with someone is a sign that you can't handle your own business. Outdated thinking? Perhaps, but thinking none the less.

I have come to learn over the past weeks, that more people read this than I thought. Word has filtered back from various sources inquiring about my whereabouts and the absence of my humorous (hopefully) ponderings. I will have to up my estimate of readers from six to eight. That's a pretty big jump, percentage wise, so I can't disappoint the growing masses. I will lace up my cross trainers and set out down the path. I stared this with a quote, so let's end with one too. Someone said, "it's always darkest before the dawn." I tend to believe that. Right now it seems like 4 am. The sun must be right around the corner. Right? Thanks for reading. Later...Brian

EPILOGUE: Oh man. It's been about five hours since I posted this and I just went back to read it. I must ask your indulgence for what seems like quite a self serving, boo-hoo type rambling. Thank God there is an edit feature on Blogger. I have heard from a couple friends who expressed concern over the above diatribe. Rest assured, all is, or will be well. I appreciate your notes. This has always been a forum for me to vent my thoughts and I have always tried to be as honest and entertaining as possible. Today I guess the honesty out weighed the entertaining, but wait until you see what I have in store for tomorrow. Wow, this is cheaper than therapy. Thanks! BN

What A Week

This has been a wild week. I filled in for the great Steve and Johnnie all week on their overnight show on WGN. If you missed the shows, you missed some hilarious radio, if I do say so myself. I love working with their crew and interacting with their audience. The only drawback is the odd schedule. It usually takes me a couple days to get my sleep regulated, which seems to be becoming much more important than it used to be. It doesn't seem all that long ago that I would stay up carousing all night , get an hour or two of shut eye and be good to go. Now I schedule my sleep like its carved in stone. I justify it by saying I need my sleep to be on the ball and entertaining for the show, but the truth is, I love to sleep.

Halloween was a success at the house. We had almost a hundred beggars, I mean trick or treaters hit us up for sugary treats. Some of the costumes were cute,but some of the punk teens slacked off a bit. I guess that's to be expected. I held firm to my rule of making the kids say "trick or treat'. I think it's only right. One ne'er do well thought he would be smart and only said "trick" he wasn't laughing so hard when I offered him half a candy. Mess with me at your peril junior.

I was bested in the hearts and minds of the neighbors as far as the decorating bood feud goes. "Daughter" and her friends informed me that the guy around the corner had once again created a wildly horrific entry way and that he was answering the door in a mad scientist costume. Damn him! I've already begun preparations for next year. I'm planning on going on a killing spree to stock the yard with real corpses, reanimating the dead into brain eating zombies and getting myself a scary costume. Maybe something along the lines of a flesh eating virus or a puppy. Who knows?

Tomorrow night, I'll be back doing the big WGN Overnight program. If you tune in, you'll be treated to an extra hour of broadcast excellence. That's right. Sunday morning we "Fall back". Some will take advantage of the time change to get an extra hour of sleep, but they're weak. You can use the extra hour to enjoy some radio fun. Gotta go. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian