I'm Seeing Triple

Man, am I tired. I'm not talking the usual, stayed up too late watching some Lifetime movie where a housewife/secretary/saucy cocktail waitress is being abused/stalked/ left for dead in the middle of the desert kind of tired either. I'm talking about the kind of tired that comes when your biological clock is turned all topsy turvy.

I'm filling in for the great Steve and Johnnie all week on WGN. I always have a ball, but the hours leave a little to be desired. I'm pumping myself full of coffee and energy drinks all night to deliver the kind of irreverent, entertaining and highly professional shows people have come to expect from me, but then I get home and instead of going to bed, I have appointments, and other things that keep me awake and delirious for hours. Today for instance. I am trying to stay upright so I can make a doctor's appointment. I could have rescheduled, but then I wouldn't be seeing the doctor for another month and a half and in my current state that didn't seem wise.


I have a new respect for people who work third shift. The world is out of whack. These creatures of the night work when others sleep and sleep when others are going about their business. I'm sure I would adjust to the schedule if I did it on a permanent basis, but as it is, I'm feeling the effects. I'm seeing Heffalumps and Woozels like Winnie the Pooh at this point.

Listen, I'm not complaining. The buzz is much cheaper and more legal than most, and I have an excuse to sleep while "Wife" is at work. There is the added bonus of driving on nearly empty roads too. Not too many yahoos are tooling around at 5 am. So what if I doze off....................................................................................................................................................................................... oh sorry, in the middle of things?

I'll try to check in later in the week after I've slept so I can pass along more coherent thoughts. For the time being, you can picture me in my footy pajamas and nightcap with cartoon ZZZ'z circling my head. Later...Brian

I'm In The Wrong Half

I have to keep this short because I'm about to take part in a conference call. That sounds important doesn't it? I don't know how important it is, but I do know that I wanted to get this finished so I can focus on trying to discern three separate voices on my static filled phone. I also wanted to post early to purge the sadness that has enveloped me this morning. My funk has nothing to do with health, finance or the American Idol outcome. It's not even real, just a literary device that I'm employing to garner your sympathy. Last night I was again reminded of "how the other half lives" and that I am in the wrong half.

My friend Mike asked me to join him at the Sox game last night. Mike is a die hard Cubs fan, so the invite was questionable to begin with. He told me he had gotten some "Scout Seats" and knew I would enjoy them. He's right. Two years ago, I got a similar invitation from Mike and was just now coming down from the experience. For the uninitiated, "Scout Seats" are the Holy Grail of White Sox tickets. They are an all inclusive passport to opulence, decadence, and any other word that ends in "dence". They are the kind of high end, ultra rich "premium" tickets that are becoming prevalent throughout professional sports as the haves try to increase their separation from the have-nots. Let's be honest though, with rising ticket and concession prices, there aren't too many have-nots at the games anymore. I don't want to sound like some Communist hippy. I'm all for people making money and I don't believe that anyone has a right to go to a sporting event or concert. It's a luxury and last night I soaked up all the luxury I could handle.

It starts with special parking. We didn't have to park with the rest of the rabble and wander like the Israelites for forty days to reach the stadium. No, we were given parking mere feet from our special entrance. I could feel the longing gazes of the regular ticket holders as my merry band of elitists sauntered in without having to stand in a line of sweaty fans like some Ellis Island receiving station. We were then shown into a private dining room and treated to the "Chef's Table Buffet". Hold on pal. Don't eat too much in here, there will be a menu of treats and roving hot dog and Polish sausage vendors at the seats. I didn't take my own advice and bellied up to the buffet like a veal calf just let out of my box. If you need to wash down all that buffet goodness, why not treat yourself to a cocktail. To quote the cinematic gem Animal House, "don't cost nuthin'." I had never drank top shelf bourbon at a baseball game, but rules are made to be broken. A few Manhattans in the dining room and a few wild, fruity, tropical punches at the seats were a nice change from the over priced, luke warm domestic swill I usually have to swallow in my cheap seats. Wow, I do sound elitist. I can't help it, I was born to live a life of idle excess.

The seats themselves are a baseball fan's wet dream. The section is set apart from the rest of the park by bars and velvet ropes. We were in the second row, directly behind home plate. I'm not talking about elevated seats far removed from the action, I'm talking almost ground level, wide, padded thrones that put you in the middle of the action. With every pitch we were treated to the loud pop of ball hitting mitt. Every practice swing in the on deck circle was an aural explosion of air being forcibly moved creating a whoosh that I haven't experienced since I used my Hot Wheels tracks as weapons in 1968. You can see every pitch clearly and are so close to the game that the idea of running out and shagging a fly ball doesn't seem too far fetched.

It's all over now though. I'm back to my normal life, or as normal a life as I can conjure. I know the memories of my time nestled lovingly in luxury's lap will carry me through my next visit to the ballpark when I will once again be forced to stand in line for the restroom with the rest of the middle and lower crusts. At least I had the opportunity to taste the sweet, rarefied upper crust. Sometimes a taste is all you need. I gotta go. The phone is ringing. Maybe the conference call will allow me to pull the velvet rope aside again. If not, it's back to the domestic swill for me. Later...Brian

Hey, You're Not Willard

This morning is off to a rip roaring start, so I need to post early as my day will be filled with household tasks in anticipation of my in-laws' arrival. They're making the trip because "Daughter" is appearing in a middle school production of Annie. Holy cow, a weekend full of pre-pubescent show tunes and a visit from my Mother-in-law. Are you jealous yet? I'm only half kidding. I'll let you pick which half.

Despite the proclamations of Al Gore and other environmentalists that the planet is over heating, Winter has lingered here in the Midwest. I've been going to "Daughter's" softball games dressed like I'm trying to reach the summit of Everest, the furnace is still kicking on to fight off the 37 degree nights and I haven't been able to break out any of my Springy halter tops. Yesterday, I decided to thumb my nose at Mother Nature and make a stand. Usually by this time of year, I've taken all my patio furniture out of the garage and set up my private oasis in the back yard. I was a little behind because of my unfortunate incarceration and under motivated, because quite frankly, who wants to sit on the patio in mukluks and a parka? With the sun shining and the temperature at a balmy 63, I set my mind to oasis building.

This is not a hard task nor one that I try to avoid. Dragging the chaise lounge out to the patio turns my mind to thoughts of tropical drinks and long nights basking in the warm breezes. Sure, the reality is that I will spend half the Summer complaining about the humidity and the blood sucking scourge of mosquitoes, but a guy can dream can't he? In years past this has been an uneventful project, but as we all know, nothing is forever.

I had been noticing some strange black pellets around the garage for a while, but had ignored them. I knew they were probably signs of some type of varmint, but since none dared to show itself, I figured, live and let live. "Wife" claimed to have seen something scurry across the garage floor last week, but we all know she's prone to exaggeration. I was making good progress. I had moved the snow blower and other Winter tools into the driveway to facilitate the seasonal switch and was uncovering the patio furniture when I started seeing more and more droppings. I'm not well versed in the excretory practices of most animals, but even I knew that somehow my laissez faire attitude toward pest control was about to bite me in the ass.

I always take my patio umbrella apart and store it in plastic bags flat under the table. I moved the table and there it was, right where I left it, but mysteriously the bags were torn apart and droppings were everywhere. Immediately, my mind processed what was about to happen, but before all my synapses could fire, the horror unfolded before my eyes. I reached down to move the bag and came face to face with a ferocious creature the likes of which are the subject of both myths and nightmares. In fact, it was a gray field mouse who couldn't have been more than three inches long. Rationally I know that a guy who is roughly the size of an adolescent Clydesdale could vanquish a field mouse handily, but when faced down by nature, sometimes the rational mind fails and basic survival instincts take over. I let out a shriek that was so high pitched all the dogs on the block came running to my aid. Seriously, if I had been wearing June Cleaver's pearls and a poodle skirt the only way I could have been more of a girlie stereotype would have been to jump up on a chair and wait for "Wife" to come home and rescue me. I think I actually let out an "EEEAAKK!" The mouse must have had a Napoleonic complex, because he stood his ground and stared me down. It was either that or he couldn't believe my reaction either. After what seemed like days, he scurried back into the bag. I probably could have just stomped on the bag, but I'm a sissy not a killer so I grabbed the bag, ran out of the garage and watched as mini Mickey hustled off to the bushes.

I was sure my troubles weren't over when I spied a large clump of threads, twigs, and droppings that was now exposed next to the still folded umbrella. I wish I could show you a picture of me gingerly holding the umbrella at arms length as I carried it outside. I was tiptoeing and holding my breath, all the while praying that no more critters would scamper out. To my chagrin, they did. Another mouse came dropping out as I banged the umbrella base on the driveway. I thought this one might be dead, because he lay motionless for a few seconds. Turns out, the mouse was playing possum. He came to, stared at me, and sensing his days were numbered threw me a head fake to rival Walter Payton and beat feet to the safety of the bushes. I was tempted to burn the umbrella right then, but frugality got the best of me. Now the patio is adorned with an umbrella marked by two holes, chewed in it by my unwelcome tenants.

I hope I'm not set upon by wild creatures as I go about my business this morning, but the day is young. Time to start my tasks, one of which is preparing for the big show Saturday night/ Sunday morning on WGN.. I hope you'll join me. This week's show will feature another visit from the Insatiable insomniacs, the Overnight Arcade and lots more. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

'Scuse Me Gramps Was That Your Hip?

Have you ever noticed that when you talk to your grandparents, parents, or random old people on the street ( does that ever happen?) that their list of ailments is the primary topic of conversation? I apologize for starting this post with a very "Seinfeldian" observation, but at least I didn't ask you what the deal is with airplane food or where the other sock goes while in the dryer. When I would listen to an ongoing litany of some geezer's medical woes I would think to myself "Damn, you handsome,vibrant devil (which is how all my internal monologues begin) if I ever get to the point where my health concerns are all I talk about, I hope someone shoots me." Well, I hope you came to this reading strapped, because after a few paragraphs, you may be tempted to pop a cap, and I wouldn't blame you. I might even welcome the hot lead injection.

I honestly never thought it would come to this. I detailed my health travails last week in what can only be described (by me) as a trilogy nonpareil. I thought I had exhausted that topic and could move on to more pressing social matters. There had to be some right? What about the cyclone hitting Myanmar? That's a tragic story, and one that begs attention, but there's really no humor to be mined there unless you count the repeated use of the word junta. I hadn't heard junta used in a long time, but now I'm doing my best to work it into my daily lexicon. I'm not a big fan of the junta in principle, but it really is a fun word to say. It also adds an air of menace to any rules I try to implement around the house. Instead of being just a strict disciplinarian, I am the head of my own junta. I bought some epaulets and everything. I was also a fan of the term cyclone. "Wife" and I got into quite a debate over what a cyclone actually was, with "Wife" finally asserting, "It's like a tornado". Listen Toots, I saw Twister back in the day, and I never heard Bill Paxton utter the term cyclone. Like all questions in life, this one was answered by a news monkey who explained that a cyclone is the same thing as a hurricane. I'm calling for an end to the distinction. I want all howling storms to be called cyclones and the name hurricane to be left for a tasty cocktail. The junta has spoken. Maybe I could cover the Chinese earthquake? Again, too serious. How about the ongoing Democratic primary and Hillary's almost tragic clinging to imaginary numbers to bolster her wild eyed quest? Maybe another time.

Sit down on the davenport, pry a piece of hard candy from the dish on the doily and rack a shell into the chamber. This week has held more testing on my degenerating carcass. Never one to jump into things half way, I'm embracing my new "Hey let's go to the doctor" mentality with gusto. It worked well so far, since going to the ER saved me the joy of being able to relieve myself in a bag. I hope this week's adventure proves as beneficial. A few months ago, I hurt my knee. I wish I could tell you I twisted it making an open field cut that lead to the game winning touchdown, or that I hyper extended it while running into the street to save a child from getting plastered by a bus, but truth be told, I heard a pop while carrying the vacuum down the stairs. Not sexy I know, but what are you going to do? The initial injury was the impetus for my new medical mindset. My GP told me to do some stretching, wear a brace for a while and everything would be fine. It was. For a short time anyway. Last month I was carrying the vacuum down the stairs again (why do I insist on helping around the house?) when my knee popped again. This time, no amount of bracing or stretching would help and after consulting a neighbor who had undergone knee surgery, I made an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. That is one popular specialty, because I had to wait a month for an appointment. Check your time line now and see that this happened pre-hospital. Long story short (seriously?!) I had to subject myself to an MRI. How lucky am I to get to expose my lower regions to even more radiation? The tech had to tie my legs together to ensure I wouldn't move and away I went. An MRI is even louder than a CT Scan. The bangs, whirs, and clanks make you think the thing is going to explode like a '72 Gremlin about to throw a rod. Did I mention how loud it is? I was given ear plugs and told to relax. I don't know what to make of this, but I fell sound asleep during the test. Despite being bound like a turkey, shoved in a radioactive tube, and aurally assaulted, I drifted off to dream land. I attribute this to a clear conscious and a relaxed mind, but it could also be a sign that I really need to lay off the Law and Order: SVU reruns at night and get more sleep. I'll get the results next week, but unless surgery is needed I'll try to spare you.

In my defense, this health obsessed mindset is not limited to yours truly. My friends and I have been noticing an increase in our ailment talk over the past few months. We're still at a point where we laugh about it, but you can hear a tone in all our voices that betrays our fears. We're becoming those guys. Yesterday my pal Mike and I spent fifteen minutes discussing the benefits of fiber and it's ability to doctor the consistency of our by-products. The last time those by-products got that much attention I was filling a paper bag with them and trying to figure out how to light it and run away before the crazy old man got to the door. I need to go now. I have to take my pills and shoo some kids off my lawn. Did I mention I might have a touch of the Rheumatiz? Later...Brian

My Unfortunate Incarceration: The Final Chapter

Most great sagas are told as a trilogy, the original Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings, Debbie Does Dallas. Mine should be no exception. What a fascinating tale this has turned into. If you're just dropping by, you really need to catch up or you'll be left wondering, in the words of David Byrne, "how did I get here." It's not really that hard to figure out since you already mastered working a computer, but if I didn't build a little drama into the proceedings I would feel like a slacker.

(Cue old time announcer voice or whatever voice spoke to you yesterday): When we last heard about Brian, he was being pushed through the bowels of the hospital in a ridiculously small wheelchair by a weary aid on his way to a hospital room.

Back to first person narrative. It was almost 4 am by the time the under-muscled aid managed to maneuver my bulky frame to palatial room 4114. My worst fears were abated when I realized I would have what hospital folks and university housing officials call a "single." I couldn't imagine a worse fate than being cooped up with another sick person for days on end. Is that insensitive? You betcha. Let's be honest though, the last thing you need when you're in a lot of pain is to listen to the moans of a stranger. I don't want to have to be polite and hear about another person's ailments and make crazy smalltalk. I don't want to be subjected to endless hours of shared TV and pleas to stop shouting at Oprah that she's the personification of pure evil. Who needs that when they're feeling punk? I want to be the center of the universe until I'm able to simply walk away from uncomfortable interpersonal contact.

The admitting nurse was very friendly and tried to make me feel comfortable, or as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. I was swarmed by the nurse and her aid who worked at a frenzied pace to take my vitals and settle me into bed. Then the interrogation began. Holy cow do they make you answer a lot of questions when you're admitted to the hospital. All this will come as no surprise to those of you who are regular guests of the health care system, but it was new to me. Do I drink, smoke, have a history of any diseases, have I ever touched a yak inappropriately in a Central American nation? What about my family? Have any of them ever died, thought about dieing or tie dyed a shirt before a Grateful Dead show? Any yaks in their history? That's a lot of pressure to put on a guy who's abdomen feels like it's a sirloin on a skewer at a Brazilian steakhouse. What if even one of my answers is wrong? Could the outcome of my care be tipped in the wrong direction because I didn't count one cigar last year as enough to label myself a smoker. Can I take a retest? When my inquisitors finished with me it was well past four. I assured "Wife" I would be fine and sent her home for some well deserved rest and thought about getting some sleep myself.

One of the great ironies of life is that you are sent to the hospital to get well and rest and while most times you can get well, rest will never come. The noise level in a hospital in the middle of the night would rival a Who concert circa 1968. I don't know what the nurses, aids and other staff members are up to during the wee hours, but might I recommend soft soled shoes and alarms with adjustable volume controls. Maybe I was a bit scared of my surroundings (shut up, I'm man enough to admit it), but the combination of pain, noise and and a mattress that would have made the toughest princess weep with pea pain made sleep almost impossible. This would be the case for my entire stay. Not only couldn't I sleep because of the surroundings, I had to get up about every hour and make the trek to the bathroom. I was being pumped full of so much IV fluid that I developed a dromedary hump. Unfortunately my hump couldn't contain my bounty and since I couldn't tap myself to relieve drought in Africa, off I went. To describe the bathroom as small would be on par with telling you this post is a tad lengthy, a huge understatement. Have you ever tried to use an airplane bathroom while holding a scarecrow? No? Good. Let's just say I muttered more expletives during my visits than are heard during a David Mamet table read.

I could go on to explain the mind numbing boredom that overtook me for the next few days or the fact that inevitably, if I did fall asleep, someone would burst through my door and flip on the lights with all the subtlety of a DEA agent at Pablo Escobar's house, but that would seem whiny and even more self indulgent than the trilogy has already become. The fact is, if you've been in the hospital, you know all you can think about is getting sprung. It was really comforting to get a lot of well wishes from friends and family and to have some folks drop by for a visit. One of my nurses was even a big fan of the radio show. Two of my neighbors, Larry and Bill cut my lawn while I was inside. (I know that's a prison term, but it fits.) That renewed my faith in mankind. I guess I'll have to give them back some of their Christmas lights now. Finally I am home and safely ensconced in the loving embrace of my big chair and luxurious mattress. Next week I get some tests and I'll be on meds for a few weeks, but those are small things.

Should I leave you with some inspirational words, or a lesson to take away form all of this? Would it seem too maudlin to cue the harp music and thank all the people who nursed me back to health? Probably, so let's leave it at this...sometimes what you think is a little gas can turn into a real pain in the ass. Ending on a rhyme? It's about time.

I will make my triumphant return to the airwaves Saturday night/Sunday morning from 1-5 on WGN. We'll be playing Mother's Day trivia on the Arcade to honor our mommies and if you play your cards right, I may even bring some of this saga to life. Who am I kidding, there's no chance I don't tell this story. Have a great weekend. Happy Mother's Day to all you mothers. Stay well. Later...Brian

My Unfortunate Incarceration Pt. 2

Welcome back. Isn't this serialized style a lot of fun? I don't have the time to write a "previously in Brian's posts" section like they do at the beginning of your favorite TV shows, so if you missed any of yesterday's thrilling saga, I suggest you scroll down and catch up.

When we last left our hero, (it's best to read this sentence with a dramatic announcer voice in your head. It's easy for me since head voices are my constant companions) he was traveling through the night to the Emergency Room to seek treatment for a yet unknown ailment.

OK, enough of the drama, here's the deal. "Wife" and I got to the ER and much to my glee only had to wait about ten minutes before I was called back to a room. Those ten minutes gave me time to pretend I was a big media mogul and blow in a call to my producer Lindsey to make sure that everything was covered for the show. After being assured that the world would in fact keep turning without me (though I hoped a little more wobbly) I headed back to my patient holding pen. In hospital parlance I was entrenched in "curtain 19" and began my wait. Nothing is more humiliating than having to put on a hospital gown. Nothing except realizing that in your haste to leave the house, you had not changed your underwear from the "really broken in" pair you were sporting all day to the kind of briefs your mom had always warned you to wear in case of a car wreck. I am a big guy. This is a fact that will bare repeating throughout this tale since it seems that like airplane seats and mesh T-shirts, hospital equipment is designed for the small of stature. Take for instance the lovely gown I was given. It would have fit "Daughter" nicely, but I looked like the Hulk after getting angry. Luckily I knew that I could not have been the biggest patient to ever grace the ER and asked for and was given a bigger covering. I use the term "covering" loosely because with a bigger gown comes a bigger opening in the back to display my sweet man seat.

I'm realizing that since the ER part of this story took almost seven hours, to give you all the details would involve the type of reading commitment usually reserved for English Lit students. I'll have to gloss over some things and hit the highlights. After being on the world's most uncomfortable gurney (here's a design tip, slick plastic, cold metal and a huge man don't make for a mattress that will stay in place) for an hour the doctor came in, poked me a while and then began to give me a litany of all the horrible things that could be lurking in my belly. He surmised that my ailment could be anything from a blockage, to an alien buried deep in my colon waiting to burst forth and suck the life out of all earthly inhabitants. Being a man of science, the doctor ordered a CT Scan so that they could take a gander at my organs to better diagnose my malady and rule out the existence of my being host to a being that threatened life on this planet. "Wife" sat patiently with me through the whole episode buoyed by the fact that her chair was close to the nurse's station allowing her access to all types of juicy gossip.

I had the CT Scan which would have been uneventful except for the introduction of dye into the proceedings. The technician was very nice and informative and explained to me that she would be injecting dye into my I.V. so that the CT machine could better discern my insides. I tried to block out the fact that my lower body was being passed through a machine that bore a big radiation warning sticker and focus instead on the miracles of modern science. She also told me that some people get a bad taste in their mouths from the dye and a few have a bad reaction. You know me, I always like to be in the select group. No sooner had the dye coursed through my veins than "Ralph and Earl" came a callin' . Remember before when I said nothing was more humiliating than wearing a hospital gown? I'd like to amend that to include hanging off a CT machine, ass in the air, hurling into a pan while trying not to roll off onto the floor. After the test I was taken to another room in the ER to wait for the results. This room had a gurney so narrow that I think Mary Lou Retton may have won a medal on it. Talk about comfort. After what seemed like an eternity during which I was sure NASA and other government agencies were being summoned for alien pickup, a new doctor came in and delivered the news.

Oooh, it would be dramatic to stop here wouldn't it? I'd be like Ryan Seacrest making you wait until after the break for results. Since I always want to punch Seacrest in his smug little face when he does that, I'll tell you what happened. The doctor told me that it appeared I was suffering from a bout of diverticulitis and because of severe inflammation in my intestines, elevated white cell count and high fever I was going to have to be admitted to the hospital. Oh joy. At least the boss would know I wasn't faking when I called in sick. An hour later a nurse with a tiny wheel chair came to take me to my room.

Wow, this chapter was fun. What will happen when I get upstairs? Will I be a good patient or a blubbering nightmare? What other indignities will I suffer in the name of healing? You'll have to drop by tomorrow and find out. Later...Brian

My Unfortunate Incarceration Part 1

A lot of people call in sick by using the weak "sick voice" and trying to convince their boss that they really are suffering from malaria or mange in order to enjoy a sunny Friday or a hungover Monday. Not me boy. When I call in sick, which happens...never, I do it with all the gusto and joie de vive you've come to expect from me. That was the case Saturday night. What I thought would be one missed show on the mighty WGN turned into a multi day health care odyssey.

I will try to tell my tale of woe without too much graphic detail, but due to the region that is the setting for most of this tale, some detail is unavoidable. If I use any juvenile terms the reasons are twofold, to try not to offend, and because I really find some of the more childish terms hilarious.

I started having some abdominal (there's the region I was telling you about) pain Friday afternoon and it continued to intensify Saturday. Being me, I poo-pood (no, that isn't one of the juvenile terms, at least not yet) the pain as gas and looked forward to it's sweet release. Saturday afternoon I got a fever. Unlike the hero in Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb my hands didn't feel just like two balloons, but I did begin to shake like I was having a Pentecostal conversion. No amount of blankets or sweat shirts could stifle the fact that I felt like a member of the Polar Bear club just back from a late December swim. I decided I should let "Wife" know about my condition since she would be most affected by what I was sure was about to be my untimely demise.

After searching for a thermometer for what seemed like an eternity, "Wife" went into Florence Nightingale mode and discovered to her horror that I had a high fever. Duh, I told her that and I didn't have any digital read out to back up my claim. I've had fevers before, and so have you, but maybe you didn't know that fevers in adults are a little trickier than fevers in kids. I didn't. I guess a kid's peanut brain can withstand a few more degrees than our fully cooked masses of gray matter. Anyway, it was my usual nap time before the big show, so I asked "Wife" to toss some ibuprofen down my gullet and check on me in an hour when I was sure the pain and the fever would be gone and I could do what's really important, go to work. Man was I wrong.

I spent that hour tossing, shaking, groaning and worrying. Somehow, my fever addled brain put together the facts that stabbing pain and a fever might be connected to a more serious problem and when "Wife" came back to check my temperature again, I told her that I thought I should go to the emergency room. It might have been the fever talking. After picking her shocked carcass up off the floor, I made the calls that would handle my absence from the airwaves. Let me take a quick break from the action here to thank all the people who called the station and emailed to ask where I was Sunday morning. It was nice to know that my listeners were concerned. Let's hope we aren't separated for long.

My mom was summoned and came to the house to watch "Daughter" and "Wife" and I headed off into the night to get me a little doctorin'. Still not truly convinced that my situation was more than severe gas brought on by Friday night's chili relleno dinner and fearing that I would be thought of as a bloated cry baby, I asked "Wife" to take me to the local "urgent care", that way I would be laughed at by fewer medical professionals as they told me to take some Gas-ex and quit whining. As luck would have it, the place was empty and I got right in to see the doctor. He cautiously poked at my gut, probably fearing the toxic cloud I was sure would escape. After a few of my oh so manly shrieks of pain, he told me to "get right to the emergency room. I don't want to send you home and have you die." Thanks doc, you know, I feel the same way. We were warned not to make any additional stops and we headed off to the hospital.

I'm going to stop here because it's a logical spot and because I want to milk this for a few posts. If you think you know what's coming, keep it to yourself so you won't spoil it for everyone else. There may be some surprises Mr. Smartypants, so don't get too cocky. Wagering is encouraged, but in a purely social way so as not to draw the attention of the authorities. More tomorrow. Later...Brian

That's Not Just Any Glamour Shot

It was only a matter of time before society, fame and public opinion took it's inevitable toll on Miley Cyrus, or as I like to call her Hannah Montana. Well, I'm not the only one who likes to call her that, millions of adoring "tween" fans know her by that name too. That's the name that made her famous. That's the name that made her rich beyond her (and many of our) wildest imaginations, and that's the name that will be associated with the controversial pictures that are set to run in an upcoming issue of Vanity Fair magazine.

If you haven't heard, Miley posed for some pictures with famed celebrity photographer Annie Leibovitz. In one of these photos, the fifteen (please mark that number down for future reference, 15!) year old is draped in a sheet while siting on a bed. She appears to be wearing nothing more than her dignity and said sheet and is looking over her shoulder with a drowsy, some would say, "post amour" look. Despite the pose and the wardrobe, any rational person can see she's still a young girl, but somehow I don't think the picture is targeted at rational people. In another, she is dressed in leather and denim and lounging with her has been father Billy Ray "Achy Breaky" Cyrus in an overly friendly pose. In that shot, her shirt is a bit transparent revealing her budding womanhood. Now before you go labeling me as some kind of Humbert Humbert, this is not something I conjured out of my admittedly dirty mind. The reaction to these shots has been widely negative with parents wondering what has happened to the wholesome role model they have spent millions of dollars on for their children.

After the news of the photos was released, Miley released a statement saying she was embarrassed by the photos and the Disney company, scurrying to protect their teenage cash cow, claimed that Miley was manipulated by the national magazine. Miley said she thought the pictures would be fashion shots and that "you don't say no to Annie Liebovitz." Really? You don't say no to someone who is controlling the image you've worked so hard to create. OK, I'll buy that from a fifteen (there's that number again) year old, but according to reports, her parents and "handlers" (I love that term. It's like she's a wild beast.) were present during the entire photo shoot and because of digital technology saw every photo immediately. If that's true, why didn't those people tell Annie to ditch the come hither shots and focus on the youth and innocence of Miley? Why did her father sit for a creepy shot that doesn't express the father/daughter relationship but rather plays again on the "Lolita" vibe we get from the other photos? I'll tell you why.....cash, that's why. I don't care how famous a photographer is, or how famous my young daughter is, I reserve the right as a parent to say no.

Rosie O'Donnell, my least favorite celebrity has chimed in on the topic. She has a video blog ( It is a video with the same quality usually reserved for FBI sting cameras and she looks up at it like she was caught stealing underpants in a Wal-mart fitting room. Add to that the fact that she looks like she just came off a tequila and Moon Pie bender and you can decide for yourself how much credence to give her ramblings.) and used it to tell everyone to leave Miley alone and reiterated that it's hard to say no to Annie Liebovitz. Damn, Annie must be one tough old broad if Rosie can't tell her no. Why hasn't the government hired Annie to negotiate treaties across the world. I should ask Annie to drop by and tell "Daughter" to clean her room and pick up after the dogs. The woman carries unbelievable sway.

I really hope that someone pulls Miley's people aside and shows them endless pictures of Britney Spears. You remember her. She was the young girl who began her singing career with catchy pop songs and then decided to work the sex angle way before she was old enough. That's ended pretty well hasn't it? Let's just save some time and appoint Miley a guardian right now. Someone can send the surgically altered Billy Ray and Momma Cyrus their checks , but they won't be in charge of pimping out their daughter anymore. Disney should start looking for the next kid they can ride to the share holders meeting, because if this keeps up, all those millions of dollars from parents wanting wholesome entertainment for their kids is going to go away. Unless Annie Liebovitz tells us otherwise. Later...Brian