Rantings of the Crewcut Dad

So Spooky

2009-10-30T07:56:00.003-05:00

I'm running wild today, but I wanted to stop by and say hello. I'm spending the day in Madison Wisconsin ( Why? Well that's a secret, nosy Parker.) and then rushing back to Chicago for the big broadcast late tonight. All of this sandwiched into what promises to be a wild Halloween weekend.

We've had the compound decorated for weeks. The front yard is a collection of ghouls, skeletons, flamingo carcasses and other manner of the undead, all with the aim of scaring the bejesus out of trick-or-treaters young and old. There is nothing I enjoy more that watching a child frozen in terror on my front walk. The internal battle between giving into fear and running for their lives, is offset by the unyielding desire for candy. It's an epic battle. This year, we had an epic battle trying to decide what candy to toss in the little beggar's bags. We used to go with full sized M&M's, making us the envy of the neighborhood, and ensuring that we would not be the target of Halloween vandals. This year, after much debate, we settled on the more common "fun sized" bars. Hey, there's a recession, we all have to make sacrifices. I plan on dropping a couple of pieces in each bag, since one little bar makes you not only a cheapskate, but ground zero for egg and toilet paper onslaughts.

"Daughter" is going trick-or-treating with her friends this year, and not even in our neighborhood. I miss taking her out for a night of begging. She would walk until her feet bled, in order to accumulate more candy than she could carry. Most of the time, that candy sat in the pantry until it was tossed out to make room for the bounty delivered by the Easter Bunny. We may not have our candy driven death march, but we still took time to carve a jack-o-lantern together. Some traditions have no age limit.

Have a happy and safe Halloween. If you're up late (or early) make sure you listen to the big shows on WGN. The Fri./Sat. edition will be packed with scary surprises and will be the culmination of my being awake for 24 hours. That will be an adventure. Tonight also marks the beginning of a "nine scoop of Noonan" week on WGN. Besides my own brilliant broadcasts, I'll be doing the 2-5 am part of Steve and Johnnie's show all week. I hope you can join me. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Giving In To The Hysteria

2009-10-23T15:48:00.003-05:00

I'm typing this while wearing rubber gloves and a surgical mask, sitting in a pressurized bubble. No, I'm not emulating the late King of Pop, I'm trying to avoid an invisible killer that is sweeping the nation. There is a Swine Flu epidemic running roughshod over this great land and I'll be dammed if I let myself fall victim to this mutated virus.

If I sound a bit dramatic, it's because I've been listening to everyone from "Wife", health care professionals and assorted news monkeys tell me that unless I'm vaccinated, douse myself in anti-bacterial sanitizer and keep an acceptable "social distance" from anyone with a slight cough I will be struck down. The Swine Flu, (or do you get all highfalutin' and say H1N1?) began appearing last Spring. The news monkeys attempted to spread panic, but the flu petered out and they had to move on to other fears that needed mongering. Last month, new cases of the flu began popping up and unfortunately, the news monkeys got a bit luckier this time around. More people are dying from flu related illness, and to make matters worse, a lot of the victims are children. I'm all for Nature thinning the herd, but I tend to pay more attention when Mother nature sets her sights on the kids.

I have gone my entire life without getting a flu shot. It could be because I don't cotton to voodoo medicine, I'm afraid of needles, or I am a world class procrastinator who usually gets around to thinking about a vaccination after flu season is over. Whatever the reason, I have chosen to laugh in the face of disease, drink a lot more orange juice and hope for the best. I can't turn a deaf ear this year however. The choruses of fear that are being sung far and wide have grabbed me by the short hairs and yanked me to attention. I gave in. Yesterday I went and got my flu shot.

I've been substitute teaching again and am surrounded by little mucus machines. I'm no germophobe, but watching these walking petri dishes spew their fluids to and fro raised a concern in me that I hadn't experienced before. Adults are constantly telling these miniature Typhoid Marys to sneeze into their elbow, wash their hands and throw out tissues, but I've witnessed more flying fluid than at a "Key Party" circa 1976.

I went to my regular doctor to get the shot. I see shots being offered everywhere, but call me old fashioned, I enjoy my vaccinations in a medical facility, not down the aisle from Twinkies and support hose. The vaccination was delivered without a hitch, but as soon as I left the office, I felt achy and feverish. "Wife" said I was being a hypochondriac, I said I had been dosed with a bad vaccine. She may have been right, since today I'm fine.

Thank goodness I am, since with the weekend comes two doses of "Radio Irreverence" on WGN. I'm billing the show as 98% virus free. I don't have any data to back that up, but since I can't infect you through your radio or on the web, I think we're safe. We'll be discussing a wide variety of topics (Vague? Yes, but things are still being put in place.) I can tell you that we'll be playing Dracula Trivia on the Arcade Sunday morning at 2. I hope you'll join the fun. If you're suffering from the flu, think how my special brand of crazy will enhance your fever dreams. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Rings Denied

2009-10-02T14:03:00.002-05:00

Trying...to...process...my disappointment...through a veil...of tears....with John Williams....music...playing loudly...to...drown ....out....my...thoughts. All right, time to pull it together. Bad news came to the City of Wind today when the IOC announced that Chicago was not chosen to host the 2016 Summer Games.

I say the news was bad because, despite some initial hesitation, I was looking forward to the Olympics coming to Chicago. The thought of opening our doors to the world seemed like a fantastic way to showcase a wonderful city. Sure, there were questions and concerns. Who would foot the bill for this shindig? How would all the venues be constructed in time? Could the city upgrade it's transportation system in order to move the masses? How would I get my mitts on some of the inevitable kick back money? Good questions all, and now there will be no need for answers. No, in it's infinite wisdom the IOC bumped Chicago from contention in the first round of voting. I haven't been involved in such a quick rejection since I made a ham handed pass at a buxom brunette during what was supposed to be an eighth grade make out party. Like the thousands of supporters watching the announcement in Daley Plaza, I left frustrated, angry and wishing I hadn't bought that new shirt announcing an event that would never take place. Not only did I watch Chicago's dreams of Olympic glory die with the announcement, I watched some of my own capitalistic hopes being dashed to the ground.

I wish I could tell you that all my Olympic spirit was based on National and Civic pride and love of pure (if you don't count steroids) amateur athletics, but that would be an outright lie. Some of the proposed venues were going to be close to the Noonan compound. I was planning (without "Wife's" knowledge at this point) to turn our yard into a squatters village for Olympic athletes and visitors. I know some people rent their houses to tourists and visiting athletes, but let's be honest, would you want your house filled with foreign shot putters and archers without your supervision? I didn't think so. No, I was willing to invest in a couple of camp showers and extension cords and set up my own version of a "Jellystone Camp Grounds" or Olympic shanty town. I would have been an effective and welcoming ambassador, teaching our visitors American customs like cutting your host's grass and scalping event tickets. But alas, these dreams will never come to fruition. The 2016 Olympics will be held in Rio De Janeiro. I guess that's a nice place if you like beautiful scenery, exposed buttocks and waxed lady parts. (Who doesn't?)

I'll try to overcome my sadness and mount some "Radio Irreverence" starting later tonight on WGN. I'm sure we'll rehash the Olympic debacle, debate the lunacy of Hollywood types defending Roman Polanski, and explain where you can go to learn how to defend yourself against one of our biggest threats . There will also be the Arcade, roller derby talk and as always..."a whole lot more." Join the fun Fri/Sat from 2-5 am and Sat/Sun from 1-5 am. I may not be hosting the Ugandan Skeet Shooting Team in my yard, but I'll welcome you with open arms. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Rude Is The New Black

2009-09-18T16:22:00.003-05:00

I tried to start this blog a number of times, but I kept having my keyboard commandeered by some drunk in a leather shirt, who, while professing his love for me and assuring me he would let me finish repeatedly sang the praises of someone else's blog.

It's been almost a week since Kanye West decided to once again show the world what an unadulterated tool he is by interrupting Taylor Swift at the MTV Video Music Awards and I still am having a hard time processing why this happened. Not this particular incident mind you. Kanye has exhibited ass like behavior on numerous occasions, and Taylor Swift will still sell a lot of CDs (especially to Daughter) despite the fact that she went home and had to cry herself to sleep on piles of money. No I'm talking about the overall notion that being rude is now the default way to act. People used to be ashamed when they acted rudely, now they wear their ugly behavior like a well deserved medal of honor.

I've seen it coming for a long time, but it really struck me last week when Congressman Joe Wilson heckled the President during a speech. If you haven't heard the infamous "You lie" shout out, then you need to pay less attention to the VMAs and more attention to CNN. Was that rude? Only to the people not following current events. What have we come to as people when one of us thinks it's appropriate to scream at the President, or interrupt an award speech because you don't agree with the outcome? Do we all have so much rage boiling inside us (present company excluded) that we have to erupt at the slightest provocation whether real or imagined? These human volcanoes are all around us, from the "I'm in a big hurry", my time is so valuable, can't get off his Bluetooth, guy at the grocery store who loses his mind because it's taking too long on his price check to the cell phone yappin', nail polishin', mini van drivin', mommy who flips you off and begins channeling Linda Blair when you dare to give her a little horn toot three minutes after a light turns green. Someone needs to bring a little civility back to society. That someone could be me., but I'll need your help.

President Obama, in what was supposed to be an off the record comment called Kanye a "jackass" for behaving the way he did. Good for you Mr. President. More people need to be called on the carpet for their rude behavior. The problem is, most of us are too nice to do it. We avoid the rude, braying jackasses for fear that they will turn their attention on us and then all hell will break loose. I say, it's time to stand up to the jackasses! If you witness someone being rude, don't turn a blind eye, call them what they are, a rude jackass. I know it seems like adding fuel to the fire, but if you do it in a clam, controlled way, you'll look and sound like the disapproving parent these boors obviously lack. It will take some time for this to catch on, but trust me, it will work. Call a jackass a jackass. Just do it from a few feet away so that they can't mule kick you.

I'll be spending the weekend spreading the love via the airwaves on WGN. While I may be accused of jackassery by some, my defense is that I am a social satirist. That and a jackass, but I've been grandfathered in. I hope you'll join the fun, Friday/Saturday 2-5 am and Sat./Sun. 1-5 am. We have a lot of things planned, but usually it's the unplanned events that are the most fun. You'll have to tune in to see which you prefer. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Going Into Labor.......Day

2009-09-04T13:44:00.002-05:00

I almost fell victim to "taking the Friday before a long weekend off" disease. I could have said I was leaving the office early to get a jump on traffic, but you and I both know, "leaving the office early" in my case means putting on pants and walking into the kitchen for another cup of coffee. Sometimes I wish I had a more traditional job, so I could give into such urges, but then I realize that my whole life has been about giving into those urges, so I shut up and get to work.

This has been a wild week. I have, for reasons unknown, gotten involved in my community. Yes, I have become "a volunteer". There is a big "Fall Fest" in our town, and my subdivision is part of the association that runs the beer and entertainment tent. (BETA, get it?) I've volunteered for small shifts in the tent the last few years. Those shifts usually entailed pouring beer, putting wristbands on hot women and drinking for free. This year, I suffered a head injury and came to the conclusion that if a short shift was fun, being on the "management team" would be fun squared. I've never been good at math, so my theory hasn't really panned out.

I've never worked on a committee, or in an office type setting. When I have an idea that I think is a good one, I implement it. I don't have to run it by a bunch of burned out, long term volunteers who really don't want any young whipper snapper rocking the boat. "That's not the way we do it" has been tossed my way so many times, I started thinking I was in my marital bed. I know throat punching someone is not the best negotiating tool in the box, but I've been tempted to reach for it on more that one occasion. Two other guys from the block were my partners, representing our subdivision. We actually got along great. We listened to each other, didn't discount anyone's ideas out of hand and realized that hawking beer for four days isn't the be all and end all of the universe. We accomplished our tasks with ease. Wow, what a concept! Shouldn't all adults act that way? Well, yeah, but that wouldn't be any fun now would it? I'm starting to realize that some people are just...what's the term I'm looking for? Jackasses! That's the one. No matter what you say, they have to be contrary. They know best and you should just shut up. Then they complain that nobody wants to help. Gee, I wonder why? These do it yourself martyrs love to suffer and then tell anyone unlucky enough to be within ear shot how tough they have it. Call me crazy, but maybe your attitude is a volunteer repellent.

I'll be at the tent a lot this weekend and will give you a full report on the proceedings, including what my bail was set at after several episodes of throat punching on Tuesday. I've accepted my role as an adult and forgone mindless drinking so that I can still bring you all the "Radio Irreverence" this weekend on WGN. Join the fun Fri/Sat from 2-5 am and Sat/Sun from 1-5 am. I know we'll be talking cheap shots and bad athlete behavior, Oprah's ultimate act of entitlement, stinky people on the subway, adult binge drinking, and the beauty of Lingerie Football. All that , the Overnight Arcade and as always "so much more". I hope you can join me. Have a safe, and enjoyable Labor Day Weekend. Later...Brian

Smells Like Teen Daughter

2009-08-28T10:59:00.002-05:00

Thirteen years ago today "Wife" and I were in an operating room welcoming "Daughter" into the world. Her arrival and first couple of weeks were not the smoothest, but in comparison to some, not the roughest either. I remember seeing her for the first time, a little, red, goo covered screaming machine and thinking "Things are going to change now." Talk about an understatement.

I won't bore you with drawn out reminiscences. If you're a parent, you have plenty of your own. If you're not, you probably don't want to read some teary memories. It's also quite cliche to brag about your kid, but hey, it's my blog, so step off for a minute. Despite having her father's temper and sarcastic sense of humor, "Daughter" is a fantastic young lady. She's a great student, a talented musician and a compassionate friend. "Wife" and I know that she can accomplish anything she sets her mind to. Wow, I just sounded like every new age yahoo huddled around a soccer field on Saturday morning, blathering on about how "special" their little bundles of joy are. Suffice it to say that we know she has the tools to achieve her goals if she sets her mind to it. That's a nice way of saying she's not an idiot.

It's hard for me to believe she's 13. Everyone is getting a good laugh telling me that "the fun" is just beginning. By "everyone" I mean parents of teens who have been in jail, rehab, therapy or some combination of the three. I know there will be some trying times. I was a teenager once myself. I am hopeful that "Wife" and I can give "Daughter" the help and advice, and self confidence she needs to navigate these confusing and exciting years. If not, there's always jail, rehab or therapy.

(IN CASE SHE READS THIS)

Happy Birthday "Daughter"! Mommy and I are very proud of you. You've changed our lives for the better (despite some episodes, but those are normal). We loved you the day you were born, today and every day from here on. You are a unique and wonderful person. (stop giggling)
Remember, we are here for you no matter what and will help you however we can. Enjoy being a teenager.

OK, on a different note, it's plug time. I hope you can join me this weekend for a couple doses of "Radio Irreverence" on WGN. It's just what the doctor ordered. (Rimshot) There will be lots to cover, from Milton Bradley's crazy claims, gypsies, my new obsession, a visit from "The Insatiable Insomniacs" and the ever popular "whole lot more". here are the times for the uninitiated, Fri/Sat 2-5 am and Sat/Sun 1-5 am. Stay awake, you won't regret it. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Cinderfella

2009-08-21T09:24:00.003-05:00

What a week! I used the exclamation point to work up some excitement for what has really been seven days of of domestic drudgery.

The big news of the week was that "Daughter" started school. I know, it's the middle of August, why so early? I have no idea other than that the District likes having a few more days off in Spring and wants to see the kids sweat like day laborers during late Summer. This isn't just another school year for "Daughter", it's 8th grade. Yes, 8th grade, the stress filled, peer pressure ridden, puberty sprouting denouement (wow, I used a big French word) of the Middle School experience. Every assignment, activity and decision this year will be scrutinized, mulled over and fixated on with an eye toward High School and her "permanent record". My hope is that "Daughter" navigates this chapter with more aplomb than her father. I spent my entire 8th grade year obsessed with a rather comely brunette classmate who had blossomed into early womanhood much sooner and with better ( read: bigger) results than many of the other "icky girls" with whom I shared my days. Looking back, I would have had no idea what to do with such a vixen had she returned my interest, but even at that tender age, a Catholic School Girl's uniform whipped me into such a state that diagramming sentences could not hold my attention. At this point, "Daughter" doesn't seem to have more that a passing interest in the hairier sex, loves school and is active in activities that should benefit her for the long term, so I think we'll be OK.

One other event has cast a long shadow over the compound this week. "Daughter" is turning 13 next week, so that means it's time for a birthday party. For this momentous occasion, "Daughter" asked "Wife" and me if she could have a sleep over. Yee Ha! Eight teen aged girls jacked up on sugar, pizza and hormones, hunkered down in my basement for a night of gossip, games and other girly activities. If there's a sleep over, there has to be a theme, so "Daughter" decided on "Beach Party". Last night, with the help of bags full of party store decorations, we turned our wood paneled rumpus room into a South Pacific paradise. i was so taken with the ambiance, I tried to get "Wife" to re-enact a little From Here To Eternity after "Daughter" hit the hay, but she refused to sully the festive atmosphere with anything so unseemly.

I spent the last three days deep cleaning the house. I kept trying to use some old school guilt on "Daughter" by telling her it was all for her party, but in truth, it was just that time. Tuesday was carpet cleaning day. We're not pigs by any stretch, but I couldn't help but feel a bit disgusted as I emptied the dirty water from the cleaner's reservoir. What had only moments before been crystal clear hot water was now the color and consistency of lukewarm chocolate milk. Wednesday brought out the mop and bucket for some old fashioned floor washing. Like a scullery maid or a low ranking seaman, I swabbed the hardwood deck until it shone in the reflected sunlight. My exhilaration over a job well done was not long lived however since my mangy mutt has no respect for a clean floor and tracked in God knows what from the back yard. Yesterday I ventured into the basement to prepare it for the big bash. At first glance, the basement didn't look too bad, and in fact it wasn't, except for countless, almost invisible cobwebs. They were lurking everywhere and never missed a chance to attach themselves to my face. I was spinning, spitting and flailing around so many times that I looked as if someone had connected a car battery to my unmentionables and was testing out the cold cranking amps.

The girls will arrive early this evening and are set to depart early tomorrow morning. There are many activities planned (shirt decorating, limbo contest, scavenger hunt), because idol time is a party killer. I hope everything goes smoothly. There is always some drama when a group of girls gets together, and my skills at smoothing out those episodes are sparse.

If you're thinking, "Hey Brian, aren't you doing a big show tonight and thus missing the beach soiree?" Normally yes, but I won't be in tonight. I can't say much other than, don't believe the propaganda. I didn't "take the night off." I'll be back tomorrow (Sat/Sun) night from 1-5 am on WGN with what is shaping up to be another fine broadcast. It might seem premature of me to say that, but with the ideas I have so far and what always happens "in the moment", I'm confident you won't be disappointed. I hope you'll join me. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Nazis, Death Panels, Really?

2009-08-14T13:42:00.003-05:00

It's such a beautiful day, I hate to sully it with controversy, but I'm getting ready for the big shows, so my thoughts always turn to the issues of the day. (Yeah, right. My thoughts turn to when I'll get to take my nap before staying up yakking all night.) With all my foot problems, I've been personally affected by the Health Care System over the last few weeks. I'm not bragging, and believe me, I wish that weren't the case. Thankfully we here at the Noonan compound have good insurance. Not everyone does, and that in a nutshell, is what's causing so much commotion.

I'm not going to try to take apart the proposed Health Care Reform Bill that's being debated around the country. I have neither the time nor the space. What I will say quickly is that nothing will get solved if people can't have a civil debate without resorting to crazy name calling. Maybe I got sun stroke while cuting the grass earlier, but I'm trying to get into a calm, zen like mindset. It's hard for me, but I'm trying. I wish everyone would follow my lead. Seriously, what is accomplished by fanatics comparing the President and suporters of the Health Care Bill to Nazis? Really? Nazis? The group that exterminated six million people? Does anyone really think that's what our government wants to do? That type of irresponsible blathering is a slap in the face to survivors and families of the victims of the Holocaust. I'm also not a fan of the "Death Panel" enthusiasts. Not that they're enthused about Death Panels, rather they're hypnotized by the sound of the inflammatory term they can't stop spouting, despite irrefutable evidence (not counting common sense) to the contrary. Granted, on many occasions, I would have liked to appoint myself Judge, Jury and Executioner of the thoughtless, rude and idiotic, but that scenario plays out only in my head. There aren't going to be any Tribunals of Death deciding who stays and who goes. Look it up. I know, logic and facts aren't fun. God knows I try to avoid them whenever possible, but this is too important an issue to get lost in a cloud of crazy.

One protester at a town hall meeting was carrying a sign that said "Death to Michelle and Her Two Stupid Kids". Way to bring a valid point to the debate Sparky. Yes, that's right, threatening innocent people is the best way to get your point across. People will be sure to take you seriously, so seriously in fact that you'll be able to shout your lunacy at the top of your lungs during Rec Time in "the yard". There is a lot of anger over the Health Care issue and some theorize that it might not all be connected to health care. People are angry over the state of the economy, unemployment and the fact that their local Jeep dealership ran out of new Patriots for the Cash for Clunkers program. Anger is fine, disagreements are fine and debate is excellent, but irresponsible rhetoric and threats will get us nowhere.

See, now I've harshed my mellow and on the anniversary of Woodstock no less. I'll pop in a Sha-Na-Na/Hendricks mix tape and try to get myself back to the garden in time for the big shows on WGN this weekend. (Fri/Sat 2-5 am and Sat/Sun 1-5 am). Lot's to cover including Michael Vick's return, fondling amusement park mascots, an exploding bird and yawning as a crime. Plus we'll mark the anniversary of Elvis' death with Elvis Trivia on the "Overnight Arcade". I hope you can join me. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Das Boot

2009-08-13T13:34:00.003-05:00

Summer is quickly slipping away. "Daughter" starts school next week, so we're trying to jam in a few activities that have been on the "to do" list for the last few months. Yesterday I took "Daughter" to the Chicago Bears Training Camp and this afternoon, we're going to soak up some culture, by which I mean heading to the Museum of Science and Industry to see the Harry Potter Exhibit. Yes, that counts as culture, don't get all nit picky. After spending some time wandering around the relics of Hogwarts it's off to Chinatown for a little feast from the Far East. Sounds like fun, huh? It would be if I could walk.

You may recall my award winning (Self Important Blogger Awards) multi part account of my motorcycle class and the injury that I suffered on the first night. For the past two months, I've been hobbling around on a bum wheel. My left heel has been the source of shooting pain, making it impossible for me to sport any sort of Summer footwear. This is the first Summer that my glorious tootsies haven't been bronzed due to exposure from wearing sandals, flip flops and the ever trashy, going barefoot. I have been seeking comfort with orthopedic insert packed running shoes, which is ironic, since the last time I ran was 1977. A few weeks ago I decided to let pain trump pride and sought the opinion of a podiatrist.

I love doctors. ( Sarcasm doesn't translate to the written word, but know that the narrator in my head has quite the sarcastic tone.) After pushing on the affected area repeatedly, eliciting yelps from me usually reserved for small dogs, the foot doc gave me a tentative prognosis of plantar fasciitis. "We should make sure though", Doctor Sholl wavered and then ordered an MRI. Turns out that crazy magnet found a torn ligament running from my heel to the middle of my foot. I'm always happy when something I'm complaining about turns out to be a real injury. I'm not happy to be injured of course, just glad that my sniveling is justified.

As I sat in a podiatric Lazy Boy after being given the MRI results, the doc asked "how are you with shots?" There were so many ways I could have answered that question. Did he mean injections, taking a punch or my well known affinity and friendship with Jose Cuervo? I erred on the side of caution and crafted my response toward the injection. I've never had a problem with shots, even when long needles were being pushed into my spine, but I had no idea what I was about to face. Doctor Heelandtoe produced a large syringe filled with cortisone and after spraying my heel with something Mr. Freeze must have thrown away after a Batman movie, jammed the neddle in. I fought the urge to take my good leg and toss a roundhouse kick his way and after about 127 minutes (it may have been shorter, but time slows when you're under duress) , the injection was complete. Then came "the boot".

If you've never seen one of these so called "walking casts", look at the picture at the top of the column. Can you see it? Good. It's a combination, Frankenstein/Gene Simmons/bondage piece of footwear. It's a strappy little open toed number, fashionably black to compliment my evening wear. I have to slide my foot in and then bind my leg with so many Velcro straps that NASA is sending me a bill. The sole of this contraption is curved in such a way that my weight is supposedly dispersed off my injured ligament. That may be true, but now I'm limping around, dragging this plastic monstrosity. My heel may be healing, but wearing a giant shock absorber is wreaking havoc on my knee and back. It must be some kind of medical conspiracy that ensures a patient will be in constant need of attention by creating a vicious circle of treatments that feed off each other.

I have to go strap in and head off for my culture fix with an egg roll chaser. Don't laugh if you see me limp by. I may not be able to run, but I can still chase you down with my car. Later...Brian

It's Post Landscape Post Time

2009-08-07T09:03:00.004-05:00

Oh my God, I am sore. Not 40's angry mind you, but in physical pain. I spent seven hours yesterday trimming bushes and trees around the compound. I don't know why I'm surprised by the amount of shrubbery that needs grooming, I see it every day, but as with a lot of things, I don't pay much attention until I'm waist deep in evergreen. Every year I promise myself that by next year I will hire a team of hard working professional landscapers to descend on my yard with a truck load of equipment and dispatch my greenery like locusts. Every year my frugal/cheap nature takes over and I trudge to the garage to unwind extension chords and get the electric clippers down from their perch atop the cabinet. This year I pressed "Daughter" into service. The job started a bit rough, with me expecting her to know my thoughts and be able to anticipate my needs. That didn't work out too well. After a quick break, we got in sync (yes, if you're wondering, we did some boy band choreography) and things rolled along. It was time for "Daughter" to experience some back breaking labor. She doesn't like to sweat. I don't know if that's a "girl thing" or not, but she overcame her aversion under the hot sun, watching her old man grunt, sweat and groan. She did show some concern over the many cuts and scratches I suffered in the name of yard beautification. I guess the sight of blood trickling down your father's arms and legs is a bit of a shock for a kid. I used to laugh when I would see landscapers wearing long sleeve t's and long pants during the Summer, but not any more. I had one scare during the operation, (well more than that if you count how many times I thought I would pass out). Somehow the extension chord got caught in the clippers. I know, that's not good. Thankfully, instead of lighting me up and giving "Daughter" the lasting memory of seeing her dad's skeleton illuminated like in a Tom and Jerry cartoon, the breakers that cover the power outside tripped. See, another reason to hire the locusts. I will say, the place does look better, and, being the glutton for punishment that I am, as soon as I finish here, I'm off to cut the grass, putting the finishing touch on my efforts.

I have to cut the grass early because this afternoon, I'm off to the track. I'm not a degenerate gambler (one of my favorite terms) or an expert handicapper, I'm meeting some friends from work for an afternoon of camaraderie and wagering. I've only been to the track twice, once in California where "Wife" and I won a grand total of three bucks and once last year to the beautiful Arlington Park. During that visit, my pals and I never even looked at the track. We just talked and enjoyed some seasonal brews. This time, I plan on finding an overweight older man with a beat up fedora, half smoked cigar and crumpled racing form and pressing him for a tip. Then I'll look for an even more cliched reference and go on with my day. I'm looking forward to my visit and to partaking in the "sport of kings." I dig horses. Well, I 'll amend that to say I dig watching them run, I'm not fond of a random horse head showing up in my bed, which thankfully hasn't happened, since my habit of crossing the Mob has been kept in check.

I'm off. Hey, just like the horses out of the gate. Did you enjoy that symmetry? If you like that kind of crazy humor, you'll love the big shows this weekend on WGN. Wow, I slid that in seamlessly. Friday night/Saturday morning I'll be joined by musician Pete Berwick, talk to our correspondent in London to commemorate the 40th Anniversary of the Beatles crossing Abbey Road, I'll fight my producer and more. Saturday/Sunday I'll have four hours of "Edutainment" to keep you awake all night, with Classic Rock trivia on "The Arcade", gym class nightmares, an update my my wagering, which drivers we should string up by their privates and as always...more. I hope you can join me. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

The Summer Slump

2009-08-05T11:11:00.003-05:00

"Wife" has been on me lately and not in the way I enjoy. "You need to blog." I know. I'll be honest, despite Earth shaking events like the death of Michael Jackson, astronauts wearing the same underwear for three weeks and some crazy story about the President hosting a kegger, I have been in a creative slump. I don't think there's any concrete reason for it, I just haven't felt like writing. I think about it, but until I perfect my mind control and telepathic powers, conjuring hilarious missives in my head is not enough. I need to put finger to keyboard and let the crazy pour out. But therein lies the problem. I have set a standard for these posts previously known only to me. However, in the interest of full disclosure, I will now bore/enlighten you with them.

I try to make this area more than just a forum that allows me to tell you what kind of sandwich I'm having for lunch (probably left over Italian sausage). I want you to leave with a laugh. OK, maybe just a smile. How about lacking the urge to put your fist through your monitor. I also try to make my diatribes a certain length. I figure if one paragraph is good, four must be better. I'm coming to terms with the fact that in all things, except dirty love, brevity may be the best course of action. So I've decided that if I only have a short quip, brief musing, truncated thread of thought, boiled down brain fart, some hasty hilarity, terse tantrum or fast philosophizing, that will be enough. No more being a slave to self imposed word count. I'll let the ideas dictate the magnitude of my musings.

With that in mind, here is a quick update of events since I was last here.

-Michael Jackson is still dead, but like Elvis and Tupac, his career is still thriving.

- I am finally a licensed motor cycle rider. The class was called back after two weeks to finish two drills. I was nervous since I hadn't been on a motorcycle since the class ended. If you'll excuse my use of a cliche,Ii had nothing to worry about because it was just like riding a bike.

...OH.. I have to go pick "Daughter" up at band. I'll be back in a minute....Hi, did you miss me?

-Speaking of "Daughter", she was gone most of July. Shae was at Girl Scout Camp, and then spent a couple of weeks in Michigan visiting "Wife's" family. It might seem wrong, but "Wife" and I enjoyed some quality "couple time" and only found ourselves missing "Daughter" a little bit. Now she's home and only two weeks away from 8th grade.

There's more, but really, why live in the past? Let's turn our attention to the future, which is rife with opportunities. I will take this opportunity to sign off. See what I did there? OK, that's your laugh, smile, monitor mangling deterrent for the day. Later...Brian

Uneasy Rider Finale And More

2009-06-30T11:49:00.003-05:00

It's been two weeks since I finished the Motorcycle Rider's Training Program. Some of you might have wondered what happened. Some of you probably figured that since I hadn't posted anything I either failed the class or perished in some Snake River Canyon type stunt gone horribly awry. Some of you have moved on with your lives and couldn't care less about my quest. I'll try to satisfy all of you.

We arrived at the range on our final day to discover that due to a scheduling snafu (I think that's a polite way to say f*#k up) the parking lot/range where we were to demonstrate our motorcycle riding prowess under the watchful and critical eyes of the instructors had been taken over by about 57 semi-trailer trucks. At first I thought that weaving through the maze of 18 wheelers was a surprise element of the test, but these mother truckers were having some sort of training. I don't know if it involved learning the phrases "breaker, one- nine", "there's a smokey on my six" or "what's the twenty on some commercial beaver?", but I'm sure there was not a module on doing a long haul with a monkey as your co-pilot.

After weighing all the options, the instructors decided that they could replicate the elements of the range that were needed for the test in another parking lot. After a short delay we were in business. I screwed up a few things by trying to do them too fast, and was sure that my haste would cost me my certification despite executing some of the drills flawlessly. We finished the range portion of our testing and went in for the 50 question written portion. I was more confident going into the written test because, let's face it, I'm brilliant when it comes to cypherin'. I missed three questions on the written test. I wanted a perfect score, what with my genius and all, but, as I justified it to myself, I still got an A. Then it was time to go into the hallway and get the results of my range test. despite a few flaws, I passed with a lot of room to spare. I can't remember ever having been so excited about a grade. I'm waiting for my certification to be mailed and then it's off to the Secretary of States' office to make myself an officially licensed motorcycle rider. To be honest, despite what the "man" says, I think I'm really only qualified for some more parking lot riding at the moment. Being the cautious sort, I want to do a little more practicing before I hit the open road to fulfill my "Easy Rider" fantasy.

"Daughter" is away at Girl Scout Camp this week. People always ask if I miss her and I don't know exactly how to answer. I guess i miss her a little, but I'm not weeping because of her absence. Maybe if she weren't somewhere having a great time, I'd feel differently. I look forward to her return, but every parent knows, even if they won't admit it, that every once in awhile, it's nice to have the kids gone. I always envision "Daughter's" absences as becoming a hedonistic opportunity for "Wife" and me. Oh yeah, we'll drink, eat, go to movies, and do other things that decorum prevents me listing here except to say that a spatula, trampoline and a garden gnome are involved. Reality however, doesn't share my joie de vive. What ends up happening is "Wife" has to work late, my schedule changes, and we end up falling asleep in front of the TV while the gnome looks on with an expression that is a mix of disappointment and relief.

Thinking about "Daughter' got me ruminating on "The Now Dead King of Pop" Michael Jackson. I haven't written about his death, because I'm tired of everyone canonizing this freak. Yes, he was a great artist, but he was also an accused child molester, skin bleacher and nose destroyer. In what could be the greatest example of money being able to buy you anything, he brokered a deal with a woman to bear him some spawn and then paid her to go away. Hanging out with a monkey must have gotten old. Now it turns out that "Peter Pan" didn't care enough about his human accessories to make arrangements for their care in the unlikely (Really? Nobody saw that coming? He had undergone so much elective surgery even Joan Rivers was laughing at him and was allegedly popping so many pills that he made Elvis look like a medicine phobe.) death. Because his focus was more on mixing up a batch of "Jesus Juice" than on caring for the kids, the court has granted temporary custody of Prince 1, Princess and Blanket (you're right, he wasn't nuts) to his mother. Good move. Let's put these kids who already have had to go through their lives in a daily Halloween parade, into the house that spawned their oh-so-stable father. It's enough to make me grab my crotch, shriek like a girl and walk backwards.

Starting Thursday morning I'll be filling in for Steve and Johnnie from 2-5 am. They're going on vacation through July 13, and I was tapped to handle the early morning portion of their shows. I'll also be back to my regular weekend times this week. There have been a few schedule changes on management's part, but those are done for the time being. I'll keep you updated on any changes. Gotta go lay out the spatula and tighten up the trampoline. Later...Brian

Uneasy Rider (Ride With The One That Brought Ya)

2009-06-12T00:44:00.002-05:00

The motorcycle gods must be the jealous sort. I had been eying a new mount for last night's class, falling prey once again to the grass is always greener philosophy. You'd think I'd know by now to be happy when things are going my way, but no. I had a great night of riding on Wednesday. The Yamaha Dual Sport had treated me well. It's throttle had rolled smoothly, it's clutch eased out without a hiccup and it's gears shifted with fluidity. But like Hugh Grant, I couldn't be happy with the ride I had at home, I had to go slumming for what seemed at the time like a flashier, dirtier ride.

Under the guise of "wanting to get the feel of a different bike", I decided to step out on my trusty Yamaha with a jet black Honda Nighthawk. The name sounds cooler, the look more hardcore. It emitted a biker's siren song that I was unable to ignore. I should have known better. The minute I mounted this motorcycle hussy, I knew I had sullied my riding experience. The flashy bike was too small for me. My knees were in my armpits and my hands were too close together because of it's curved, enhanced handle bars. I was uncomfortable and my riding showed it. I had trouble with the first couple of drills. My accelerations were jerky, I gunned the unfamiliar throttle a few times and I was unable to execute even the simplest "maximum straight line stop". I cursed my weakness and my choice in motorcycles as I stared longingly at my Yamaha, now being ridden clumsily by one of the women in the class. Neither one looked happy. I seized on the opportunity.

When we had finished a few drills and were given a break, I approached the woman and asked if she would be interested in trading bikes. I tried not to seem desperate, but it was hard to conceal the longing in my eyes. "You want this one back?" she asked. "Well, only if you want a change." I feigned nonchalance. With that the deal was done. I approached Yami with trepidation. Would the bike have me back? Could we rekindle the bond we had just a day ago and become the sleek hybrid of man and machine that would allow me to pass my evaluation and become a licensed motorcycle rider? The bike resisted for a few minutes. It had to. It's seat wouldn't allow me to get too comfortable. I knew it wouldn't sound manly for me to shriek, "this seat is killing my ass." so I accepted my penance in silence. Soon things got back to normal and the rest of the night went great. We swerved and cornered like we had never been apart. Later I will be taking my road test and I'm confident that I have the right bike under me. Now all I have to do is ride the right way and not think too much and I should be OK. After the road test, there is a fifty question multiple choice test. By the time I leave, I will know my fate.

On the physical front, my thighs still hurt like I've been leg pressing the Octomom's diaper pal. Good Lord they're sore. Now I know why biker's always have that menacing walk. It's not that they're overly tough, it's that they can't bend their legs. While I'm trying to give off the vibe of a tough guy, I'm walking around like Wilfred Brimley with a hangover. I realize that if I ever buy a motorcycle it will have to be big and wide with a sweet seat. Wow, man and machine have never been so in sync.

After the class I'm heading off for the first of another "Two Scoops of Brian" weekend on WGN. I'm sure I'll regale you with some more motorcycling tales as well as a lot of other fun, entertaining and interesting conversation. I hope you can tune in. It don't cost nuthin'. It's time for me to ride off into the sunset. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Uneasy Rider (Smoothing Out The Ride)

2009-06-11T14:54:00.003-05:00

Fear and trepidation have been replaced by confidence and respect. Last night's episode on the range made me think that I might actually be able to ride a motorcycle. When I arrived at the trailer, I asked the instructor, Tom, if I should change bikes to get a different feel for things. He suggested that I stay with the same bike since it was only my second night and I would still be getting used to the controls etc. Being a complaint and dedicated student I situated myself next to the "dual sport" Yamaha (I know I said it was a Kawasaki yesterday, but in my novice mind they're the same) that I thought was the one I had attempted to ride the night before. I had wanted to change bikes because I was having a throttle issue with the first bike. I call it a "throttle issue", more experienced riders would probably call it "that doofus doesn't have the touch to work the throttle correctly." In my defense, a more experienced rider did tell me that the throttle had too much torque. See, there was a throttle issue. The problem was that during our first night on the range, my throttle was an all or nothing proposal. I thought I was "rolling on and off" (dig my biker lingo) with the appropriate feel, but all everyone kept hearing was my bike letting out high pitched roars as I inadvertently gunned the engine. I blame my first choice of gloves too. I brought different ones last night since I was positive that the texture of my original gloves was sticking to the rubberized throttle. Yeah, sure it was.

It turns out, I grabbed the same model bike, but a different one than I had been on previously. Fortune and the biker gods were smiling down on me. This bike's throttle rolled smoothly, and my new gloves allowed for firm but smooth control. When we hit the range, I approached each drill with a higher level of confidence and even found myself smiling a few times. We practiced navigating curves, leans, and head turns. My confidence grew as I slowed, looked, rolled and pressed (oh yeah, I got the terminology down) into curves at increasing speeds. I don't think they give awards half way into the session for "most improved rider", but Tom told me "you're getting smoother and smoother Brian", so I'll take that as a good sign. It's not all about curves though. We also did a drill that involved weaving. When Tom, and Tony (the other instructor) explained the drill I thought, "you gotta be kidding. I'm just now able to shift into second and navigate a curve and now you want me stunt riding in a Junior College parking lot?" Turns out, I was born to weave. Motorcycles that is, I don't think I have a future running a loom.

My perspiration problem from the night before was kept in check by a new florescent green bandanna. The color may have left something to be desired, but hidden in the traditional bandanna design were little skulls. Nothing says rough and tumble biker like a guy wearing a skull embossed day-glo bandanna riding in formation between orange cones. I am having a small problem with my thighs today. The problem is, they hurt like hell. Who knew that riding a motorcycle took leg muscles? Perhaps squeezing my legs around a giant vibrating beast is taxing muscles I didn't know I had. I have a new found sympathy for "Wife". I may have to start calling her my "Old Lady" by the end of the week, but only with my biker pals.

Gotta run. I need to study. We may be having our 50 question test tonight if the rain gets too bad. If not, it's more practice. I'm planning on trying a new bike tonight. I've been studying the foot pegs, rear brake pedal and gear shift on some of the other models and they seem more conducive to my giant feet. I'll let you know. Start seeing motorcycles! Later...Brian

Uneasy Rider (Takin' It To The Streets)

2009-06-10T15:17:00.002-05:00

I'm posting a little late because I'm still picking bugs out of my teeth and soul patch after last night's inaugural ride. It's not that I was going fast enough to kill any bugs, I think they had become depressed with their lot in life and chose my face as the location for their self inflicted demise.

Pulling into the parking lot, I was filled with an explosive mix of excitement and dread. I could see all the motorcycles lined up outside a rusty storage trailer and I knew that it was time to pull on my big biker panties and saddle up or tuck my non chaps wearing tail between my legs and scurry off into the night like a wee lass. Big biker panties was the call. First I had to choose a helmet from inside the shed. Knowing that my head is on the large side, (I maintain it's because I have a big brain) I looked for a dome protector that would sufficiently cover my noggin'. I tried on a full face helmet and was immediately overcome by claustrophobia. That took all of seven seconds. After trying on a few more helmets of varying sizes and styles, I settled on a "3/4 helmet" in biker appropriate black. Now that my head was protected, I needed a reason to protect it. I needed a bike.

I surveyed the rag tag collection of bikes that was available and tried to picture myself astride one that was big enough to keep me from looking like the famous picture in the Guinness Book of World Records of the fat guy on the mini bike. The instructor informed me that the Kawasaki Hybrid Street/Dirt bike was the tallest and would probably be more suitable for the "big guys" so that was to be my steed. The class spent about 20 minutes getting familiar with our bikes. We reviewed where all the controls were, how to properly mount and dismount the bikes and the signals the instructors would use to communicate with us. All I kept thinking during this period of time was, "Please don't let me die on the first night." Finally we were able to mount our bikes. Away we go, right? Nope. We just reviewed how to start the machines and then we got to start the motorcycles. After the initial excitement of ignition we were told to turn off the engines, dismount and start walking. There is nothing as odd as watching 12 people walk motorcycles across two parking lots. We were a parade of wannabes, looking forward to future biking glory.

The next three hours were spent trying not to crash. That may be a bit dramatic. We started with the "straddle walk", which is getting used to EASING (capitalization at the request of the instructors and to remind myself that hard squeezing is never good whether on a motorcycle or when picking produce) out the clutch. We did a few other beginning drills to let those of us who were true novices get the feel of the bikes. After a while, it was time for the first drill where we would actually be riding with our feet up. I felt like Leonardo DiCaprio hanging from the from of the Titanic (hopefully not foreshadowing a future crash) as I picked up my feet and headed down the range. I think that I did OK, except for one brief mistake that garnered me my first biking injury. I misunderstood the teachers directions and in my haste to correct myself popped the clutch causing the bike to lurch forward like a wild stallion. The foot peg, caught my inner calf and caused a mid level scratch. If that's as bad as things get, bring it on.

My biggest problem of the night was my excessive production of bodily fluid. By the time we had walked our bikes to the range and finished a few laps of "straddle walking", I was sweating like Albert Brooks in Broadcast News. Streams of sweat were pouring from my helmet like the impact absorbing liner was actually a water balloon that had burst. My glasses were covered in sweat and I knew I couldn't take my helmet off every 30 seconds to wipe my head Pavarotti style. Thankfully I had brought a bandanna with me for just such an occasion. I wrapped it around my head "Aunt Jamima" style and plunked the helmet back on my damp dome. it worked like a charm and gave me the added look of a seasoned bike when I removed my helmet. Win, win.

I'm running late, so I'll have to give you more details tomorrow. I think we're doing some "maximum straight line stopping" today. That sounds pretty bad ass doesn't it. Later...Brian

Uneasy Rider (The Saga Continues)

2009-06-09T10:56:00.004-05:00

I was more than a little nervous when I arrived for the first night of my motorcycle rider's education class last night. It wasn't so much the fact that I had never operated a vibrating hunk of steel before, it was having to enter a classroom. I was overcome with an odd sense of deja-vu as I walked into the generic building on a local Junior College campus. I was worried that if this academic endeavor played out like some of my past experiences, I would be found with my head on the desk soaking, "Madge the manicurist" style in a pool of my own saliva. I reminded myself that I was taking the first step to becoming a big, bad, hog riding son of a gun, so I grabbed a couple napkins for drool absorption and headed in.

I checked in with one of the instructors. This procedure included showing him my driver's license and all my "gear". When someone registers and is accepted into the class, they receive a number of emails giving all the details of the class and a list of the items a student is required to bring. The emails begin with the bold typed line "READ THIS ENTIRE E-MAIL CAREFULLY". The list of required gear is short, long sleeve shirt or jacket, sturdy long pants, full finger gloves, over the ankle boots or shoes and some protective eye wear. Pretty simple , right? For me yeah. I got checked in and took my usual delinquent seat in the back of the classroom. I had arrived early, since the second line of the confirmation e-mail stated that the doors would be closed at the beginning of the class and no one who was tardy would be allowed in. Having English as my primary language assured that I understood the rules. That wasn't the case for some of my other English speaking friends. I listened to one buxom, young red headed woman try to explain why she had shown up in gym shoes by telling the instructor that she "had read the letter, but since she didn't have some of that stuff she just ignored it." He ignored her pleas as well as those of her slack jawed male companion and banished them from the class. Yeah! That's how hardcore bikers roll. One blond girl was turned away after arriving ten minutes late. She pleaded with the instructor to let her stay saying she had gotten lost and the "cops" had given her bad directions. A weaker man (me) would have caved owing to her cuteness and incessant eyelash batting, but that's why I'm the student and not the master. The class was skewed surprisingly older with me falling somewhere in the middle. I had worried that I would be the oldest student and that II would be relegated to learning to ride a Rascal due to my advanced years, but thankfully that's not the case. The group is also evenly divided between men and women. I spent the first twenty minutes trying to figure out who'd have more trouble mastering the motorcycle than me. I know it's petty, but I hate to be the worst at something.

The four hour class was spent going over the fundamentals of a motorcycle and how to start and ride one. I was a conscientious student. Hi-liter in hand I followed along as we went through our book. I made sure to make a lot of eye contact with the instructors, hoping they would take that as a sign of interest and commitment and not one of creepiness. I even put aside my "I'll be cool and not ask questions" attitude and peppered the proceedings with pointed inquiries that I'm sure have cemented in the teacher's minds that I have no business riding a motorcycle.

I am now reasonably certain where the throttle, clutch, gear shift lever and brakes are located. I'm also pretty sure that I can turn the bike on and cut the engine when stopped, but if I need to use the horn, turn signals or high beams, I may be in a bit of trouble and have all of them operating at once. I got very confused during a brief explanation on "counter steering". My confusion was so evident as I pantomimed the motions that one of the instructors felt the need to announce to the class, "Brian is really confused." I was then told I was probably too analytical (a first for me) and to just "go with it". Right on! Just go with the flow. Isn't that what riding is all about? No! As I learned it's about non stop vigilance, visibility and being mentally prepared. It's also about dropping hundreds of dollars on a high tech helmet to protect your dome. That point was driven home a number of times.

Tonight we ride. At least I think that's what we do. We're meeting at the "trailer" to get our bikes and helmets and then walking the bikes across two parking lots to the range. That's the plan any way. I'm off to buy some cheap rain gear, because a little weather can't dissuade true riders from their quest. Barring any wheelie popping tragedies, I'll report back tomorrow with some meaty details. Saddle up! Later...Brian

Uneasy Rider

2009-06-08T15:11:00.004-05:00

You know the old saying "Life's too short." Well today I am paying attention to that saying and doing something I've wanted to do for a long time. In a couple of hours I will be attending my first motorcycle riding class. I've always wanted to ride a motorcycle, but except for hitching a short ride on the back of a college pal's Honda, (I didn't know I was "riding bitch" at the time) I haven't taken the hog by the horns and mounted the steel horse.

My friend John told me that the State of Illinois offered a class that would prepare you for and administer the test to certify you as a legal motorcycle rider. I figured that sounded official and regulated, but I was sure that cost would be an issue. Nope, the class is actually free. Well, there is a $20 registration fee, but that is supposed to be refunded at the end of the class. I had actually registered for the class last Summer, but had to drop it because of my knee surgery. Karma? Foreshadowing? Divine intervention? Who knows? This year I was not to be deterred. I monitored the website and on the day registration opened, I was in. Tonight I begin a five day, 20 hour crash (probably the wrong choice of word) course. By Friday, I hope to have passed the test and have the little "M" added to my driver's license.

I will confess to being a little apprehensive about the whole endeavor. I have been getting a lot of encouragement from "Wife" , friends and even some of the listeners on WGN, but there is a small part of my addled brain that keeps thinking of Gary Busey and my late father's admonition that "No son of mine will ever ride a motorcycle." I really need to do this though. Whether I love it, loath it or just survive the class, at least I'll have done it. I'm starting to look down the road and realizing that it's better to not have a lot of "I wish I hads" at the end of your life.

In my mind, I see myself astride a big Harley riding through the badlands of South Dakota, or along sun drenched fields in Montana where there is no traffic and the only thing I could possibly run into is a wayward buffalo. That's probably a better visual than me perched atop a "crotch rocket" swerving through a traffic jam on one of the local expressways. There has always been something a little freeing and rebellious about riding a motorcycle, and maybe that's what I'm hoping to tap into with this class.

It's time to get ready. I have to change into some more suitable "biker" clothes. I'm sticking with jeans, a long sleeve t-shirt and some boots. I was going to get outfitted with leathers. Chaps, jacket, do rag, the whole nine, but that would be like a guy showing up to a rec league softball game in spikes, full uniform and a cup. Maybe the cup isn't such a bad idea.

I'll post updates all week. Time to get my motor runnin'. Later.....Brian

Good Bye Old Friend

2009-05-27T11:11:00.006-05:00

You'll have to excuse me if this post is a bit emotional. I'll follow the old journalistic rule and get right to the lead. Yesterday afternoon I had to put my dog Baloo to sleep. She had been a part of our family for over 15 years. I know that this is one of the curses that all pet owners/lovers must endure, so some of you will know exactly what my family is going through, because you have endured it yourself. If you don't have a pet, or have a young, healthy one, you may want to avoid the rest of this post like an afternoon screening of "Marley and Me". The idea of eulogizing a dog seems a bit odd, since Baloo never made any huge contributions to society, except for keeping our grass green with repeated fertilizing, but she made an impact on me, and really, in my world, isn't that what matters the most?

Baloo was my first pet. Growing up, my parents always said that raising five boys was enough work and they weren't going to add to their responsibilities by bringing another animal into the family. I was also very allergic to dogs as a kid. Looking back, that may have all been a ruse by my folks to keep the house canine free, since I've had dogs for the last decade and a half and never so much as sneezed while nuzzling them. Wow, what a breakthrough. My parents diabolical plot has finally been brought to light.

"Wife" started talking about getting a dog as soon as we were married. Well, she waited a few days because "I want a dog" doesn't make for romantic honeymoon pillow talk. I insisted on waiting until we had a house, because I always thought it unfair for a dog not to have a yard in which to run and play. We had been married two years when we bought our first house and a month after moving in "Wife" convinced me to take a ride to the Humane Society. We looked at a lot of dogs that day, but one grabbed both our attention at the same time. She was part of a litter that had been abandoned at the Humane Society during a thunderstorm. She was fluffy and black with tan legs and markings and we were told she was about three months old. She seemed very shy, staying away from the rest of the litter, but she came up to us and we spent a little while with her before deciding that this little fur ball would be our first dog. We named her Baloo based on my love of the bear in "The Jungle Book". I know, that bear was male, but after a visit to the vet, our Baloo wasn't exactly female, so it worked. We never were able to discern exactly what breed Baloo was, so "mutt" had to suffice, but she had some Border Collie or herding dog in her, because that dog could run. She would spend hours racing around the backyard, running so fast on the turns that she was almost on her side.

We were diligent first time dog owners. I read all sorts of books on training puppies, going so far as to put my mouth on her neck while she laid on her back so she would know that I was the lead dog. That was an illusion that she shattered many times. We got an old fashioned wind up alarm clock to keep her company because the books said it reminded a puppy of it's mother's heartbeat. Sure it did, until "Mom's heart" started ringing at 7:00 am due to a slip of the switch. We also got her numerous Muppet Baby Big Bird dolls to keep her company. I say numerous because Baloo had a habit of chewing out the eyes of all the Big Birds we gave her. Just the eyes. Any pet psychologists want to handle that one?

Baloo's shyness always stayed with her. She loved women and kids, but hated most men. She would bark incessantly at my brothers (a good judge of character?) and most of my friends, but she always responded warmly to me, my dad and my Uncle Bob. Baloo was fond of hiding. She staked out places in all of our homes that became the first places we would look for her. She made her own little refuge behind a chair in the family room, and would go there for a little "doggy quiet time". When we got a new bed that had a higher frame, she made the space under the bed her personal den. She would spend hours under there, coming out when she set her mind to it and not before. We would know she was on her way when we'd hear the clawing on the carpet and the jingle of her tags. Since she got too old to climb the stairs, I've missed knowing that she was asleep under the bed. I could put my hand over the side, and suddenly a cold nose and wet tongue would give me a reassuring nudge.

I'm not an expert dog behaviorist, but sometimes animals amaze me. This dog, that in a lot of ways was afraid of her own shadow, became a fierce protector when "Daughter" was born. Baloo would sleep next to the bassinet and later "Daughter's" crib and come find us when "Daughter" started to cry. If we handed the baby to someone, that was fine, but if anyone reached for the baby without our permission, Baloo would bark, letting them know that that was a mistake. Baloo was patient with "Daughter" as she grew up, sitting quietly while our curious toddler petted her a bit too hard or pulled her tail. Baloo would look at "Wife" and I as if to say "OK, I know she's with you, but how about a lesson in gentleness?" It didn't take long for "Daughter" to learn how to treat Baloo and learn the compassion for animals that will last throughout her life.

Baloo was a good teacher for the other dogs that came into our lives as well. She mentored Max when he joined us the year after she did, and despite being 10 when Spike became part of the family after Max's untimely death, taught the new rambunctious pup who was the "big dog". She was a bit neurotic, going through phases where she would lick a spot on her legs bare, but none of that changed the way we felt about her, or her about us. She was always happy to jump on the couch and would spend as much time as we would allow with her head on our lap, soaking up some well deserved petting.

The last year was somewhat tough for Baloo. We knew she had a bad hip and arthritis, but with medication and weight loss (The green bean diet. It actually worked. ) she was walking pretty well. Last March she had an episode where she fell over and seemed to be having trouble breathing. Our vet, who had treated her since we got her (except for our time in California) diagnosed her with an enlarged heart. Her eyesight and hearing were going as well, but that was chalked up to old age. We were told that she could go at any time, but if we kept her on certain meds once a day, she wouldn't be in any pain. We did what all pet lovers do and began giving her the medicine religiously. She made a great recovery and despite being a little slower, seemed to be doing well. The entire family kept the knowledge of Baloo's health in the back of our minds and knew that the time would come that when we would either find her gone on her own, or have to make the decision that no one wants to make.

Last month I took Baloo to the vet. He examined her and again told me that she wasn't suffering, but could go at any time and that "I would know" when the time came to make the final decision. I'll confess to a bit of selfishness in not wanting to say goodbye, but last week, we sat down as a family and realized that we needed to do what was best for our friend. There is no need to go into the details of our last visit to the vet, but I will say that I was with Baloo until the end. It reminds me of the section of Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men when Candy let someone else take his dog away and shoot it. A man has to tend to his own dog. This was the second time I've had to tend to my own dog in that way. Baloo went gently. I hope she knew that I was with her and that fact made it a bit more peaceful. I know it did for me.

The rug by the front door is where she spent the majority of the last few months, and she was the first thing I'd see when I came downstairs each morning. The rug is empty today, and that emptiness is causing a great deal of sadness in our home. That sadness will permeate the house for a while, but all the good memories of Baloo will eventually push it aside, and we will all move on. Spike is feeling it too. He's been moping around since yesterday afternoon, looking for his companion, his teacher, his friend.

I'm not very good at goodbyes. I'll just say "See ya later Pal." Thanks Baloo. You were a great dog. No matter what happened in our lives, you were a constant source of unconditional love, laughter and at times frustration. We were all fortunate to have found each other that Saturday afternoon in May of 1994. Rest well. Good Girl.

Later...Brian

Home Seep Home

2009-05-15T11:35:00.003-05:00

If it's true that "a man's home is his castle", then my castle has developed a couple indoor moats. The presence of water in unexpected places has become the major topic of conversation in our house, sending other news worthy, earth shattering questions like "who will win American Idol?", "should we invest in an ark?" and "what's that smell?" down the conversational ladder. I wish I could place the blame for all our drippage squarely at the feet of Mother Nature, but she can only be charged with a portion of the aquatic crimes. All the rain we have been getting over the last few weeks, may in fact be "good for the lawns", but listen you rain inducing wench, I don't have sod in my bathroom, so give it a rest.

Last week "Wife" pointed out that there seemed to be water coming in through the skylight in our bathroom. Who knew we even had a skylight? That's a bit of an exaggeration, I knew we had one, I just never bothered to look up while in the bathroom. I'm so busy gazing at myself in the mirror and enjoying how I look bathed in Natural light that I never took a second to consider the source of said light. With great effort, I craned my neck and, what do you know, there was water dripping from the edges of the skylight. Judging from the stains, there must have been water seeping in for a while, but it had never dripped, so we lived our lives in a kind of "head in the sand" ignorance. With my head pulled from the sand, I did what I always do in times of home repair crisis, I swore. Then I called my friend Mike. He's an architect, handy guy and the person I still blame for finding this house for us. I wanted his opinion on my next step for a couple reasons, first he has a number of light holes in his roof and second, I know if I called in some "professional" I would end up with a new roof, a sealed driveway and an appointment with a bankruptcy attorney. He looked at the offending opening and came to the same conclusion that "Wife" and I had. It was leaking. Mike offered to help with a simple repair, and being a guy who's never going to stand in the way of someone else climbing a ladder, I accepted. I'll leave out a lot of the other details of this part of the tale, but I will tell you that Mike came over yesterday afternoon, and instead of us fixing the problem from the inside, he scurried up on the roof and did some caulk magic on the outside. I'm about to go upstairs and see if the effort was successful.

The same bathroom is causing problems with plumbing leaks. We've already had to have one hole cut into our kitchen ceiling to determine the appearance of a water stain, and last week another stain appeared, indicating another water mystery. I think it would be better for houses to be built with the plumbing on the outside of the wall to expedite repairs. This morning I was "in the library" sitting on my porcelain reading chair when I heard what sounded like water pouring onto the floor. "Well I must be imagining things. There's no way water can be cascading onto my kitchen floor. That's crazy, maybe the fumes in the "library" are getting to me.", I thought, but finished my "article" quickly and went to investigate. To say that the hole in the kitchen ceiling resembled a water fall would not be too far from the truth. Water was pouring out of the ceiling faster that bar patrons at a Great White concert. What did I do? Yeah, I swore, weren't you paying attention earlier? As I yelled upstairs for towels and to alert not only "Wife" and "Daughter" but judging from my volume, the entire neighborhood, "Wife" informed me that the toilet in our bathroom was overflowing. That's right, pooh water was spilling into our kitchen at a rapid rate. I kept referring to it as "pooh water", but "Wife" wasn't buying into that. However since I'm the one who was charged with the clean up and disinfecting of the kitchen island and floor, I stand by my judgement . The only casualty, besides our bank account seems to have been the toaster. It was flooded with the pooh water and I threw it out. I don't know about you, but I would never be able to enjoy a toasty bagel knowing that at one time pooh water had filled the slots.

I had to take a break from my plumbing woes and start prepping for another "Two scoops of Brian weekend" on WGN. The big shows are taking shape and I promise to only talk about the further adventures of pooh water a little bit. I hope you can join me for all the fun Friday/Saturday from 2-5 am and Saturday/Sunday from 1-5 am. Plus, if you know a dependable, honest plumber, have them contact me. I've got to go stick more fingers in some other house related dikes. Have a great weekend. Later....Brian

It's A Swine, Swine Day

2009-05-01T10:35:00.004-05:00

Hey. How's it going? What do you mean? I've been around. Haven't you been reading all my Facebook updates and Twitter tweets? I've gotten so into the other social network sites that now I can only think, type, speak and love in short bites. "Wife" is happy about most of them, but wishes I would type more. Ha! In the words of Ralph Malph, "I still got it!" I decided, after much chiding from friends and family (you know who you are) to toss my brain back into the saddle and see if I was once again capable of putting more than 140 characters together to form coherent thoughts. Wow, I seem to be over the limit already. See ya!

Man, I'm cracking myself up today. It must be denial over the fact that, according to all news reports, we're all about to die. Yes, happy Friday. You've been marked for death by (cue dramatic music)....Swine Flu. Now I could go into all the facts about this nasty virus, tell you to wash your hands and cover your mouth when you cough, and to not make out with pigs ( I don't care if it is closing time and you're very lonely), but that would just confuse matters. Why muddle the issue with truths when I can go into full blown fear mongering mode? Isn't that more fun? Sure it is.

Ever since the World Health Organization and the Centers for Disease Control started bandying about the term "pandemic" the more skittish among us have headed for the figurative hills to protect themselves from this microscopic killer. We've been warned not to make any "unnecessary travel" to Mexico. What other kind is there? Unless you own a pottery factory, need to stock up on Chicklets or are a drug runner/human trafficker, all travel to Mexico is unnecessary. Fun sure, but unnecessary. Even Vice President Joe "I never met an opinion I wouldn't express at an inappropriate time" Bidden is fanning the flames, telling an already nervous America that he wouldn't get on a plane, or even the subway right now. You tell 'em Joe. Nobody wants to be stuck in an enclosed space with someone who could potentially destroy us with some flying phlegm. Run for your lives! Schools have been cancelling proms, concerts and field trips because one student in school "doesn't feel well". I don't know about you, but if I were in school, I'd be using the old, light bulb on the thermometer trick to fake some Swiney symptoms. A cough and flushed cheeks can clear a school faster than a bomb threat these days, plus the evacuation lasts longer. Not only do you get a few glorious days off, but you come back to a squeaky clean school. no more chewing gum under the desks or crudely drawn anatomy diagrams in the bathroom stalls, only the feint smell of pine and a well rested feeling. One Chicago school has banned students from shaking hands, fist bumping and hugging, but the good news is they can still shoot each other. Talk about overkill. Hit now. Do I even need to comment on all the people wearing masks outside the areas where the virus is spreading? I guess I do since there are so many nervous Nellies buying into the hysteria. Stop! If you're running out to the drug store to stock up on flu meds, don't put on a mask. One, you look like a jackass. Two, you're buying medicine that will kill the bug and three, I'm going to shoot you and say I thought I was being robbed by a masked bandito. That'll learn ya'.

Pig farmers have been whining that they're getting a bad rap, so to punish all of us, they aren't letting visitors come to the pig farms anymore. You thought going to Mexico was unnecessary. To paraphrase the great Samuel L Jackson in Pulp Fiction "the pig is a filthy animal." Duh. Are any of us weeping over the loss of visiting privileges at Pigland? Not me. If I want to see dirty beasts wallowing in their own filth I'll visit a local swap meet in July. Pig farmers are also stressing that people can't get Swine Flu, oh I'm sorry H1N1, from eating pork products. That's absolutely true. You'll have no problems eating your favorite pork, but if you pull your favorite pork, that may lead to something unsavory. I know, but I couldn't resist.

If you're awake all night this weekend suffering from flu induced night sweats, or just living your life in the wee hours, tune in for another "Two Scoops of Brian" weekend on WGN. The "Radio Irrevernce" takes place Fri/Sat from 2-5 am and Sat/Sun from 1-5 am. I'm sure more flu fear will be mongered, people and ideas will be discussed and mocked and games will be played. The only thing missing is you. Now, go put plastic on your windows, grab your radio and head down to the basement or the shelter of your choice. I'm feeling feverish. Have a flu free weekend. Later...Brian

A Slip And A Strip

2009-03-20T09:48:00.005-05:00

I'm still shaking off the effects of an eventful St. Patrick's' Day which may explain the lack of missives this week. I rolled out of bed this morning bound and determined to find something interesting to write about, and the world did not disappoint in terms of content. Despite what you may have heard today, the biggest story isn't the fact that President Obama went on The Tonight Show and, while cracking wise, compared his bowling prowess to "the Special Olympics".

That's a good story, I admit. I'm torn. I like the idea of the President going on television in a forum that isn't as strident as a press conference or address from the Oval Office. How boring is that? I know. I should be interested in all the problems we're facing as a country/world/NCAA bracket group, but those broadcasts always come on in prime time, and let's be honest, I don't need my Dancing With The Stars preempted so I can get another dose of bad news. Isn't watching Steve Wozniak lumber around the hard wood with an angry Russian in glittery spandex bad news enough? No, I like that the President went on a late night comedy show, but here's the problem, it's a comedy show and he's not a comedian. He has writers who can craft amusing Bonn mots for him to deliver, but to paraphrase the old adage, "making an off hand comment about the Special Olympics is easy, comedy is hard." I know the President didn't mean anything cruel by his comment, he was caught up in the moment, but come on, he's the President, not some drunk shock jock at the local bowling alley open mic night. I'm not saying that the President shouldn't come off as a warm, humorous guy, but he doesn't need to be drop dead funny either. That's tricky. I don't care if he can deliver a zinger, quip, knock knock joke or has any idea what happened to the man from Nantucket. I will confess that a part of me took a perverse satisfaction in knowing that our leader could be as politically incorrect as the rest of us.

The biggest news of the day is horrifying for those of us who like things to go smoothly. The State Board of Cosmetology and Hairstyling of New Jersey (an august body if ever their was one) is moving toward banning the "Brazilian Wax". According to the Associated Press, two women in New Jersey reported being injured during what was too clinically referred to as "genital waxing". How much hair did these two woolly mammoths have down there and why are they ruining everyone else's fun? In the name of full disclosure, I've never been the recipient of a "Brazilian", or basked in the glistening afterglow (after the redness has faded anyway) of someone who has, so "fun" may be an incorrect adjective, but I know one thing, if "Brazilians" are outlawed, only outlaws will have "Brazilians". I don't want to live in a country where women, and the occasional metrosexual is forced to cross state lines to get their nether regions waxed to their specifications. The thought of back alley "Brazilians" being performed with chewing gum, double sided packing tape, or God forbid, dirty tweezers, fills me with dread. I don't even want to think about the old growth type foliage that will be sprouting when Frenchy isn't allowed to practice her grooming techniques on willing and furry clients. If this ban goes into effect in New Jersey, your state could be next. Think about it Florida and Hawaii. All those bikinis looking like the women are smuggling chinchillas. The horror! The ban would take effect at the end of May, right before the Memorial Day weekend. I don't know how many miles one gets from a quality "Brazilian", but that could make for an alarming Labor Day weekend in the Hamptons.

I know in the whole scheme of things, this story might pale in comparison, but fess up, would you rather think about the economy or smooth love regions? OK, how 'bout that AIG? It's another "two scoops of Noonan" weekend on WGN. In the first scoop, dished up Friday/Saturday from 2-5 am I'll be unveiling a new segment to help people find a job. Yeah, I'm all about giving back and helping. If you're an about to be out of work wax technician, be sure to listen. Scoop two flops onto your cone Saturday/Sunday from 1-5 am and will feature the always enjoyable "Insatiable Insomniacs" with another late night restaurant review and the always hilarious Mike Schmidt with some March Madness and bracket talk, all guided by your always engaging and relatively smooth host...me. As always (using "always"four times in two sentances, a new record) I hope you can join me. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

A Lenten Sacrifice?

2009-03-13T14:34:00.005-05:00

The sun has finally come out here in Chicago and I spent the day running errands. How are those two things connected? They're not, but I needed an open, and that's what came out. Normally if I spend my day running errands, I grab lunch on the fly. I justify the expenditure by trying to keep the cost low and the time short. That's fine during most of the year. I'll grab a hot dog, burger, gyro, you get the picture. Why do I feel the need to bore you with my lunch selections? "Gee Brian, do you ever have a grilled cheese or just a cup of soup?" Who really cares? Does it seem like I'm stretching today? Alright, now that we know that I eat lunch like just about everyone else, let's get to the point. I can't grab any of my usual lunch choices today because it's Friday, and it's Lent.

I may not strike many people as the most devout guy on the planet, and truth be told, I'm not. I have problems with some Church teachings and may have lapsed a bit in my attendance, but despite all that, one thing stuck from, as my mother is fond of lamenting when my brothers or I act in an unsaintly manner, all those years of Catholic eduction. I don't eat meat on Fridays. I may swear, covet, and dishonor, but God forbid a piece of meat makes it's way down my gullet on Friday. It has to be some old school Catholic guilt at work. Those nuns really know how to work their voodoo. They should be employed by the C.I.A. to win over the hearts and minds of terrorists. No need for a car battery or finger nail pulling pliers when you've got a ruler and some Rosary beads. To be honest, I have slipped in the past. Such transgressions usually happened when I was on the road. I would forget, and then after the horrifying realization set in, I would try to justify my sacrilege with this little chestnut, "If a hamburger is the tipping point for me going to Hell, then I was probably on my way there anyway." I know. You shouldn't trivialize eternal damnation for the sake of a Whopper Junior.

I don't mind forsaking meat anymore. I've grown to enjoy fish of all sorts and a couple years ago discovered the joys of the pepper and egg sandwich. If you've never tried one of these tasty snacks, you have no idea what you're missing. Imagine fluffy scrambled eggs, sauteed green peppers, a tangy Italian cheese of your choosing all nestled in a crusty French roll. You can't swing a martyred saint in this town without hitting a place that serves up the pepper and egg "Lent special." Last week, after an unusually bad offering from a local gyro place (I should have never trusted a Greek restaurant with what is traditionally an Italian concoction) I took the pepper by the stem and made my own. Oh the joy! Like most things, except for electrical work, cake decorating and sex, it's always better when you do it yourself. I'm off to make one now. Seeing as it's Friday, I might have to wash it down with a "Half and Half". No silly, not the cream, the beer. This weekend is the start of the St. Patrick's Day celebration, so a little Guinness and Harp will be a nice way to usher in my pre-work nap. Hey, I said I gave up meat on Friday, not beer. How much is one man supposed to sacrifice? I'm not Job.

This weekend will be known as the "Two Pints of Noonan" weekend on WGN. Tonight/Saturday morning (2-5 am) I'll be welcoming some traditional Irish musicians. Nothing will keep you hopping in the middle of the night like some bagpipe and fiddle music. Saturday night/Sunday morning (1-5 am) there will be Irish trivia on the "WGN Overnight Arcade" and a call to the old sod. Toss in a wee bit more Irish music, complaining about some current events and the always horrifying story of my drunken St. Patrick's Day ear piercing and what you've got is some "Radio O'Revernce." I hope you can join me. Now off to the stove. Have a great weekend. Later..Brian

Pull My Finger

2009-03-11T10:59:00.002-05:00

Times are tough. You can't turn on the TV or radio, thumb through the newspaper (do people still do that?), or stop looking at internet porn long enough to read a news site without being bombarded with bad news. The economy is in the dumper, thousands are out of work, Chris Brown and Rihanna are writing a book. Sometimes it all seems too much. We need a break, a laugh, an inappropriate moment. That's what I'm here for.

In the interest of jocularity, I offer you this video. I wish I could say I was involved, but I'm just passing it along. I'm "paying it forward" if you will, but without the scarred face and earnest acting of Kevin Spacey and the "I see dead people" zombie like, dead eyed stare of that kid who has now faded from our collective consciousness. Be warned. If you are a stick up the behind, erudite cosmopolitan who has no tolerance for juvenile humor, click to the Wall Street Journal site and wallow in your own misery. For the rest of you, enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jrBaV5MvX_4

What is it about a fart that is so funny? I laughed until I farted when I saw this. While some will argue that there is never a good time to cut the cheese, step on a duck, let one fly, break wind, unleash the hounds, sound the ass alarm, alert the media or uncork a weapon of ass destruction, I say there is never a time not to. My methane fixated mindset may be the result of a medical condition, no sense of public decency or the mind of a thirteen year old, but whatever the reason I'm dropping a butt bomb whenever I have a chance.

I know..."Brian you're so immature. You're wasting all this effort writing about farts. Grow up." If that's what you think, you're probably right, but I'd still like to subject you to a "Dutch Oven". I may even stroll by and "crop dust" you with an S.B.D., leaving your eyes watering, but with no clue who to blame. I don't care how old you are or how serious your demeanor, I challenge you not to laugh if someone cuts one in an environment where such a thing isn't expected. Have you ever had the tension and sadness of a wake interrupted by sphincter trumpets or had a bad movie theater experience made just a little brighter thanks to a rousing edition of "moon river"? Hell, I even laugh out loud in a public restroom when I hear someone unleash an ungodly call to arms. There must be a pattern to the sound waves that directly stimulates my funny bone.

I thought this might be just a guy thing, but "Daughter" takes great pride in her ability to knock one out of the park. Maybe she's trying to impress me, or maybe she's trying to make "Wife" cry. Either way, she's succeeding. I should mention at this juncture that I am able to enjoy all the benefits of farting without the down side. I have no sense of smell, so the offensive part of the act is removed leaving me with only the aural joy.

OK, if you're not smiling a little now, then you need stronger therapy than I am able to provide. If I was able to take your mind off the world's troubles for a few minutes, great, you're welcome. If not...blow one out your ass. HA! Later...Brian

Wipe Everything Down

2009-03-03T16:05:00.003-06:00

I spent yesterday like most of you, lounging about celebrating Pulaski Day. Ah yes, Casimir Pulaski, "Father of the cavalry", Revolutionary War hero, and the biggest thing to come out of Poland in the last 300 years if you don't count the delicious sausage that bears it's nations name. I love a good polish, grilled to a crispy brown, covered in grilled onions, and nestled on a steamed bun... but I digress. While I would have enjoyed spending the "holiday" reenacting battles of the revolution and comparing/contrasting the historic significance of great Poles like Pulaski, Lech Walesa and Carl Yastrzemski I was forced to play nursemaid to "Daughter".

The schools in Illinois were closed so "Daughter" was going to be home anyway, which as you know always throws a monkey wrench into my days off. I enjoy my "piece of quiet" when "Wife" is at work, "Daughter" is at school and the hounds are napping. That is when I get a chance to do some world class time wasting. I can put a mid level bureaucrat or city worker to shame. I am so good at looking busy while doing nothing that I may run for public office. With the way things have been going in Illinois, I may just win. Sunday night "Daughter" started to get the look that all parents know means sickness is coming. It's a kind of flushed, glassy eyed stare that if it were happening in college would mean that someone had enjoyed a few too many drink specials at happy hour and was either coming from or going to some illicit conjugal encounter. Seeing as "Daughter" is twelve, the look means she's got a fever or is about to get one. Whadda ya know... 101. She laid on the couch all Monday, interrupted only by my ham handed attempts to take her temperature, administer some fine over the counter medication and utter the vague inquiry, "How you feeling?" This morning she still had a fever, so "Wife" stayed home while I went to mold the minds of the impoverished. Being a 21st Century dad, I texted "Daughter" at lunch only to find out she had "the flu". (Dramatic music here.)

I don't want to sound harsh, but damn! Both "Wife" and "Daughter" bought into the propaganda and scurried off to the doctor a few months ago for flu shots. Isn't that supposed to stop this crap? "Wife" shared this question with the doctor who told her with a completely straight face, "well, at least she avoided the first type." Listen Marcus Welby, that's like telling a stabbing victim that at least they weren't shot. I didn't get a flu shot. I'm not one of those anti vaccination loons, I just never got around to it and I'm healthy as a horse. (Yes, I eat oats, sleep standing up and poop in my yard.) If Karma is reading this, I'm not taunting you, just stating the facts as they are at the moment. The flu is very contagious, and I can't get sick. I know, none of us can afford to get sick, but really I CAN'T get sick. In radio, you don't have sick days, and besides, I just started educating the masses. Who will step in if I'm in bed shaking from fever, throwing up in my Looney Toons waste basket and hallucinating that I'm being beset on all sides by llamas and rabid dingos? I've put out the order to wipe the entire house down with disinfectant wipes, place "Daughter" in a germ free bubble and put a halt to all physical contact. Severe? Perhaps, but I need to stay well, at least until Sunday. Once the radio shows are over, I can allow myself one sympathy puke. Until then...SARS masks for everyone.

I know this is last minute, and it's not an official station event, but I will be presenting a "Major Award" this evening along with "The Insatiable Insomniacs". Regular listeners to my show know that the "Insomniacs" are my late night restaurant reviewers. In January they named Kuma's Corner "Late Night Eatery of the Year" I finally got around to getting the certificate, and tonight we will be presenting it to the fine folks at Kuma's. We'll be there around seven, so if you're in the area, stop by and say hi. While you're there, enjoy one of the great burgers. I'm NOT buying one for you, but I think you'll enjoy it. Kuma's Corner is at 2900 West Belmont in Chicago. It also give me an excuse to get out of this flu incubator I'm living in. Later...Brian

They Call Me ......Mr. Noonan

2009-02-27T11:53:00.003-06:00

The life of a low profile, major market radio personality is an exciting one. Days spent looking for interesting material to talk about on the shows, hours combing the Internet for oddities that may inform or entertain the masses, trying to figure out what to have for lunch. (Pepper and egg sandwich today. It's a Friday in Lent) You can see that my schedule is quite crammed with adventure, so it may come as some surprise to you that i have added another title to my vast resume. Teacher. To be more specific, long term substitute teacher.

The more cynical among you may see this as a mere money making venture, while the alarmists are sure to be thinking, "Oh God! He's molding the minds of children?" I scoff at all of you. You know me. I'm all about giving back to the community and I adore children. That may be a little stretch, but to be honest, I needed something else to do that wouldn't interfere with my other responsibilities and subbing fits perfectly. Plus, now I can enjoy some fine lunchroom food. Nothing says fine dining like a chicken patty, tater tots and pears washed down with lukewarm milk.

I had subbed on and off at various times. It's not a bad gig. If you want to work, you answer the phone if a district calls you. If not, you don't. My new position is a set three days with the option of picking up others if needed. The pay is good and it's close to home, so I can still fulfill my duties as "Daughter's" chauffeur, chief cook and bottle washer and scullery maid at the house as well as giving me plenty of time to develop my highly researched and wonderfully amusing radio programs.

The schools I'm teaching in are , let's see if I can be diplomatic here, struggling. No smarty pants, the fact that I'm teaching there isn't the reason. To say these schools are in "the hood" would be an understatement. It's a very urban setting right in the heart of suburbia. Anyone who doesn't think there is a discrepancy in our education system, hasn't been in too many schools lately. The facilities are run down and dirty, and some of the staff are a bit burned out. It's tough being a sub too. You remember the attention you' pay a substitute teacher. Even when I was in school, the sub garnered as much respect as a babysitter. We'd always try to get one over on them. That hasn't changed, but it seems that we used to have some level of fear that kept us from openly challenging even a substitute teacher. That level of fear is gone.

Not all, or even most of the kids I've come across have the confrontational attitude. Most seem like nice kids who want to learn, but are in a tough situation. The fact that I will see them every week will remove the more temporary feel of my appearances. I'm still in the "Don't mess with me" phase with most of them. I know children aren't like dogs, but one of the things I've learned from a few teachers is that you need to show them who's the pack leader right away. Yes, I admit, pinning one kid to the ground with my teeth on his neck might have seemed extreme, but the others fell in line and there is always a newspaper on my desk. I'll share more of my stories from the blackboard jungle as this journey continues.

Now a little plug for my primary gig. This weekend promises more "Radio Irreverence" on WGN Overnight. Tonight/Sat. morning catch the "big show" from 2-5 am. I'll be talking to a job expert and trying to help you if you're out of work with tips on resumes, where to look etc. We'll also be talking Chicago movies and more. Sat. Sun from 1-5 am will feature more hot talk and silliness melded into four hours of fun. I hope you can join me if you're working, sleepless or a lover of fine broadcasting. Hopefully you're all three or an insomniac. have a great weekend! Later...Brian

I'm Not Stimulated

2009-02-18T12:21:00.004-06:00

No, this isn't going to be a post about my lack of erotic motivation. I've been trying to wrap my mind around the so called "Stimulus Package" that President Obama just signed into law, but like a lot of you, I'm a wee bit confused.

Economics isn't my bag. In fact Econ. 101 is the only class I ever failed in my entire scholastic career. That may owe to the fact that after the first exam, I rarely darkened the classroom door. Sure, I probably could have dropped the class, but as I said, economics and all things related to it, aren't my bag. Back to the "Stimulus Package". I warn you, if you're looking for some high minded explanation, well informed analysis or partisan bluster, you should probably go elsewhere. I can only tell you, that from a regular guy standpoint, a lot of this plan doesn't add up.

We could go back and forth on the bank bailout, and whether people deserve help with their mortgages. Some people made really bad choices. Some of those choices were based on faulty information, some on laziness and greed. It's kind of like when you ask a waiter for a recommendation and he steers you toward the roasted quail stuffed with fig and gold leaf when all you really needed was a cheeseburger. Of course you could have read the menu yourself, but that's a lot of hassle. (Just a side note, I never mix bird and fig in my entree, but shove a bird in a cheeseburger and you might pique my interest.) I think the bottom line should be that it's better for the banks, neighborhoods and lawn maintenance in general to find a way to keep people in their homes. I'm not saying give a free ride, unless you want to start a pilot program and let me be the Guinea pig, but use some of the trillion (yes, with a "T") to figure it out.

I also like the new requirement that says any company getting bailout money has to limit executive salaries to $500,000 dollars. Oh no, poor CEOs. How will you ever survive? Some of the more right leaning among us might see that as a way for the government to limit wealth. Not so my conservafriends. I think if you build a private company, produce a product or service that people want and don't have your hand out, you should be able to make as much as you can. If however, you have run your business into the ground for whatever reason, shut up and be happy with your "Governmommy" allotted allowance.

As for the rest of this new law, I wish more legislators would have read it. That's right John and Jill Taxpayer, the people who are spending your money didn't even bother to read the entire bill. Granted it was over 1000 pages long (call me crazy, but that might have been a clue that it contained unnecessary spending) and they were in a hurry to get to their long weekend, but shouldn't somebody have published a Cliff's Notes version of the thing? Despite President Obama's declarations of "change", this is more of the same. There is so much money in this plan that isn't going to "stimulate" the economy, that I'd like to personally go up to everyone that voted for it and whack them on the nose with a rolled up newspaper, that is if I'll still be able to afford a newspaper. We've heard about the money for mouse protection and extra health and building programs, but this morning I learned of a expense that had me digging the Sunday paper out of the recycling can and rolling it so tight that Cheech and Chong dropped by for some pointers.

Each of our fine, upstanding, morally superior legislators who have nothing but our best interests in mind and who are trying to prevent economic collapse will be wetting their beaks with some of the stimulus money. Each legislator's office will be getting an increase in their "petty cash" account to $93,000 dollars. No, I didn't misplace the comma. While you and I are being told to thank our lucky stars for the $13 a week we'll all see added to our paychecks, Congressperson X and Senator Y will be lining their "petty cash" drawer with almost a hundred grand. I don't know which is more infuriating, the fact that they slipped this through or that they're calling that amount of money "petty cash". It would take me hours to spell out how angry I am about this, but it goes to show that no matter the campaign promises, when push comes to shove, it's always business as usual.

I think we all should write our Representatives and ask for a little of that petty cash. It is our money after all. Of course I'm sure we'd be told that they need that money to better serve the constituents. How, by renting buses to drive us all to the poor house? Very disappointing. Later...Brian

Do You Have A Heart On?

2009-02-13T17:07:00.005-06:00

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. To some it is a day devoted to love and romance. To the more cynical among us it is a day to get overcharged for wilted flowers, pay extra for chocolate just because it is jammed in a heart shaped foil box and pour more money into the coffers of Hallmark and local restaurateurs who think that a red candle on the table is reason enough to double the price on their special "Menu for Lovers". It's been my experience that a "Lover's Menu" leaves one too full of oysters, fillet and chocolate lava cake to practice the fine art of whoopee. Talk about a waste of money. I get the same results from a frozen pizza and a few bottles of suds and I don't have the buyers remorse because I wasted thirty bucks on a new pair of heart and cupid embossed silk boxers.

I tend to favor the cynical side of the equation. I understand the history of the day and even fall prey to some of the sentiment, but it all feels a bit forced to me. Will "Wife" be swayed by my declarations of love tomorrow, knowing that I knew I had to make them? Probably not, but I'm not risking the wrath of the forgotten by letting the day slip by. I try to be a little more creative than the average smitten slob when it comes to Valentine's Day. There won't be any flowers or chocolate. Too cliche. I am smart enough to know that I need to avoid any household products or gifts that scream "wow, Brian would love this." "What about some frilly dainties?" you may ask. No chance. I learned long ago that my taste in undies and "Wife's" are worlds apart. I don't think I'm the only guy who thought he knew that inside his lovely wife lurked the soul of a wanton floozy only to discover that some fantasies are better kept to one's self. I didn't even know she was allergic to latex.

Fellas, whatever you decide to do, do something. It may not matter to you, but believe me, despite arguments to the contrary, it matters to her.

Here's a little radio bulletin. I won't be doing my usual Friday night/Saturday morning show tonight. Instead I'll be on WGN from 9-12 noon Saturday morning. I'll be co-hosting with Dan Deibet. We paired up a couple of weeks ago for a show and it went very well. Tomorrow should be a lot of fun, and it will give all the people who told me they couldn't listen because they sleep during my show a chance to listen. I'll be back later tomorrow night for the big WGN Overnight show from 1-5 am. I hope you can listen, we have a lot of things on tap. Have a great weekend Happy Valentine's Day. Later...Brian

Let The Change Begin

2009-01-20T08:35:00.002-06:00

Happy New Year! Sure, I know it's January 20, but things have been a little crazy around here. I'm about to plant myself in front of the TV for a few hours and let history and democracy wash over me, so I'll make this quick.

I'm excited to watch the Inaugural proceedings today. I'm recording it so "Daughter" can watch it after school. Yes, I'm excited because my candidate won, because of the historical significance of this President and the fact that I might get to see elephants in a parade or Beyonce in gravity defying heels, but there's more. The fact that the leadership and power in this country will be changing in a few hours and there will be no problems. One leader steps aside and a new leader takes his place. Ugly things were said during the campaign, ugly things are still being said by people either too stubborn, stupid or scared to keep an open mind, but in the end, the transition of power will be seamless. that's pretty exciting.

While President Bush and President-elect Obama are being driven to the swearing in, teams of movers, White House ushers and singing mice will be transforming the White House from the Bush residence to the Obama crib. The only military actions in the process (hopefully) will be the precision with which the change takes place. How great would it be if all our moves went as smoothly. Imagine moving into your new place and having all your stuff in it's place already. No scrounging through boxes trying to find your blow dryer or the remote for the DVD player. No looking for the box marked "bedroom" so you can have clean underwear for your first day at the new job. If nothing else, that should make you appreciate what a great country we live in.

hey look at the time. I've got to hurry if I'm going to have my "Obamatini" ready for kickoff. It does feel like Super Bowl Sunday, except for the fact that no one is paying attention to the commercials. No, this time we actually care about the outcome. I'm hopeful, cautiously optimistic and realistic. The country is going through some rough times. It's easy to blame the guy who's leaving. It all happened on his watch, but we have to be careful to not place unrealistic expectations on the new guy. He'll do the best he can with the tools at his disposal, but as he's said himself it's not going to be easy. To the people who are so filled with hate that they don't even want to give Obama a chance, I say, I hope you're never judged on your performance before you start a job.

The change is beginning already. Instead of just being on WGN this weekend, I'll be on most of the week. Wednesday morning from 2-5 I'll be in for Steve and Johnnie. I'm also covering for them Wednesday and Thursday nights from 11 pm to 5 am. No show Friday into Saturday (management decision) but I'll be back on Saturday night/ Sunday morning for WGN Overnight. If you can't keep that straight, just turn your radio on now and leave it alone. You'll hear me eventually. I have to go put on my inauguration suit. Later...Brian

Let's Try This Again

2008-12-31T10:48:00.007-06:00

I know it's cliche to ask where the time has gone, but seriously, it seems like just yesterday I was sitting in this same chair, in the same Big Dog boxers, drinking the same cold coffee writing about the end of 2007. Christmas has come and gone...again. It went well. "Wife" and "Daughter" were thrilled with their Santa/Daddy/Husband delivered loot, and even I, the "Grouch Who Bitched About Christmas" made it through the day without any problems. I loved what I was given, enjoyed the meal I cooked and was happy to spend the day with the two people in the world who I know will have to care for me in my declining years. I hope they remember the lovely meals when they have to grind my food in a blender and feed me with a spoon. How's that for a happy holiday visual?

As I sit here staring down the barrel of 2009, it would be easy to spend our time together looking back at 2008 and wondering what lie ahead. That would be easy, but I'm a lot like Tina Turner when she was getting slapped around by Ike, I don't do anything nice...and easy. I think it was the great modern philosopher Tony Soprano who said, "F*#k it, let's get rid of him." Wait, that's the wrong quote. It was "Remember-when, is the lowest form of conversation." That's the one I was looking for. Sure, 2008 had it's share of problems, high gas prices, a failing economy, an ongoing war, corrupt politicians, locusts, floods, weasels, and then there were the negatives. Ha! See what I did? Sorry, I'm trying to bring back the Catskill feel. All I need is a link with a rimshot. Hey whadda ya know? There were also some great happenings last year that gave us all hope, which in the end is all you have. It's like the old saying "whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger." There were a lot of trials and tribulations during the past year, and a lot of folks are on the ropes, but if we keep looking forward, and remembering that we're still kicking, it might all work out.

I'll be glad to see 2008 fade into the distance. This was a crazy year for me health wise and professionally, but like I said, I'm still kickin' and taunting time, fate, and the powers that be with my "it can't get any worse" attitude. I will glance back for a second because despite everything that happened this year, it all turned out OK. I've got a new and improved knee, a polyp free throat, a smooth, clean intestinal tract and a second night doing what I love on WGN. Not half bad. Add to that the health of "Wife" and "Daughter", HD DVR, and a new pair of Big Dog boxers to wear while writing next year's goodbye, and I've got myself a pretty sweet deal. Not to get to maudlin here, but I bet if you look closely, you can make your own list of good that may outshine any bad list. At least I hope you can. If not, let me know and I'll try to come up with something to buoy your spirits.

My best friend John likes to use New Years Eve as a time of reflection and planning. That sounds like a lot of work, but he seems to enjoy it. I've been doing the same and will continue to do so for the next few days, or until I get bored, drunk or both. I have some plans for 2009, but I think that for once I'm going to keep them to myself. Don't feel snubbed, I just think that it will be better to spring said plans on the world, rather than make a bold proclamation when I'm feeling sentimental and then regretting it in June when things have changed course. I have a feeling that 2009 will bring exciting things for all of us here at the Noonan compound and I hope the same is true for you.

No big plans for tonight. Since I stopped going on the road for comedy, New Years Eves have been pretty quiet, and that's how I like it. For years, I was people's entertainment, now I'm content to let Ryan Seacrest, Dick Clark and the insufferable Carson Daley carry the load. Tonight will be made up of sushi, Sapporo and hopefully a little bit of another "s" word, but that will depend on the amount of Sapporo that gets consumed.

It's customary for me to end the year by thanking people who have supported me and been a help during the last twelve months. There are many, and if you think you might be a member of that group, you probably are, so thank you. Thanks too, to all the people who listen, call and write the shows on WGN. I really do appreciate your support and though it sounds like empty sentiment, it isn't. With that in mind, if you're up early Friday morning making sure your computer didn't crash, hanging your new ca lander on the refrigerator, or taking stock of your life and readying yourself for another year, I'll be sitting in for Steve and Johnnie from 2-5 am, then it's the two big WGN Overnight shows on Saturday and Sunday mornings.

That's it for this year. I hope you'll check back here next year, because I'm sure I'll have things to say, and you'll have a need for whacked out opinions. Until then, I wish you all a Happy, Healthy and Prosperous New Year! Have a fantastic weekend! Later....Brian

Blago Blog

2008-12-11T13:29:00.004-06:00

I've spent the better part of the last two weeks decorating the house for Christmas. Between my compulsion to best my neighbors in the arena of exterior illumination and my anal retentive dedication to balanced tree lighting, I've been physically and mentally drained. My mind has been wandering and sometimes I think I hear things differently than they are said. That was the case the other morning when I heard one of the local radio news monkeys break into the regularly scheduled morning show jocularity to announce that Illinois Governor Rod Blagojavich was roused from his slumber by the FBI and taken into custody based on a seventy- plus page criminal complaint. I can't imagine that knock on the door, let alone getting that knock at six in the morning while I'm still in my footy pajamas and haven't had my first cup of coffee, but the FBI don't play homey. Wake your ass up, you're going to jail. OK, we'll let you put on your powder blue jogging suit, but the jammies looked manlier.

Everyone who lives in Illinois knew that the Gov. had been under investigation. Well almost everyone. Apparently Blaggo wasn't buying into the hysteria, and continued to wheel and deal with the State government in ways that made veteran FBI Agents shake their heads in disbelief. I don't have seventy six pages to write about all the things this fine public servant is accused of, so let's just hit some of the highlights.

He was shaking down the administrator of Children's Memorial Hospital. That's right, not just any hospital, a children's hospital. Allegedly (can I just write that once and have it cover all the complaints against Hot Rod?), the Governor wanted some cash for his campaign and threatened to pull funding from the hospital if the administrator didn't pony up. Classy! Maybe Rod figures his overly sprayed hairdo will protect him from the lightening bolts that God will rain on him for messing with kid's lives, or maybe he's just so staggeringly amoral and corrupt he doesn't care. Hey Roddo, remember you have kids who, God forbid, might need medical attention someday. I'm not saying watch out for the karma train, but maybe you should have confined your thievery and graft to adult ventures.

Not content to destroy the well being of children, "Blagghead" decided to threaten America's pastime. The Chicago Tribune's editorial board had not been kind to the Governor (gee, I wonder why?) so he decided they needed to fire one of the Editorial Board members or he would make sure the State didn't help Tribune with any funding for Wrigley Field, home of the Cubs. While I have no love for the North side team, I do have a love for freedom of the press. Last time I checked, the government can't tell newspapers what to write. Maybe in "Blagopolis" dissenting opinions can be shut down, but we're not there yet.

The complaint that's getting the most attention is that "Blagguption", always looking to line his pockets, attempted to sell the Senate seat vacated by our President elect to the highest bidder. Who knew it was that easy to become a Senator? In taped conversations, Haircut is heard yelling about how he's got "something golden (the Senate appointment) and he's not giving it away for f*#k*n' nothing." This guy used so many profanities during the course of the taped conversations that even I thought "wow, he needs to tone down the language." That's coming from a guy who swears going into and coming out of church. He even called Obama a "m*##*rf**#er". Holy insult Batman, that's the kind of talk that can make you disappear.

With all his shakedown money, you'd think this guy would have bought himself a Tivo and recorded The Sopranos and The Wire. Even the most insipid criminal knows you don't discuss that kind of business over the phone. Come on Blaggy. Get yourself some "burners" (disposable cell phones) so the man can't trace you, or have your underlings do all the talking and then report back to you, naked, in the middle of nowhere. Sure, you'll have to convince them about the naked part, but how else will you know if they're wearing a wire? The Feds are a dedicated bunch, so you have to stay a few steps ahead of them. I know that's a hassle though. That explains the arrogance and stupidity he displayed by continuing to carry on what US Attorney Pat Fitzgerald called "a political criminal crime spree." A crime spree? I thought those went out with Bonnie and Clyde. Come to think of it, they all did some serious robbing, so the analogy fits. Who keeps breaking the law when they know "the man" is watching? You either have to have balls so big that a wheelbarrow couldn't haul them around, or be a little touched in the head. I'm going to vote for plain old stupid.

The story will continue to unfold, so I'm sure this isn't the last you'll hear from me on the subject.

I don't know if I'll get a chance to write tomorrow. I'm going to see Spike O'Dell's last broadcast on WGN. He's retiring after a great career on his own terms, which in the current climate of radio is a double dose of success. After that it's the station "Holiday Party". Despite my reservations, "Wife" has urged me to attend, and it's usually best if I listen to her. I'll give you the details next week. I won't be doing my show Friday night, (long story) but will be back with four hours of "Radio Irreverence" Saturday Night/Sunday morning from 1-5 on WGN Overnight. We'll be discussing the Blago debacle, testing your knowledge on the Overnight Arcade, and welcoming the band This is Me Smiling for some in-studio jams. (I think that's what the kids call it) That and as always, me regaling you with my my sordid tales. I hope you can join me. Later...Brian

Thanks!

2008-11-27T14:59:00.003-06:00

It's been a while, but I didn't want Thanksgiving to pass without at least a small shout out to everyone who follows this space and listens to the radio shows. I'm sitting in an empty house getting ready to grill a beautiful Rib Eye for my Thanksgiving dinner. I don't mean for that to sound depressing. Far from it. "Wife" and "Daughter" made the trip to Michigan last night to spend the holiday with "Wife's" mom and family. "Why didn't you go, Brian? Don't you want to share your Thanksgiving with, as Clark Griswold would say, "kith and kin"? Sure I would, but I'm giving thanks for the fact that I'm filling in for Steve and Johnnie from 11-5 on WGN tonight. I've also got the two big shows Friday and Saturday, so besides sleeping and working I wouldn't have been much company, so I'm thankful that "wife" and "Daughter" were able to spen Thaksgiving with that side of the family. I'm going to get my turkey fix Monday when I cook the whole spread and enjoy it with "Wife", "Daughter" and a few close friends. I think the sentient is more important than the timing. That and the fact that I can't go without all those terrific leftovers.

Despite having a year like most of you that was full of ups and downs, I have a lot to be thankful for. I have a wife and daughter that love and tolerate me, or vice versa. I've got a number of good friends that I can count on. Wow, this looks like the beginning of a list. Let's go with that then.

Cliched (but true) List of Things I'm Thankful For (including the above):

- A warm place to live and the greatest mattress ever to lay my hulking frame on.

- Enough scratch to buy food to keep said frame hulking.

- Relatively good health. (This year has seen more health issues than all the previous ones combined.)

- My dogs. (Ain't that sweet? Pet owners can relate.)

- A job that despite sometimes being frustrating is one I've dreamed of.

- The people who listen to and appreciate the job I do.

- Direct TV and my HD DVR. What would I be without you?

- The "Comfort King" from which I watch my 64" TV.

- My Captain America coffee mug. I like to feel like a super hero in the morning.

- A lot of sappy stuff that I'm not going to write down lest you think I'm some sort of soft girly man, despite the fact that sometimes I am.

OK, that's enough for now. I've got a steak to grill and dogs to pet. I wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving, whether you are surrounded by the ones you love, or by yourself. Take a second and make your own list. I also hope you finally get to move up from the "kid's table."

If you're up doing some crazy shopping or sneaking a sandwich, tune into the shows tonight and this weekend. We have a lot planned and it's a great way to help you digest. Happy Thanksgiving! Later...Brian

Let's Move Along Folks

2008-11-07T12:39:00.003-06:00

What a week! I've spent so much time digesting all that's happened that I found no time to put thoughts to screen. Where to begin? We'll talk about the election in a minute, but let's get the most important story of the week out of the way first. We finally know the identity of "Mr. Man" the pudgy guy who's shoulder was the recipient of so many of Oprah's sweet tears during Barack Obama's coronation, I mean rally, Tuesday night. This was a bigger mystery than "who shot JR", "where's the beef" or "where's Waldo". The nation held it's collective breath as the bushes were beaten and every stone in America was turned over. Who cared that we had just held a historic election? We needed to know who Oprah had attached herself to like an overly emotional barnacle. Turns out, the guy's name is Sam Perry and he's an Obama fund raiser from California. He claims he didn't mind having a weeping Oprahtross hanging off his back the entire night. He was on her show today, but despite having shared their body heat and her fluids, Queen Oprah didn't offer him any of her favorite things. She probably figured that since her tears can heal the sick, she had given him enough.

I was very excited by the election results. I must admit to getting a little misty watching some of the interviews with people who had worked with Dr. Martin Luther King during the Civil Rights movement. I won't pretend to have even the slightest idea of what it means to them and to all African Americans to have Obama as President. I did see a lot of hopeful faces while I was watching the rally. That's great. I'm hopeful too. It was wonderful being able to share the moment with "Daughter" who had become quite the political wonk over the last few weeks. Now though, it's time to get on with things.

The election is over and by all accounts, there are no challenges like there were in 2000. That means the die is cast, the deed is done, and the race is over. Hear that America? It's over. If you voted for Obama, congrats, we won, but stop gloating. (Unless you're African American, then you get to show your pride a little longer.) Quit trying to get a rise out of McCain supporters. They're upset enough. Try to be as gracious in victory as John McCain was during his concession speech. If you're a McCain supporter, deal with it. Your guy didn't get enough votes. That's the way things go. If you're concerned about the future of the country, guess what, join the club, but stop with the crazy rumors about Obama's birth certificate, terrorist ties and inability to protect us. He's going to be President no matter how many conspiratorial e-mails you get or send, so why not wait until he actually makes a mistake to criticize. I have a feeling that's what you would be telling obama supporters to do if the shoe were on the other foot. Oh and while I'm at it, stop trying to trivialize the historic nature of the election results with this tired chestnut "You know he's half white too. Why don't they make a big deal about that." If you really need that clarified, then you probably can't read this anyway. If you're a Palin supporter.....really? There's nothing I can write that would get us any closer together on that one. Trust this though, it has nothing to do with her being a woman, so stop beating that drum.

That being said, I think it's time for everyone put hurt feelings aside and try to move on. I know, easier said than done. I'll take the first step. I won't mock Sarah Palin in this space unless she really brings it on herself. I won't even bring up the latest stories, despite them being quite juicy. It doesn't matter any more. The campaign is over and she went home.

Now for the really important stuff. Don't forget the two big WGN Overnight shows this weekend. Tonight/ tomorrow morning from 2-5 and Sat. night/Sunday morning from 1-5. the shows will be politics free for the first time in a while so we can focus on what's really importantt....who are the Jonas brothers dating? Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Happy Halloween

2008-10-31T07:33:00.004-05:00

Today marks the annual running of the juvenile beggars, better known as Halloween. This afternoon, countless youths dressed in all manner of costume will descend on my porch and expect me to give them candy just because they asked for it. What a scam. I'd love to just ask random folks for a Zagnut and have them comply, but I don't see that happening. I'll play along because the prospect of scraping egg, soap and excrement off my house far outweighs the cost of a few bags of candy. My only rule is that the Oliver Twist rejects have to cough up an actual "trick or treat". Last year I had a stare down with a group of under costumed hooligans that lasted about 17 minutes because they wouldn't say the magic words. It's bad enough that high school kids put on a hoody and think that "disenfranchised youth " is a good Halloween get up, but having them stare at me mutely while holding out a dingy pillow case is over the line.

Someone suggested that I have the children actually perform a "trick" before giving them a treat. While the prospect of having a mini Spiderman or ballerina jump through a flaming hoop, or recite the Gettysburg address while downing a frozen Snickers fills my befuddled mind with glee, the company I would be sharing my inevitable jail cell with puts me off my plan. I'm making the more squeamish kids pay a high price anyway. I've created a pretty scary gauntlet that they need to run to get their sugar filled bounty. I temper it for the very young since the prospect of scaring a toddler so bad that they leave me a little treat doesn't seem sporting.

Tonight should be fun. There's still enough of a kid in me to remember how much fun Halloween was, so I do get a kick out of watching the kids come by. Do me a favor though. If you have a kid going trick or treating tonight, remind them to say "thank you." Free candy deserves that much.

It's been a wild week. I've spent the last two mornings filling in for Steve and Johnnie, which is always a blast. I'll be back on the air for two big WGN Overnight shows this weekend. Tonight/ Saturday morning from 2-5 (That's right, I'm back and will be hosting the show on a regular basis) and Sat. night/Sunday morning from 1-5. Lucky you, because of the end of Daylight Saving Time, you get an extra hour of me Sunday morning. You'll probably be wired from eating all your kid's "dangerous" candy so you'll be awake to listen. I'm off to bed, visions of goblins dancing in my head. Happy Halloween. Have a great weekend! Later...Brian

Listen Up

2008-10-25T08:58:00.005-05:00

Look at this, a rare Saturday post. I've had a crazy week, so forgive my absence. I've spent some time molding the minds of America's (or at least the Southwest suburb's) youth. That's a story for next week however. By way of apology, I thought I'd give you a pre-Halloween treat. This is a link that I was sent by Andy Hermann who is the talented producer of The Nick Digilio Show. Nick formerly resided in my crazy overnight spot on WGN. Now he hosts three big shows on the weekends and is one of the stations go-to fill-ins as well. He was talking about a certain game show host I was familiar with and when I called and told Andy about my brush with "greatness", I was summoned to the studio. The rest, as they say, is "radio gold". I hope you enjoy listening to it as much as I enjoyed doing it. I've dropped in on Nick's show a couple times and always had a blast.

http://caster.wgnradio.com/uncut/nickuncut-081018f.mp3

Don't forget the big show tonight/tomorrow morning from 1-5 am on WGN. It's our big Halloween show. There will be Halloween trivia, a vintage ghost story, the saddest Halloween story you've ever heard featuring a young Brian Noonan and lots more. If you're afraid to sleep because of the monsters under your bed, tune in and get scared by something else. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Friday Night Lights

2008-10-17T16:27:00.002-05:00

In the words of David Byrne...."How did I get here?" Not here in this chair, duh. I know that part. I just walked in from the kitchen. I mean "here" in the bigger more metaphysical sense. I don't want to start the weekend with a heavy philosophical question, but really, what happened to me?

This soul searching is a result of my scheduled activities for this evening. I'm getting ready to head out to a high school football game. That would make perfect sense if I was the father of a high school football player, a high school band member, a high school faculty member or just loved scoping out Driver's Ed. cars. I am none of those things. I am the father of a Jr. High girl who plays clarinet. Every year the high school band has a night to honor the middle school bands that feed into the high school. It seems like shameless boot licking, since, for the most part, all these kids will be going to this high school anyway unless their parents cough up huge sums of money for an arguably higher caliber private education. I enjoy "Daughter's" musical endeavors since my ears were crafted from cut rate tin at birth. It's just that the thought of sitting on a cold aluminum bench surrounded by psychotic band and football parents and wild eyed, hormone fueled high schoolers isn't how I thought I'd end up spending my Friday nights.

I didn't think I would ever become the typical suburban dad. I always figured that since I had such a crazy job, I would be above the mundane activities that fill almost all of our lives. I'm not sure what I thought I'd be doing. Hanging out with super models and exotic dancers at exclusive club openings? Hobnobbing with the cultural elite, drinking Chardonnay in the stuffy confines of a think tank? Sitting in my underwear on rented furniture eating a 99 cent frozen pizza and washing it down with whatever generic beer was on sale while i watched my 25 inch color TV that made everything look green? That last one is probably the closest to what would have happened. I better shut up now, go to the game and thank my lucky stars i have the "Comfort king" and a 60" HD TV. Look at that. I worked everything out in a few short paragraphs and have come to the realization that sometimes, the ordinary life isn't so bad after all. I did it without any help from Jimmy Stewart either. Off to the game.

Don't forget to tune into the big show on WGN for four hours of "Radio Irreverence" Saturday night/Sunday morning from 1-5 am. It's sure to be a lot of fun. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Blogonomic Crisis

2008-10-16T11:13:00.004-05:00

I got an e-mail from my friend Mike who accused me of going all "groundhog day" and subjecting visitors to this site to repeated viewings of my last (albeit worth re-reading) post. His mockery cut me to the quick because I have not been slacking, I have been trying to make sense of everything that is happening in this country. Someone has to find a way to skewer the election, the economic fiasco, two Chicago baseball teams choking harder than would-be porn starlets on audition night and the sight of Cloris Leachman doing the hand jive in a low cut blouse. It is an overwhelming task, but one that I thought I could handle if I put my mind to it. When that didn't work, I whipped up a few cocktails, in the hope that sweet lady liquor would grant me the insight that rational thought had not. Despite comforting me in her warm embrace, my ninety proof lover offered no insight into the situation and I was left as confused as before, but also suffering from a Mai-Tai hangover. That's all well and good, but it's time to set fingers to keyboard and get Mike off my back.

I wish I could make some sense out of the "economic rescue plan", but to be honest, when it comes to finance, my expertise doesn't extend past understanding "buy one, get one fee" at the grocery store. My retirement plan consists of an old wine carafe filled with change, scratch off lottery tickets and the hope that some rich guy hits me with his Bentley while I'm in a cross walk. I think I'm like a lot of people who understand what we need to about money, namely, can we pay our bills, put some away and have some fun every once in a while? There is plenty of blame to go around and I know people lost a lot in the stock market, but I have to hope that the situation will right itself with the right leadership. How's that for naive? I guess that explains the afore mentioned retirement plan.

I watched the third and thankfully final Presidential debate last night and came away from it with a profound dislike for plumbers. I knew we were in for trouble the minute John McCain mentioned "Joe the plumber". Every news outlet, talk show host, blogger, hack comic and bitter electrician has been talking about this guy for the last twelve hours. As time has gone on, some facts are being brought to light that cast "Joe the Plumber". (I think legally that's how I have to type it every time) in a different light. He may not be the politically concerned man he was portrayed as, and his plumbing company might not be raking in the kind of bucks that would drop him in a higher tax bracket. What a surprise. Of course none of these revelations have stopped McCain's lipstick wearing, pitbull of a running mate from invoking this pipe wrench wielding tradesman's name at early rallies this morning. This debate was a little more interesting then the last two, but I couldn't help thinking I was watching an argument between Skeletor and The Joker. John McCain came off as an angry man whose shiny skull and clacking teeth frightened me and I'm sure any small children that happened to wander in front of the TV. Barack Obama, while cool under pressure, kept flashing his huge grin, giving me the impression that he was having a separate debate in his head and that he was killing with snappy retorts.

Both "Wife" and I were gob smacked (I've always wanted an excuse to use that phrase) by one thing that Senator McCain said during the discussion of education. I'm going to paraphrase, since at that point I was fighting a duel with the sandman that I would eventually lose. McCain was talking about getting better teachers and mentioned one of his proposed programs that would take soldiers right from the battlefield and allow them to become teachers without "all those tests" and certifications. Now, I have a lot of respect for our men and women in the armed forces, but that's just crazy talk. Let someone teach without taking any tests? Why can't Johnny read? It's because PFC No Certificate couldn't explain a gerund. I'm well aware of the extensive training that service people go through, but I think it's quite a leap to equate their training to the training a teacher undergoes. I don't want a Special Forces expert, trained in Black Ops, being pulled from behind enemy lines and deposited into a kindergarten classroom. I fear that during a heated game of "duck, duck, goose" he would be startled by the shout of goose and become the killing machine that we need in wartime but not before recess. Why can't Johnny read now? Well, it's because his windpipe was crushed by Sargent Slaughter's garrote. By the same token, I wouldn't ship a kindergarten teacher straight from a "don't eat your paste" lecture to quash a rebel uprising.

As for Cloris Leachman and the baseball downfall, I can't worry about those things any more. It's time to look to the future, and that future involves creating a frightening house for Halloween. That might not carry the same weight as other concerns, but if I don't get a ghoulish specter hung in my tree, there will be hell to pay. See Mike, I told you I'd post today! Later...Brian

Yap, Yap, Yappin'

2008-10-02T11:30:00.006-05:00

I've spent the majority of the last week not being allowed to talk. Despite rumors to the contrary, I haven't joined a monastic order, taken a vow of silence or lost a bet. I've been on what the kids call "voice rest". I really don't think the kids call it voice rest. They probably don't call it anything other than, "Hey why is that giant old man flailing about and waving a legal pad at us? What a dork.", but play along. If you remember, I underwent throat surgery last week to remove a polyp that had taken up residence on my right vocal chord, which, as you can imagine, proved quite an inconvenience for a major media star such as myself. (indulge me) "Wilbur", as the polyp came to be called, was dangling just below the "vibrating plate" of my chords and would flip up, interrupting my speech, blocking my windpipe and creating all kinds of oral displeasure. For the last month, I alternated between sounding like Darth Vadar's breathing machine and Brenda Vaccaro, then I'd morph into Peter Brady during his big "Time To Change" solo. All the while, I could feel "Wilbur" flopping around like the lid on a Peterbuilt's smoke stack. The surgery took place last Thursday and yesterday I had my post-op appointment with my surgeon. All the news was great. My throat is healing nicely, "Wilbur" was benign, and I was given the green light to to gradually begin talking.

Not speaking could be the hardest thing I've ever done, discounting trying to pull off wearing pastel pants in 1987. It wasn't made easier by my discovery that "Wife " and "Daughter" are stupefyingly horrible at charades. I knew immediately that sign language would not work with them, so I resigned myself to writing short notes. I commandeered a dry erase board and some colorful pens from "Daughter" and pulled out a legal pad for backup. I love writing on legal pads. It makes me feel like I have a real job. Note writing didn't help much either. Have you ever tried to write down your thoughts while people attempted to read over your shoulder or upside down? No? Try it and then add in the wrinkle that they read each syllable aloud. I had to shout (write in capital letters) "LET ME FINISH FIRST!" "Wife" and "Daughter" also quickly determined that if they didn't look at me, they could ignore me. Imagine my joy.

Going out in public proved even more bizarre. I printed out a sign and taped it to the back of my legal pad that read "I've Had Throat Surgery. I Can't talk For Awhile. I'm Not Being Rude." I thought this would make things go smoothly. Boy was I way off. First, people don't expect to have to read without any notice. Flashing a note at them throws their world off kilter. Those three simple sentences caused so much confusion that I began to question whether Ed Asner's entire "Reading is Fundamental" campaign had been for naught. Folks would cock their heads like my dog's do when I read them sonnets and try to figure out why a man was using flash cards at Jewel. ( local grocery store, for non-Chicagoans) The other strange phenomenon was that once the semi literate were able to comprehend the sign, they somehow lost the gift of speech themselves. I can't tell you how many people jumped back like I was Typhoid Mary, looked at me with pity and then mouthed something akin to "I'm sorry". I'm not sure that's what they said, since they wouldn't speak up and my surgery had left me mute, not deaf. They would either become mimes or begin to ask me a litany of questions that I had neither the ability to answer nor a sufficient amount of ink to write out.

Thank God it's over. I unveiled my improved voice on the show last weekend and then put it back in it's box until the all clear was given. I think I sound much better, and judging by some of the feedback I've gotten, other people agree. There was a moment when I wondered what kind of voice would come out when I first opened my pie hole. Would I sound the same, have a high pitched helium voice, or a new, deep as whale poop set of pipes? I think the end result is pretty similar to my "pre-Wilbur" voice. The only drawback isn't mine. "Wife" and "Daughter" can no longer escape me by simply turning their heads. I am Brian hear me roar. Gotta go. I have a lot of people I need to talk to. Later...Brian

It's My Horn, So I Guess I'll Toot It

2008-09-29T09:04:00.003-05:00

Before I launch into my shameless self promotion, I want to take a minute to remember Paul Newman. He was my favorite actor, starring in two of my favorite films The Hustler and Cool Hand Luke. I enjoyed his work in many other films and am a huge fan of his "House Italian" salad dressing. His film work will live on and so too will his countless charitable efforts, which, when all is said and done, truly show what he was all about. On my first visit to Hollywood, I went to the famous "Mann's Chinese Theater" to bask in the Hollywood glow of the hand and footprints that are enshrined there. I was amazed at how small most of the star's appendages were. Really, those people are tiny. My size 15 dwarfed every footprint in the joint. I searched out Paul Newman's area. It was right next to Joanne Woodward's which is only fitting. I stood for a moment soaking it in and then, like a good tourist, had my picture taken next to the prints. This was before the age of digital cameras, so I can't post it, but why would I lie? I never had the privilege of meeting Paul Newman, but my brother Michael did. Michael worked as a regional director for Habitat for Humanity in Mississippi. Paul Newman was a big contributer and actually came to a home site to help build. Michael said he was very low key, friendly and did actual back breaking labor, shoveling dirt to grade a lot. In the end, a man's actions are what sets him apart more than his words. Celebrity deaths don't usually have too much effect on me, but I was a little sad over the weekend.

Here's the shameless self promotion. I was honored to be asked to do an interview for Rick Kaempfer's Chicago Radio Spotlight blog. Rick is a former radio producer in Chicago who has worked with legendary talents. He is now a well respected author with two books published and at least three blogs and other on-line articles. This is my first interview as a "radio talent" and to be included was very exciting. Here's the link to the interview:
http://chicagoradiospotlight.blogspot.com/

I hope you enjoy it. If you don't, really, keep it to yourself. How were you raised? I'm off to launch my own Paul Newman film fest and who knows, I may just eat fifty eggs and wash it down with a bottle of JTS Brown. Fast and loose, kid. Later...Brian

Climb In The Hand Basket

2008-09-26T10:49:00.003-05:00

Things seem to be getting very dicey in this country. There, that pretty much sums up the last week or so doesn't it? While the world has been watching and worrying about the potential financial ruin of the United States, Chicago Cubs fans have been debating a proposed alcohol ban during big games, John McCain is "suspending" his candidacy and I have been putting out a hit on a vocal chord vandal.

I won't even begin to analyze the financial crisis. Me talking about money is like a fish talking about desert living. Like a lot of people, I'm lucky to have enough money to get by. Bad planning? probably, but high finance was never part of my career path. I do have money in a bank though, and hearing about all the failures is starting to worry me. Who's to blame? That's an important question, but one that can be answered later. First, some big brained financial gurus, the "masters of the universe" need to figure out how to fix the problem. Meetings are going on in Washington to discuss a bail out, which in theory seems to go against the basic "survival of the fittest" capitalist agenda, until you realize the effect a financial collapse would have. I don't know about you, but I don't want to live in a box car Tom Joad style while singing a bad version of Brother Can You Spare A Dime. I'm afraid if the news doesn't get any better, we'll all be rushing to our banks to get our cash only to hear the young, frightened teller, inform us George Bailey style "You're money's not here. It's in his house and his house and his house." If that happens I'll have to push someone into the pool under the gym floor when I go to the Harvest Moon Dance.

On the local front, Chicago Mayor Richard "Daddy" Daley wants bars surrounding Wrigley Field to voluntarily suspend liquor sales after the seventh inning of a clinching game. I'm sorry. I didn't realize all the other problems in the city were fixed so that the government could once again fill the role of our parents. This is the dumbest idea since I used the finance/fish analogy. The theory is that stopping liquor sales will curb fans desires to celebrate in a destructive manor if and when the Cubs win a league championship or, dare it be written, the World Series. Bad idea. Have you ever been around a group of drunks who are forced to stop drinking for a couple hours? The buzz starts to wear off and moods turn sour. I'm much more inclined to turn over a taxi and torch it when I'm slightly hung over then when I'm in full tilt booziness and looking for a burrito. I'm no financial genius as I've already established, but does the mayor really think that bar owners will "voluntarily" give up alcohol sales during peak hours? Sure they will, and I'll be going vegan next week.

On the really local front, I went under the knife yesterday to have a polyp removed from my vocal chord. Listeners to the radio show have come to know said polyp as "Wilbur". He has been the bane of my existence for the last two months, but now the throat terrorist has been evicted and hopefully all will be well. I'll write about that in more detail later, since there was a lot to cover today. The hardest part of the situation is that I am on "voice rest" for a week. My surgeon said that he usually wants patients to observe complete silence, but for people who talk professionally he has one piece of advice, "only talk when they're paying you." That means I can do the show Saturday night but other than that I'm living like a monk who's taken an involuntary vow of silence. Good for those around me, frustrating as hell for me.

It's Friday, so that means it's plug time. Unfortunately this will only be a "one scoop of Brian weekend" on WGN. As I told you last week, management is trying some things out during the Friday night/Saturday morning shift, and I'll be on sporadically in that time slot. Thanks to all of you who have written me, and called or written the station voicing your support. I don't know if anyone other than me is listening, but rest assured, I do appreciate your efforts and kind words. Enough boo-hooing. The "original and still scheduled" WGN Overnight Sat/Sun edition will be chock full of fun and information from 1-5 am. We'll be having Wilbur's funeral, the debut of my first parody song, we'll talk politics with Stephen Caliendo from RaceProject.org and stress with Dr. Fatima Kahn. All that and the "Overnight Arcade" too. Will I have a voice? Will I sound the same? Will I still be on the air? Tune in and find out. Have a great weekend! Later...Brian

Ain't No War Like A Culture War

2008-09-19T14:55:00.006-05:00

I was going to post earlier, but I've spent most of the day out in the shed looking for my soapbox. Now that I found it, let me climb on up for a few minutes and pontificate.

I've tried to start this post a number of times, but there are so many jumping off points, and I'm distracted by other things that it's hard to pin down the exact place to let my anger and frustration spew forth. I'm getting sick of hearing John McCain, Sarah Palin and the Republicans attempt to further divide this country with their lame attempts to label the Democrats as "elitists", disparage their education and make it seem like anyone who doesn't agree with them doesn't care about this country or is sexist.

We keep hearing from people who support Governor Palin for the Vice Presidency that "she's just like us." Palin plays that card to the hilt with her hockey mom references and non-stop slams at the Democrats for being out of touch, different and "East Coast Elitists." What scares me is that people are actually buying into this mindset. When did being educated become a bad thing? What are we as a country, a bunch of third graders sitting in the back of the class mocking the "teacher's pet" who knows the answers because they studied? There's nothing wrong with someone who didn't go to an Ivy League college. Hell, I went to a state school and look at me. (Bad example) There certainly is nothing to mock about someone being educated on the East Coast at an impressive institution. There's also nothing wrong with hockey moms, moose hunters or snow machine racers, but just because someone does "regular person" activities doesn't mean we should vote for them. Be honest, do you really want someone just like you to be leading the country? I know I don't. Maybe it's just me, but I want my leaders to be a little smarter, a little more driven and a lot less worried about how Kim Kardashian's ass will look on Dancing With The Stars than I am. Wouldn't it be nice if both sides spent more time talking about things that really mattered like...oh I don't know, actual issues. See, people who are just like me talk about unimportant things. I want a little more substance in my leaders.

I'm also suspicious of the repeated use of the term "different" to describe the Democratic nominee. Gee....how do you mean different? I'm sure you're just talking about his policies right? Is it that he plays basketball instead of going moose hunting? Oh, then it must be that he grew up in Hawaii instead of the mainland right? No, then what is it that makes him so different? Is it because he's.....black? I'm the first guy to squawk when the race card is played, but something doesn't seem quite right.

Let me make these last two points quickly so we can all get back to hurling political daggers at each other. Just because someone questions, satirizes or investigates Sarah Palin, doesn't mean they are being sexist. Did you see Tina Fey's impression of the Governor? Hilarious? Yes. Biting? Yes. Proof that doppelgangers do exist? You betcha. Sexist? What are you nuts? Every public figure is open to satire. Unfortunately for Sarah Palin, Tina Fey is ready to climb inside a moose suit and cross the bridge to nowhere for the foreseeable future. Finally, can we all agree that both parties care about this country and are trying to do what's best? No? Well then there's nothing more for me to say here. I'm going to put my country first and go pump some cash into our struggling economy.

Before I go....It's plug time. Tune into the big shows this weekend on WGN. The Fri./Sat. edition of WGN Overnight is from 2-5 am and the Sat./Sun. installment will be blasting off from 1-5 am. For loyal listeners, here's a message that you won't need a "Little Orphan Annie Decoder Ring" to receive. This will be the last Fri./Sat. show for awhile. Management has decided to use this time slot as a testing ground for "new voices". I will be in the mix, but I have no idea when I'll be doing my next Friday night. If this frustrates you, angers you or thrills you (seriously?) feel free to exercise your first amendment rights and let your voice be heard by writing or calling the powers that be at WGN. Yeah, I'm doing some community organizing right here, and taking my message to the people. Now raise your fist and turn up your radio. Peace, out. Have a great weekend. Later....Brian

T.G.I.F., .......Not Today

2008-09-12T11:12:00.003-05:00

Wow, it's not even noon and my day has taken more turns than an Appalachian moonshiner on a midnight run. I had the day all planned out, which was my first mistake. After getting "Daughter" off to school I was going to do my usual web surfing to do "research" for the big shows this weekend. I like to call it "research" because calling it "spending hours updating my Facebook status, looking at fake pictures of Sarah Palin in a leather mini skirt and trying to claim my Nigerian lottery winnings" doesn't sound very productive. Then I was going to take a nap since we have tickets to the Sox game tonight and I'll be heading right to the radio station from the ball yard. Sounds good, huh? Sure, in the bright light of a monitor everything sounds good, well maybe not that "Chocolate Rain" guy, but most things.

I got "Daughter" out of the house and positioned myself at the computer. While listening to the radio, I heard the weather forecast which is calling for heavy rains tonight and throughout the weekend. That puts the game in question, which to be honest is fine with me. We had bought the tickets from a neighbor's kid who was selling them to raise money for his dance academy. Not his own dance academy, which would be quite an undertaking, but the academy where he is studying dance. Any way, it turns out the tickets are in the far upper reaches of the "Cell". Not to sound like an Ivy League elitist here, but I don't want to spend a rainy night sitting in the upper reaches of the stadium. I actually wouldn't want to spend a rainy night siting in any seats, but add thin air, vertigo and thousands of people in various states of moistness to the equation and you've got a scenario I can't avoid fast enough. "Wife" had informed me that she wouldn't be going to the game with us anyway citing a lingering sinus infection that has clogged her head like a toll booth at rush hour. If the game isn't rained out, "Daughter" may just go with the neighbors because as I was struggling with the "do I or don't I want to mingle with the dripping masses" question, I got a call from "Wife".

"I got to work, barely" is how the conversation started. Long story short, something happened to "Wife's" car on the ride into work today. She explained that the battery light went on, then the temperature gauge climbed into the red zone, she smelled what seemed to be burning rubber, and to cap it off, her power steering went out. All of this while she was inching along in rush hour traffic. Thankfully she was able to get the car into her building safely. It's times like these I wish I had gone through mechanic training instead of smart ass training. I listened patiently to her story and then summed up the car's condition as succinctly as I could. "I have no idea." Thanks Mr. Goodwrench. My only advice was to call our mechanic, see what he thought and if necessary, have the car towed to the garage. Look at me. I may have no mechanical ability, but my problem solving skills know no peer. Having no car means "Wife" will need a ride home from work, because she'll have to work late, since her morning has been devoted to caring for her ailing LeSabre and not completing the work that "the Man" needs her to finish before she can shake loose his shackles and enjoy two days of rest.

I realize these problems pale in comparison to what a lot of people have going on today, but if I didn't write about this, I'd have to devote another post to the Presidential race and the Sarah Palin/Charles Gibson interview. There will be plenty of time for that later, and to be honest, I know I'll be talking about it on WGN Overnight Friday night/Saturday morning from 2-5 am and maybe even Saturday night/Sunday morning from 1-5 am. Look how smoothly I slid the plugs in. Effortless I tell ya. The "Insatiable Insomniacs " will be on the show Sunday morning, a world record holding barber will be with me Saturday morning and there's sure to be more surprises. Have a great weekend! Later...Brian

Remembering and Mock Outrage

2008-09-11T11:30:00.003-05:00

How do I not bring it up? It is a day that should be remembered, and I believe most of us will do just that, but I also don't want to get too maudlin in my remembrances. The moments of silence are wonderful. I think that's the way to handle it. Take a moment and really concentrate on what happened and then move on. I don't mean to be flip. I was watching one of the morning shows today and saw an interview with a man whose wife was killed at the Pentagon. He was there for the unveiling of the memorial. He talked about how he and his son had thrown themselves a "pity party" the other day, but then, despite their sorrow, went back to moving on with their lives. It was heartbreaking to watch, but he made a great point. The Pentagon/Pennsylvania memorial looked odd to me at first until I realized how much I liked the idea of a garden with benches inscribed with the names of the victims. It goes back to my previous point. Anyone can go there, take a few minutes to think, grieve, or remember and then get back to their lives. We all remember the events of that day in our own way, and places like the memorial give us an opportunity to keep those memories private if we choose to. I'm getting really frustrated with politicians who want to use September 11 to question people's patriotism and continue to foster a mentality of fear that most of us can see through anyway. Do any of us really believe that walking through the airport barefoot has made the country safer? Whenever I hear someone using the attacks to further their own agenda I am filled with true outrage.

That's much different than the "mock outrage" that has been on display over the last two days stemming from Barack Obama's "lipstick on a pig" comment. So much for change, huh? This campaign will devolve into one of the worst in a while. It doesn't seem to matter that Obama wasn't referring to Sarah Palin when he made the comment, or that John McCain, as well as thousands of other people have used this phrase. No, all that matters is that his remark contained the words "lipstick" and "pig" and Palin's speech at the RNC contained the word "lipstick" as a punchline. That was enough. Two words that threw so many people into a tizzy. Rational people should be able to discern phrases that are taken out of context and draw rational conclusions, but as we know, when it comes to politics, rational thought is thrown out like a pig's used lipstick.

Watching the Republican response was at times both infuriating and depressing. Can these people really believe that Americans are so dumb that we don't see what's happening? (Apparently so.) Aren't the Republicans the same people who a week ago were telling Democrats not to be so thin skinned about Palin, Giulianni et al's comments at the convention? Don't they realize that the last person to actually put lipstick on a pig was a lonely hog farmer on prom night? While watching some of the more insane diatribes, I was wishing I could pull a "Mike TV" from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I would don my best white lab clothes and have myself beamed to the various locales in order to shake some of these people by the shoulders and shout, my spittle buffeting their faces, "We know what you're doing. You don't even believe the line of lipstick wearing pig crap you're spewing. Can't we talk about what really matters?"

In honor of today's anniversary, both candidates pulled all their ads from TV. Thank goodness. The lack of bile being spewed by both sides will at give us at least one day to remember what's really important. I'm going to put mascara on my dogs. Nobody used that in a speech yet have they? Later...Brian

It's Always Something

2008-09-05T16:05:00.004-05:00

I'm suffering from a convention hangover. Two weeks of politics is making my head spin and causing me to question whether we can, in the timeless cries of Rodney King, "all just get along." As I mentioned here yesterday, (In what became quite a long post. Who am I, Stephen King? That guy can make the description of a pair of drapes last two chapters.) people get so fired up over their candidate that they lose all perspective along with the ability to engage in civil discourse. Civil Discourse, that was my radio name when I worked in Philadelphia. Ha! I never get tired of that joke.

Since I was planning on spending my day coming up with all kinds of witty retorts (sure, Witty Retorts was my radio moniker when I was a sidekick on the "Brazen O'Malley Morning Mayhem in Tallahassee, thanks for remembering) for the politically angry, I didn't think I would be posting anything today. Then I realized that my best retorts are either off the cuff or totally imagined, so here I am. However just as quickly as I got here, I have to go.

My dog Spike is hobbling around on three legs. He must have jumped off the bed and twisted his hind leg, but I haven't decided if he needs to go to the vet or not. He's fairly crazy as far as dogs go and has twisted his legs on numerous occasions. It has happened when he's running around the house, chasing a rabbit in the yard, or running down a cheetah in his dreams. I've been manipulating the area like all good medical professionals and people who don't want to drop fifty bucks for a useless office visit do, and he hasn't let out so much as a whimper. That tells me he's either not in any pain, or the toughest dog this side of Michael Vick's house. It never fails. The dogs seem to always suffer some sort of injury or illness late on Friday afternoon. The vet is always jammed on Fridays and I have to hit the sack in advance of the big radio show. I'm not being selfish. I love my dogs and all, but seriously, I need my sleep. Wait...he's up and moving. Slowly and gingerly, but I think you know what that means. My slumber needs will be met to their fullest. Oh yeah, and the dog will be fine.

Now let's get to the real reason I'm here today....the show plugs. To paraphrase John McCain, "Yes, my dear friends, it's another two scoops of Brian weekend on WGN." I'm back at the helm of the Friday/Saturday edition of WGN Overnight from 2-5 am and then running my mouth for four hours of radio irreverence on the "original and still regularly scheduled" WGN Overnight Saturday night/Sunday morning from 1-5 am. Both shows will be packed with fun, information and the kind of dirty broadcast love that can only happen in the wee hours. I hope you can join me. Who knows what crazy name I might use. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

What A Cam-Pain

2008-09-04T15:30:00.003-05:00

Over the last two weeks, a number of people have asked me if I'm ever political in this forum and if I was going to talk about the Democratic and Republican conventions. "What conventions?" I asked, feigning head trauma. Despite a few strolls down punditry path, I usually try to avoid talking politics. It's not because I'm not interested in the political process, don't care about the future of our country or secretly wish we still had a monarchy because of my love of flamboyant headgear. No, it's because when people start talking politics, they lose their minds. I have to discuss politics to some extent on the WGN show, but that usually leads to some folks forgetting all the social niceties they learned in kindergarten and and becoming irrational mud slingers, character assassins and overall boobs. There's an old saying, the three things you never discuss in mixed company are religion, politics and that annoying rash on your inner thigh. I tend to agree with that sentiment except for the fact that this rash is really itchy and is shaped like Richard Nixon's head and I think you'd find it fascinating.

I'll save the dissection of both conventions for the haircuts in the suits and headsets. They live for this stuff and are able to spend twenty minutes on the minutia that most of us don't even notice. Is it really telling that someone's eyebrow only arched three centimeters when they were extolling the virtues of a candidate's economic policy and a full four centimeters when downplaying the role of hamsters and treadmills in their energy plan? Instead of dwelling on the differences between the two conventions, which is probably harder than you think, since they are virtually identical, I'll just give you some of my impressions. If they don't suit your political leanings, feel free to yell at your monitor.

-Both conventions reminded me of old fashioned tent revivals. The faithful are whipped into a frenzy by high energy, arm wavin', foot stompin', speechafyin'. I fully expected to see delegates go into convulsions after being gripped by the spirit during an especially fiery bit of oratory.

- The ladies on both sides are bringing the heat. Michelle Obama, Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin all delivered rousing speeches. If you were truly undecided, it would be hard not to keep flip flopping like a carp on the deck while listening to any of these women. Speaking of the ladies...

- I dug Hillary's tangerine pantsuit. I applaud anyone who wears bright colors, from politicians to circus clowns.

-Is it just me or are both sides tugging at our heart strings more than those long distance commercials? Good Lord, I could never run for office because I don't have a story that could reduce Teamsters and grandmas to tears. I will admit that the Democrats did a little better at this than the Republicans, but no matter how many times I hear about John McCain's ordeal I tear up a little.

- I liked the back drop of the Democratic convention more than the Republican's. That being said, in a long shot, the Republican backdrop looks better, but since most of the speakers are shown in a close up, the dreamy blue of the Democrats worked better and really brought out Bill Clinton's eyes.

-Sarah Palin is kinda hot and she knows how to use a gun. Bonus!

-The kids are cracking me up at both conventions. Obama's youngest daughter went wild every time she saw herself on the Jumbotron. It was hysterical, and let's be honest, we'd all do the same thing. Don't believe me? Take a look at any local news show when a reporter is doing a live shot. Palin's youngest daughter was shown giving her baby brother a new hairstyle with the help of her palm and a generous supply of spit. She didn't care what was gong on in the arena, her brother had a cowlick that needed smoothing. The fact that these kids are acting like real kids says something about their parents.

- The Republicans seem a little more at ease with coming out guns blazing than the Democrats. it should make for a brutal campaign, unless the Democrats just roll over and "take the high road". On that note...

- Rudy Giuliani seemed a little to eager to blast the community work of Obama and has obviously never been told not to laugh at his own jokes. He was a bit too pleased with himself.

-I can't comment on the nominee's acceptance speeches since John McCain's is tonight, but he'll have to up his game to keep pace with all the speakers on both sides.

- Thank God it's all over tonight so we can get on with the endless commercials, debates and bitter back and forth for the next sixty days. More of my crack analysis of all things politics is sure to come. If you base your decision on what you read here, I weep for this country. Later...Brian

You Don't Want Carpeting......

2008-08-21T15:02:00.005-05:00

You want an aaaarea rug. For some reason I will always remember that line. It comes from comedian Taylor Negron's act circa 1987. Reading it doesn't do it justice, but it fit today's theme, so there you go.

I was going to post earlier today, but then thought, "Gee what would I rather be doing than writing a humorous post? I know, I'll clean the carpet in the family room." That line could go into the Procrastinator's Hall of Fame, but you know me, I like to do things with a flourish.

The carpet really did need to be cleaned. When we moved into this house almost three years ago, the previous owners had done what all home owner's do when trying to unload their crib, they had the carpets cleaned. It's a nice gesture, but most folks make the mistake of having the carpets cleaned while they're still living in the house. When furniture is removed, viola, the cryptic outline of furniture past. We made that mistake when we sold the house in California. I had forgotten that our oldest dog had spent the years leading up to our departure basically living under our bed. When the movers took out the bed, it looked like a homicide scene. Sorry. Well, the people who had this house did the same thing. The family room wasn't an issue except for the fact that the carpeting is a light beige, never a good color for a high traffic, pet friendly family. Time to take action.

I don't know what kind of voodoo professional carpet cleaners perform to make stains disappear, but it is only a temporary magic. Over the past few months mystery stains have risen throughout the room. No, it's not the dogs, wise guy. While the older dog has had some incidents culminating in stains originating from both ends, these stains are of unknown and historic origins. I keep waiting for some religious icon to become visible in one of the stains. It would be phenomenal to have a shrine right in my family room. By the glow of the sixty incher, the faithful could pay their respects while making large donations. I would be ensconced in the "Comfort King" telling them the story of the miracle and reminding them that shrines don't pay for themselves.

We could have called in a professional cleaner, (carpet, not a CIA assassin) but as luck would have it we were given a carpet cleaner as a gift years ago. What does that say about our cleanliness that someone would decide that a carpet cleaner was an appropriate gift? We've only used it once before, which, come to think of it may answer my previous question. I spent two hours working on the carpet. If I do say so myself, it looks much better. I wish I had saved the black water that I continuously had to empty from the machine. It's always a shock to see how dirty something really is. I felt dirty for having sat in that room for so long wallowing in invisible filth. I was so motivated by the clean carpet that I took all the cushion covers off the sofa and love seat and washed them too. I may cover everything in plastic to preserve my efforts.

Here's some other news. Friday morning I will be a guest on the Spike O'Dell Radio Show on WGN. Spike is broadcasting from a restaurant so close to my house that it couldn't have been more convenient if he had been doing the show from my garage. When I told his producer that I lived so close, he scheduled a segment for me. I'll be on around 7:20 am, only my second WGN day time appearance. Management likes to keep me under wraps . Do they think of me as a wonderful gift they are saving for a special occasion, or the crazy uncle you keep locked in the basement? One can only speculate. Either way, it will be a great start to the weekend and a good lead in for the big WGN Overnight Shows Friday and Saturday night. Listen if you can. Later...Brian

Where No Man Has Gone Before

2008-08-15T14:24:00.004-05:00

It's Friday, so that must mean that my Catholic fueled guilt over not posting earlier in the week has overcome me and spurred me to write another missive to my tens of avid readers. This week I actually don't feel too guilty, since my schedule has been as hectic as people with real jobs, lives, etc., and not the pampered show biz schedule I usually adhere to. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday mornings I filled in for Steve and Johnnie on WGN. I always have fun doing their show since their crew is excellent and their listeners are supportive and involved. The unusual hours tend to wreak havoc on the rest of the day. "OK" you may be saying, "what about Thursday?" Oh Thursday...you want to know about Thursday do you? Well buckle up, because this tale of the tail will curl your toes.

You may remember my unfortunate incarceration back in May. Due to early onset (in the age sense) diverticulitis, I was held captive by the medical community for four days. As a result I was informed that the only way to accurately determine if I had suffered some rogue incident or had an acute condition was to let another esteemed medical professional pay a visit to my intestinal tract. I'm not talking about a brief, drive by and wave visit either. I'm talking about a come by the house, burst through the door and take a walking tour of the property kind of visit. That's right gentle reader, I was the recipient of the equivalent of the dreaded alien probe, the colonoscopy.

I will spare you a lot of the more explicit details, since I know some of you have taken this voyage before. For those who haven't don't feel left out, because like death and taxes, your turn will come. I had been told that the preparation for the colonoscopy was actually worse than the test itself and that proved to be true. On Wednesday I had to endure a liquid diet. Mmm, Mmm, nothing says satisfying like beef broth and Popsicles. I had been instructed to buy two small bottle of a saline laxative that should have been labeled "Colon Blow" in honor of the classic SNL skit. After gouging myself on my gluttonous brothy dinner feast I made like a mad scientist and mixed the offending bottle with a little bit of Sprite. To say this tasted like the matter it was about to help me expel would be an understatement. I waited about an hour and then the fun began. (You can draw your own horrible picture from here. I did get a lot of reading done though. Who knew Newsweek could be so fascinating?) I had to repeat the experiment at 3:30 am which made for a memorable viewing of sunrise from my porcelain perch.

I'll jump ahead to the test which in all honesty I can't really remember. I was given some IV fluids to rehydrate me and wheeled into the procedure room. I must note again my displeasure with the size of all medical equipment. Maybe the bed was small so that my target area was hanging off for easy access, but I don't think that's the case. If I am ever in a position financially to bequeath large sums of money, I will lend my name to the construction of a "Big and Tall Medical Center" with gowns that fit and beds that can accommodate someone of greater stature than an Olympic gymnast. Once in the procedure room, my IV was injected with something "to relax me". That was a good idea, because short of a six pack and some dirty talk, what happened next would not have been relaxing. I don't remember dozing off, but I must have because when I was jarred awake by some probing pressure and let out a prison block style grunt, I heard the disembodied voice of my violator assure me " we're almost done." His voice was cold and uncaring. I was then quickly removed from his presence without so much as a hug.

Except for a small polyp that I have been told was removed easily and "looked like nothing" everything in that area is hunky dory. How do I know? Because I got full color, high-def copies of all the pictures for my viewing pleasure. I must say, I did a phenomenal job cleaning things out back there. "Daughter' was both alarmed and intrigued by the Ansel Adams quality of the pictures. No, there wasn't any picturesque ice hanging from my intestines, but you get the point. I'm thinking of signing the shots and auctioning them off for charity. It will give all the people who have called me an "a-hole" an up close view of said label. I won't need to be checked again for five years, which should give me just enough time to purge this memory from my troubled mind.

I'll be taking my tender sit down parts into WGN tonight to begin another "two scoops of Brian weekend". Be sure to catch WGN Overnight Friday night/Saturday morning from 2-5 and "the original and still the best" WGN Overnight Saturday night/Sunday morning from 1-5 am. It beats sleeping, since your dreams will no doubt be haunted by visions of what you just read. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

So Soon?

2008-08-08T13:45:00.005-05:00

Where is the Summer going? Good question. Now I'll let you debate amongst yourselves while I try to figure it out myself. Things always are more hurried and hectic when "Daughter" is on school vacation. That's all going to change in a week and a half when she goes back.

Yeah, a week and a half! August 19th! More exclamation points!! What have we become as a society when we make our kids go back to school two weeks before Labor Day? A totalitarian regime that favors the schedules of parents, teachers and the weather over that of our most valuable resource? Oh man, I didn't think I'd get through that sentence without keeling over. Good riddance kids. Back to the grindstone. I was going to side with the kids on this one until I remembered all the days of "Daughter" whining "I'm bored", "there's nobody to play with" and "you're a jerk, dad." You can put me squarely in the early return camp.

I know it's still hot in August, but, unlike the schools I went to , "Daughter's is air conditioned. I spent my school years sweating through my white uniform shits and feeling my sweet rear meat stick to the straining seams of my navy blue polyester pants. Some of my academic short falls may have been the direct result of heat stroke. We would beg the sadistic teachers to open the windows, but since the architect of my schools had undoubtedly worked for the prison system the windows afforded us only an inch and three quarters of air flow. I suppose that was to keep our spelling tests from becoming air born in a stiff breeze. The trade off for early return is a longer Christmas (or "Holiday" in our PC times) break, a few extra days off and a school year that ends in early May. That's a pretty fair trade if you ask me.

While we are enjoying some beautiful days this late Summer, let me mar said beauty with commercial pluggery. This is an actual "Five Scoops of Brian" weekend on WGN. Tonight I'll be doing the Friday edition of WGN Overnight (which I hope to have made permanent. Cards and letters to management help. Hint, hint). The big Saturday night/Sunday show will be tons of fun with the Arcade, a visit from the Insatiable insomniacs and a very special visit from Singer/songwriter Michael McDermott. Then Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday morning I'll be in for Steve and Johnnie. (Why no Thursday and Friday? Ask "the man.") Check your local listings for times or just remember that all the fun happens between 2-5 am except on Saturday when I start at 1am. Got it? Great! I hope you can join me. Have a great weekend. Later....Brian

No Catchy Title

2008-07-25T07:39:00.003-05:00

Hello there, it's been a while. Not much, how bout you? I'm not sure why I typed. I guess I really just wanted to write to you. Alright, seriously, what kind of man gets off work at 5 am, grabs a McSkillet burrito and then bastardizes the lyrics to a classic England Dan and John Ford Coley song? I'll tell you. It's the same guy who knows we could go walking through a windy park, or take a ride along the beach, or stay at home and watch TV, you see it really doesn't matter much to me. Do I have you singing along yet? Now that I've gotten that out of my system, maybe we can move on. I blame sleep deprivation and an unhealthy fixation with top 40 radio in the 70's for the previous sentences.

It seems like the Summer is flying by. "Daughter" came home from camp the other day, and while I was glad to see her, I must admit that I missed the solitude. As any parent knows, the Summer is not the relaxing time we remember from our youths. True, sometimes those memories are clouded by a Norman Rockwell image that never existed, but that's beside the point. I never sat on a stool at the soda fountain with a kindly police officer while wearing his hat backwards, but I'm sure I had some fun"back in the day". Now my only concern is filling "Daughter's" days so that I'm not bombarded with the kid stand by, "there's nothing to do." Sure there is. Keep yourself busy by avoiding me. That is a great idea. Spend your idle hours thinking of ways to not aggravate me. If I sound stressed, let's chalk that up to the same things that made me type song lyrics a few minutes ago.

"Wife" and I had a rare evening alone and took the opportunity to go see the latest Batman film The Dark Knight. We used to go to the movies all the time, but like most parents, now it's a luxury. We were going for a couple of reasons. First, we were as sucked into the hype machine as the millions of other people who forked over their $8.50 for a chance to see Batman battle a really freaky Joker. Second, we needed to check the movie's content and determine if "Daughter" could see it. We decided that since we don't want to spend every night for the next month waking up to a nightmare riddled child, "Daughter" should just catch another showing of Kung Fu Panda. She's putting up a fight, but I really enjoy my sleep and her sanity. We've been accused by some people of being too protective of what "Daughter" watches on TV and in movies. Those critics are usually tank top wearing mouth breathers who take their toddlers to see the Saw films and then wonder why their precious baby is torturing cats behind the garage. Why, you ask, are you hanging around those people and discussing your parenting techniques with them? So I have someone to mock. Duh.

The Dark Knight is fantastic. I'm no hoity toity film critic, but I really dug it. Heath Ledger is a wonderful, creepy, frightening and evil Joker. The action is edge of your seat kind of stuff and the story is good. It's violent as hell and there were a few instances where my hand flew to my mouth granny style as I gasped in shock and horror. Maybe that tells you something. I didn't care that I looked like an aging, frightened matron. I held my mud and made it through, which might not be the case with younger children or guys who aren't as tough as I am. Yeah, I'm tough all right. Just ask the kid sitting in front of me who's lap I nearly jumped into. There are some people who say this isn't a good movie. I say those are not good people. They may be communists, hippies or crack babies, I'm not sure, but they definitely have a screw loose. If I had a catchy way to endorse this film I would, but the "thumbs up" thing is trademarked. How about this? If you don't go see The Dark Knight, locusts will devour your crops and a dingo may take your baby. That's a strong recommendation right there.

This is a "three scoops of Brian" weekend on WGN. You may have missed the first scoop, but that's the part of the sundae with the crushed pineapple and who really likes that anyway? I'll be hosting the fine WGN Overnight programs Friday and Saturday nights. Sure I'm on late, (2-5 am Fri/Sat, and 1-5 am Sat/Sun) but you'll still be up talking about how great The Dark Knight is. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Is It Wrong?

2008-07-16T12:41:00.003-05:00

It's very quiet around the house this week. No, I haven't punctured my ear drums or dropped a couple hundred bucks on some sweet Bose noise canceling head phones. The cause of the quiet is the absence of "Daughter".

Sunday afternoon, "Wife" and I loaded "Daughter", a duffel bag full of clothes, a sleeping bag and a sense of adventure into the trusty Trailblazer and headed North to deposit her at Girl Scout camp. Daughter has been to camp before, but this one is all the way behind the "Cheese Curtain" in Wisconsin. After a two and a half hour drive punctuated by a run in with one of Wisconsin's finest ($211.20? Really? That will pay for a ton of curds Festus.) we arrived at camp. It's a beautiful, if rustic place, just how you'd imagine a camp to be if you ever were so hard up for an imaginary image that you allowed your mind to conjure the thought of a camp. "Daughter" will be sharing a tent with a couple of her friends about a hundred yards from a beautiful lake. She'll be going white water rafting and enjoying all the other traditional camp activities, such as avoiding being mauled by a wolverine and hiding from the hockey mask wearing, revenge seeking, machete wielding mother of a long since drowned boy. Ah, youth.

I should be a little jealous of "Daughter's" vacation in the wilderness, but I am not. What I am is really psyched about having a few days off from the non-stop job of parenting. If that seems harsh, then you're either not a parent or one of those Family Circus reading, Oprah watching, Brady bunch types who refuses to admit that sometimes, even the best, most loving parents need a break. If that's the case, write an angry letter to Parent's Magazine and try to have my parenthood papers revoked. To be honest, I've been conflicted about my enjoyment of a childless house. I love having "Daughter" around, and now that she's old enough to pick up after the dogs and do other chores, I'm starting to realize added benefits of child rearing, but I also enjoy being able to do what I want. Selfish? A little, but the sensation only lasts a week. That's what makes it palatable to me. I know that on Friday I'll be schlepping back over the border, loading up all her dirty, smelly gear and bringing her back where she belongs. In the meantime, "Wife" and I enjoyed a few dinners out, a bottle of wine and some leisurely activities without any parental responsibilities. Would we want that all the time? It depends on what day you ask us, but I think I can safely say the answer is no. We will enjoy the hell out of the next few days though.

Here's something I haven't written in a while. I'll be doing some stand-up this week. If you're in the South Bend/Mishawaka, IN metroplex this week you can catch me at the Funny Bone. I'll be there tonight, Thursday and Sunday at 7:30 pm EST. It's a great club and I haven't been there in ages. I'm looking forward to "hitting the boards" and doing some live, non FCC regulated comedy. Later...Brian

Hitchcock Has Nothing On Me

2008-07-11T11:22:00.005-05:00

I was going to use today's post to simply plug the weekend radio shows, but that seemed so self serving that I had to give loyal readers something more substantial. Well, grab your plate and utensils and prepare to be sustained.

If you recall, last week was "Wife's" birthday. She had dropped hints that she would like a bird feeder as a gift. Being a sensitive, caring and observant husband, (talk about self serving), I took a mental note and thanked "Wife" for making my shopping easier, or so I thought. I arrived at our local "Garden Center" expecting to be in and out in about five minutes. How hard can it be to buy a bird feeder? All it is is a dish with some seeds, right? That couldn't be further from the truth. I was directed to the back of the store where I stood, hunched on my crutches, staring at an entire wall of devices meant to feed the same birds I had been cursing a day earlier for soiling my car with the remnants of someone else's bird feeder.

My mind boggled at the array of choices. There were the cheap plastic feeders, metal feeders that looked like houses, feeders for hummingbirds, finches, wild birds and pterodactyls. Another fun fact I hadn't taken into account was that squirrels enjoy eating bird seed, so you have to prepare for their free loading rodent ways. That opened up an entirely different line of feeders, the type that have a spring that shuts off the food window when some gigantor squirrel hops on the feeder to devour the bird's feast. If you don't want a spring loaded deal, you can buy a high priced motorized model that actually spins the squirrel into space if he tries anything funny. There was a video demonstration of that in the store, and I must be honest, the site of a squirrel flying through the air made me laugh for twenty minutes. I'm giggling right now just thinking about it. The next question to be answered is how to mount your feeder. Do you want it on a pole, in the trees, on a shepherd's hook? If you go for the pole, you need a squirrel baffle (see above) , then you need to consider moving the entire setup when you cut the grass. As you can imagine, my head was splitting with all these choices and I was almost to the point of giving "Wife" a gift card and letting her deal with all these nature loving questions. Hey, I haven't even gotten to picking the seed yet, but I hope from that statement you can figure out that it was as convoluted as picking the feeder. Do I really care that an animal who regularly feeds it's young chewed up worms won't like the seed I picked because it doesn't contain the right mix of sunflower seeds?

I decided on a mid-range feeder that was both decorative and squirrel secure. The mounting question was easier because this feeder did not come equipped with the pole mount option, so I got a hook for it to hang in the tree. The friend who had been helping me due to her "expertise" in the field, told me the proper seed and I was off. "Wife" loved the gift and we immediately filled the feeder and placed it in a tree in the backyard. After three days, no birds had come to our complimentary buffet. I was stunned at the avian snub and suggested we move the feast to another tree. That was the way to go. Now the feeder is the hot spot in the neighborhood for all types of birds. It's like a popular nightclub with blackbirds acting as the bouncers. They tend to run the joint and keep what I can only imagine are the undesirable birds out. Those lost souls sit in the grass waiting for the crumbs that drop from the feeder, kind of like the guys who hit the bar after last call hoping to round up the leftover drunk girls.

I'm really enjoying watching Nature in action. Yesterday a rabbit was hanging with the ground birds behind the velvet rope snacking on the leftovers. When different species can coexist in that way can peace on Earth be far off? Probably, because one of the blackbirds attacked the rabbit to reclaim it's turf. Ah, all is right with the world. I worry watching their violence that if I neglect to fill the feeder, the birds will turn on me and chase me, Tippy Hedron style, throughout the neighborhood. I've already caught some of them looking at me with their dead eyes and to be honest, it's a little freaky.

It's another "Two Scoops of Brian" weekend on WGN. I'll be hosting the Friday night (or do you say Saturday morning?) edition of WGN Overnight from 2-5 am and my own "original and still the best" WGN Overnight from 1-5am Saturday night/Sunday morning. I hope you can join me for all the "radio irreverence". Have a great weekend. Later.....Brian

You Want To Cut Off His What?

2008-07-10T16:28:00.006-05:00

Some of us have a slip of the tongue and it goes unnoticed. Sometimes our gaffes are a little more flagrant and we catch a bit of heat from our family, friends or the recipient of said gaffe. Sometimes we are on TV and say something so crazy that the entire world recoils like they've just seen a naked Dick Cheney and gasps "what did he just say?"

Such is the case for Jesse Jackson. The never one to shy away from a microphone activist was appearing on TV to talk about faith based charities alongside Reed Tuxon of the United Health Care Group. At some point there was a break in the interview and Jackson tilted his noggin' ever so slightly toward Tuxon and whispered out of the the side of his mouth (yes, only one side which is unusual for the Reverend) "Sen. Barack has been talkin' down to black people over this faith based... I wanna cut his nuts off." Wait! What? I know, I saw the tape and just typed the words and I still can't wrap my head around it. Let me go back and watch the tape again. Yeah, I heard it right. Jesse Jackson said he wanted to cut off Barack Obama's nuts. It's like I'm watching a well dressed episode of OZ. No, not the movie with Judy Garland, the HBO prison drama where hardened criminals do horrible things like....well...cut off each other's nuts.

After the tape aired, Jackson released a statement calling the incident a "hot mic private conversation" and that his "support for Sen. Obama's campaign is wide, deep and unequivocal." He may have also said he wanted to make Bill O'Reilly his bitch, but I can't prove it.

Who's he trying to kid? There's nobody short of the Maytag repairman who has been on TV more than Jesse Jackson. If a kid doesn't eat a black Good'N'Plenty, he's on the case, so it's a little disingenuous of him to claim he thought the mic was off. You've got to figure the mics are live until you're in your car headed to Home Depot for the clippers you're planning on using for your amateur castration. Then to say his support is "unequivocal"? Obama's harshest critics have never expressed nut lust like this. I have yet to hear Rush Limbaugh or any of the "vast right wing conspiracy" express a desire to separate Sen. Obama from his manberries. If that's what Jackson calls support, give me a detractor any time. Jackson also said he "cherished this redemptive and historical moment." He may cherish it, but he sure went out of his way to sully it. In his defense, Reverend Jackson said he "cherished the moment". He expressed no undying affinity for the Senator's family jewels.

As of this writing, there has been no response from Sen. Obama. He's probably in hiding until he can hire a special security force to surround his nether region. Perhaps the Secret service needs to employ a brigade of midgets to protect the Senator from the waist down. They should check the availability of the Lollipop Guild. Those guys don't play. Barack might be out buying an athletic supporter with a cup, just in case the Reverend slips past security with a pair of pinking shears in his pocket and a heart full of bad intent. Just think, we still have four more months until the election. Watch your nards. Later...Brian

You're Not Getting Older. Yes You Are.

2008-07-03T14:29:00.003-05:00

Today is "Wife's" birthday. That's really all I've got for today. I like to alert everyone to this monumental anniversary because it makes "Wife" crazy. She, like a lot of women (and men for that matter) like to let their birthday slip by quietly so they don't have to stare into the great abyss of aging. I won't tell you how old "Wife" is because, not only is that rude, it would prolong my sleeping in the "Comfort King". I will tell you that she is old enough to go to the store and old enough to get bread. Ha! I haven't used that one in ages. Not that I'm comparing "Wife's" age to an old joke. I'd better stop before I go too far.

Last night "Wife" and I went out to dinner to celebrate her special day. Tonight, she will be driving to the country to pick "Daughter" up at camp, and I will be napping in preparation for three hours of "radio irreverence". We had a wonderful time and "Wife" was able to enjoy some new kinds of wine. This is becoming her new thing, which is great, as long as none of her passion comes wrapped in a brown bag and bears the name Thunderbird.

I have to get her gifts from their hiding place now. I'm like a little kid in some ways. (Alright, in a lot of ways.) Despite my delicate physical state, I went shopping the other day for "Wife's" gifts. One of my friends was kind enough to chauffeur me to the mall and the other store I needed to visit. I knew what I wanted to get, but was unable to drive myself. I am always eager to tell "Wife" that I got her a gift. It's not so that she'll think I'm thoughtful and wonderful, (which never hurts) , but because she goes crazy trying to get me to reveal the nature of the gift. This time my evil plan backfired a bit. "Wife" said I was nuts for going shopping in my condition and that she didn't need a gift. Yeah right. Guys, don't ever fall for that. While you and I might be sincere in our aversion to gifts, the ladies aren't. They may not want you to drop a bundle on some shiny trinket, but never blow off some kind of gift and then say "well you said you didn't need anything." You may as well tell Fido to scoot over, because he's the only bedmate you'll have for a while.

Happy Birthday "Wife"! You remind me of some of the wines you tasted last night, sweet, bubbly and getting better with age. Dig my romantic leanings.

A side bar, I'll be delivering a triple helping of radio fun this weekend on WGN. Friday morning from 2-5 am I'll be in for Steve and Johnnie, then I'll be doing the WGN Overnight show Saturday morning form 2-5 am and my own "original and still the best" WGN Overnight Sunday morning from 1-5 am. If you're up late and can stop the ringing in your ears, listen in. Later...Brian

Light It And Run

2008-07-02T10:48:00.004-05:00

It's the beginning of July when a young (or young thinking) man's thoughts turn to flags, parades, watermelon and fireworks. I am really looking forward to the 4th, not only for the chance to drop a little patriotism on some fools but for the opportunity to exercise my God given right to blow up things from China. truth be told, I don't know how much detonation I'll be doing on my gimpy leg, but if I'm forced to be a lowly spectator rather than an active munitions expert, I'll enjoy myself just as much.

Growing up, we were never allowed to partake in black market pyrotechnics. We were limited to "snakes", the fireworks equivalent of ...come on, you can't even put "snakes" in the fireworks category, and sparklers. Wow, how exciting. Maybe it was because my parents were law abiding citizens, or maybe it was because my brothers and I were not very coordinated and couldn't grasp the concept of throwing the M80 after it was lit rather than watching the pretty flame burn down the wick. Whatever the reason, my childhood was spent watching fireworks from a distance. I would "ooh and aah" like everyone else, but I was filled with the desire to be the guy with the burning punk lighting the fuse. After "Wife" and I got married we lived in a house a block from the Indiana border. Fireworks are legal in Indiana, so from mid June through early July, the area was as lawless as any border town on the Texas/Mexico border. Cars with blacked out windows and covered headlights would continuously make runs across the invisible line and try to out run Johnny Law back to the Land of Lincoln with all types of gun powder filled contraband. The lure of illicit explosives proved too much for me and on several occasions I channeled my inner moonshiner, put a false bottom in the trunk of my nondescript sedan, popped in the 8 track of Smokey and the Bandit and made (with apologies to Taco Bell) a run for the border.

A wondrous world of destruction awaits anyone who enters the land of legal fireworks. All sizes and styles of explosives are available for purchase. The mysteries of the Far East are collected under a rented tent in an abandoned grocery store parking lot. The only limits are your imagination and pocket book. Most guys, giving into age old stereotypes head right for the huge mortars in the long tubes. Dude, you're already blowing stuff up, give the Freudian imagery a rest. I would spend hours mixing and matching fireworks trying to get the most bang for my buck. (pun intended) After securing the loot, I would embark on my journey home, staying off the main roads, traveling through alleys and drainage ditches to avoid "the man".

This year I'll have to be satisfied with watching our town's fireworks display and enjoying the inevitable explosions of my neighbor's illegal collection. I'm torn. I want to feel that rush again of buying and transporting illegal fireworks, but I also don't want to set a bad example for "Daughter". I'll just sell it as one man standing up against an oppressive government hell bent on destroying our good times. That'll work. Be careful. Don't look down the tube of a "dud". Later...Brian

We Can Rebuild Him

2008-06-27T15:40:00.002-05:00

Happy Friday. Yes that's me to the left "enjoying" my rehab. If you look closely you will get a glimpse of my lair, including the top edge of the famous "Comfort King" which has become my sanctuary, bed and best friend this week. Don't look too closely hoping for a glimpse of my naughty bits either. The person who took the photo double and triple checked my shorts to assure a "G" rating. If this post gets a little odd, please keep in mind that I am under the influence of heavy medication and "Wife" is making sure I get the maximum dosage in the minimum time allowed.

I went in for my surgery Tuesday afternoon, nervous but hopeful. As I wrote last time, no one, including my excellent surgeon Dr. Ho, knew what to expect. The first thing I should have expected was that the public is made up of some complete dunder heads. This is off topic, but isn't that one of the things I'm known for? The waiting room in the "Ambulatory Surgery" wing was filled with signs telling the rude and self important not to use cell phones and prohibiting food and drink since patients having surgery are denied food and drink and to have these items in the waiting room amounts to cruelly teasing the thirsty. Do I need to describe the scene? You guessed it. The aggressively illiterate were doing whatever they wanted, others be damned. Why is it that some people think the entire world wants to hear their conversations? there were a few women in the waiting room who were talking to their families (who it should be pointed out were sitting right next to them) at a volume rivaled only by a Who concert in 1969.

There are so many details of my saga I'd like to share, but I'm already missing the "Comfort King", so I'll try to give you the highlights. After being taken into pre-op, Dr. Ho and his team came in to assure me that everything would be fine. His chief resident, another fine physician (I can't remember how to spell his name) was charged with the task of shaving my knee. This was no small task, and I"m sure all the years in med school and residency seemed well worth it as he wrestled with the forest of hair on my wounded gam. I had a number of options for anesthesia ranging from being completely knocked out to clenching my jaws on a rolled up wash cloth. I went for the middle ground and received a full leg block. It was wild. The anesthesiologist used a live wire to pump some wattage into my leg's cottage. When he got me twitchin' like a leaf on a tree, he injected something into my leg rendering it useless. In fact, my leg is still not completely unblocked, causing me a bit of concern, but leaving the doctor to assure me, "we've never had one not come out of the block. Don't worry." Easy for him to say. After getting me on operating table, I got a little something to "relax" me. This was when I noticed the monitor.

I could see the team prepping the instruments and asked the anesthesiologist to roll down the barrier so that I could watch the procedure. I'm not kidding. I love watching operations on TLC, so what better operation to take a gander at than my own. Everyone was a little surprised by my request, but the barrier was rolled down a little giving me an unobstructed, hi-def view of the inside of my "messed up" knee. It's hard to describe what I saw. I was in and out through most of it due to my "relaxation", but I watched as rough angles and out croppings were shaved away. It was like a small fish eating algae. Dr. Ho had told "Wife" that the actual surgery would take about 45 minutes. In fact, it took two hours. That should give you some idea of the wonderful surprises he uncovered when he got in there. There were numerous meniscus tears. The biggest surprise was that something he suspected was a "floating body" turned out to be a piece of bone from an old injury that had attached itself to the side on my kneecap and continued growing. They had to do "major resurfacing" (just like IDOT, only on schedule and under budget) to my entire knee as well. When Dr. Ho saw "Wife" after the surgery, he told her how surprised he was at all the damage and the amount of work they had to do. The good news, besides the fact that my knee is fixed, was that they didn't have to do the "micro fracture" that would have cost me six weeks on crutches.

I have not fared too well on the crutches. Trying to come into the house Tuesday afternoon, I followed the instructions I had been give on walking up a step with crutches, but to my chagrin, fell and landed right on my post-op knee. Sounds terrible right? Well the pain wasn't bad, but trying to drag my big ass off the floor with a dead leg was a real treat. Wednesday morning, I was feeling confident after a night of successful wanderings. I got up to go to the bathroom, lost my balance, and fell backwards bending my dead leg and foot under me. I heard a noise you never want to hear from your body and a let out a scream no man should ever utter. I ended up back at the surgeons office getting an X-ray of my swollen foot. Nothing was broken, but I now am sympathetic to the elderly who seem to dwell on their fear of falling.

The machine in the picture is a CRM machine. It moves my knee so I don't have to. I love the fact that technology is around to combat my sloth. According to the doctor, it will begin to shape the new surfaces of my knee. Hey, as long as the machine does it for me, resurface away.

So there's your update, whether you wanted it or not. I won't be doing my show tomorrow night, but will be back next week. I'll also be doing all the Friday night/Saturday morning shows through July. After that, who knows, but your support is always appreciated. I'm off to settle into the CRM for another two hours and hopefully watch the White Sox dole out a little payback on the Cubs. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

A Man In Knee'd

2008-06-24T08:34:00.003-05:00

The MLB scouting report report on me has always been short and to the point. "Big stick, no wheels." My wheels have been suspect for years, but recently, one of them has come off the rim and today is the day I set that right.I have to keep this short, which, if you're a regular reader, of course means this will be the longest post in the history of the Internet. That's usually the case, but I am in full pre-op mode and scrambling to get my affairs in order before going under the knife. How dramatic!

I've had problems with my left knee for years. It all started on the gridiron when I was in seventh grade. After bursting through the offensive line and readying myself to lay out a grade school quarterback, I was hit from the side and sent screaming to the turf. "Suck it up and have some pride" my caring coach advised and so I did, but my speed in the 40 was never the same. Over the years I have encountered a series of doctors and family members who basically echoed my coach's words and chalked up the grinding, popping and pain in my knee to everything from weight to chronic hypochondria. As recently as December, I was told to just flex it more and everything would be fine. Maybe if I hadn't sought medical treatment in the third world, things would have been different, but you know how HMOs are. In April, I finally sought the opinion of a doctor trained in modern medicine, and after checking X-rays, an MRI, and hearing me scream like Jamie lee Curtis fleeing a knife wielding maniac, I heard the words I had longed to hear. "That's a pretty messed up knee." Oh joy! The fact that I had been pulling myself up and down the stairs for months and would crumble unexpectedly had now been confirmed as something other than a figment of my over active imagination.

Later today I will undergo arthroscopic surgery. I've heard from different people that it is an easy procedure, but as my doctor told me yesterday, "There are scopes, and there are scopes." He leaves things pretty open for a guy who spent years in school. I was asked to sign a permission slip detailing all the procedures the surgical team (Yeah, I'm not messing around any more. I got myself an entire team. I've waited this long, I'm going all out.) might have perform on my "messed up knee". Let me assure you, it's quite a list, but only one item worries me. I won't give it any power by typing it, but if it is performed, it would mean six weeks on crutches. That sounds fun huh? The doctor couldn't give me any specific answers yesterday because "we have to wait until we get in there." There's that fine medical training again. This is an outpatient procedure, so I'll be home tonight and I've been assured that I won't feel any pain due to an "excellent block" I'll receive and some high doses of Vicodin that I picked up yesterday. My friend John has asked me to post in an altered state so you can see the difference. Sadly, I don't think there would be any, so I'll spend tonight in the big chair whining and trying to curry sympathy from my family.

I had my last drop of liquid half an hour ago and am off to scrub myself with an anti-bacterial soap to ward off any micro organisms that may see my ample carriage as a succulent buffet. Normally I don't drink too much during the day, but being told I can't have anything is making me dryer than British wit. I hope I don't begin to hallucinate and see mirages of cool water and cherry limeade. "Wife" will be driving to the hospital which I'm sure she's looking forward to. I'm a surly patient. Not with medical professionals since they control my destiny, but with the people I figure have to put up with me. Since I'm so self-aware, (HA!) I'll try to keep my surliness to a minimum.

Time to go. I'll let you know how things work out, but I fully expect to be too busy running marathons, salsa dancing and winning a PGA Major on my new and improved knee to spend time sitting at my desk. I'm off to have this mess cleaned up. Later...Brian

Power To The People

2008-06-20T10:47:00.004-05:00

(I have no idea who the woman in the picture is, but her rage, passion, expulsion of gas made me laugh.)

I usually try to avoid getting involved with committees, groups, or associations. I work better alone, which is either a testament to my lone wolf spirit or my anti-social nature. Either way, my manufactured apathy has served me well. That's not to say I don't care about the issues that affect my neighborhood and world, it means I like to shout my criticisms from a distance and let other people follow my instructions. This week I was dragged from my distant perch and dropped knee deep into the hoopla.

I've written many times about my crazy neighborhood. It's probably not unlike a lot of other places where residents try to outdo each other in an attempt to become the ultimate winner of the American Dream sweepstakes. In many of these neighborhoods, there is a "Homeowner's Association" that makes sure none of the residents go overboard in their quest for dominance. We have such an association, but it has been largely inactive except to organize a block party for as long as I've lived here. That all changed recently.

I've consulted the battery of attorneys I have on retainer here at Brian Noonan Worldwide Inc., and they have advised me to be as vague as possible while describing the following events. Obviously my legal eagles don't really pay too much attention, since being vague is one of my strong suits. It comes from my days with the "Company".

Long story short, the past President of the Association was accused of financial malfeasance. I thought that consisted of him spiriting away an extra pan of Rice Krispy treats from the block party, but that shows you the extent of my financial understanding. According to his accusers, the amount of money in question ranged from ten to fifty six thousand dollars. That's a lot of misappropriated Moon Bounce rentals. The monies came from a couple bank accounts, credit cards and unmarked boxes of loot generated by a fund raising event and covering the last decade. You may think I'm apathetic, but I've only been in the neighborhood a little over two years, and if I can't account for a ten spot, I mount a full investigation. This place was really asleep at the switch. Last year, some former Association board members got wind of the alleged windfall by El Presidente and formed a junta to seize power and oust the alleged embezzler.

I realize this is not the short story I promised, so here's how I got involved. "Wife" and some other residents decided they didn't like the fact that the junta had seized power, kept the rest of the neighborhood in the dark and called a meeting where they hoped to install themselves as the self appointed keepers of the neighborhood. I don't know where "Wife" caught the activism bug, but it infected her like a twenty dollar hooker. She created a flyer with the names of all the candidates and spent last weekend going door to door drumming up interest in the meeting. She was a regular grass roots organizer. I was able to convince her that mounting a huge speaker to the roof of the car and campaigning Blues Brothers style was a little over the top. She was successful in getting a large turnout at the meeting which surprised the junta and resulted in some tension.

The two hour meeting consisted of defensiveness, a little shouting and one guy flexing his middle aged guns while making motions. Impressive thought they were, I thought it a bit much to wear such a tight shirt to the meeting, but in hindsight, if I had sculpted my body to that of an aging extra from 300, I would wear form fitting garb too. I tried to lighten the mood on a couple occasions, but "Wife" was in full "voice of the people" mode and would have none of my frivolity. I did solicit a few laughs by asking "Guns" his name every time he made a motion, which was an open mock of the recording secretary who was either distracted or sleeping every time "Guns" (not his real name) stated his name. I was unable to make any motions due to my general malaise, but finally tried to push one through near the end of the festivities, only to be told by a guy with a Robert's Rules of Order book that I didn't need to move on that particular point. I protested loudly, seconded my own fake motion, added that there would be no discussion on the matter and then abstained from voting on the motion that was only in my mind. Democracy in action.

I could tell you the outcome of the meeting, but I can't say for sure there was one. I know that I think we may have thought about moving to vote to decide on studying the idea of letting the former El Presidente off the hook and dropping the matter, but that would be speculation on my part. What I do know is that I want nothing more to do with some of the people who live in my neighborhood and I can say with confidence that in some of their minds, the feeling is mutual. "Wife" is running for a board position in the upcoming election, but I will remain in the smoky back room during the campaign.

Enough of politics, let's talk entertainment. This is another weekend of "Two scoops of Brian on WGN." I'll be hosting WGN Overnight Friday night and Saturday night, or do you say Saturday and Sunday morning. Either way tune in and enjoy all the radio irreverence you can handle. Big news next week. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

The Grass Is Always...

2008-06-13T12:59:00.003-05:00

Growing. What did you think I was going to say, greener? How hack would that be? Almost as hack as starting a post with another fake double sided conversation. I just finished cutting the grass and am taking this time, what runners call "my cool down" to put fingers to keyboard. Normally, something as mundane as cutting the grass wouldn't spur my literary cravings, but I'll try to tie the mundane into the absurd, add a pinch of relevance and viola.

I felt pressure to get the grass cut today for a couple reasons. First, as you know, my neighborhood is a hotbed of lawn competition. Not tending to one's lawn is tantamount to clubbing a baby seal or putting ketchup on a hot dog. (The food, not an overheated canine, but that's probably frowned on too.) I "do the lawn"( Insert your own snide comment here. I can't give you all of them .) every weekend in my attempt to uphold basic community standards. After checking my busy schedule and studying weather forecasts like a nervous shrimp boat captain, I decided to challenge Mother Nature and finish my mowing before the rain came. I like to get into throw downs with the forces of Nature whenever I can, providing that the outcome isn't life threatening. What's the worst that could have happened if Momma N had given me a little smack down today? Oh no, I'm a tad damp. It's not like I was going all George Clooney on her and trying to out run the perfect storm. The other reason I wanted to get the yard done today was that if I didn't, my other option was cutting the grass on Sunday and that wouldn't do. Sunday is, if you've forgotten, Father's Day.

Now we're getting to the point. I don't know what "Wife" and "Daughter" have planned for Sunday, but I know that now I've given myself the gift of guilt free rest. I also know that it's a gift I won't want to return or have to manufacture feelings for. I'm sure that won't be the case with anything I'm lucky enough to get from my loving family, (wink, wink) but it never hurts to hedge your bets. It's still odd for me to celebrate Father's Day, despite the fact that I've been a father for over eleven years. I guess I still think of my dad as being the "father" in Father's Day and that's OK. I just need to remember that to "Daughter" I'm that guy. Wow, that's the kind of statement that makes me all warm inside. No, wait, it's gas.

Father's Day doesn't seem to get the same buildup as Mother's Day, but dads don't seem to mind. We really just want to enjoy a restful day and maybe have everyone give us, as "Daughter" used to misinterpret, "a piece of quiet." Ahh yes, peace and quiet. My dad always asked for it, but rarely, if ever got it. He was normally the recipient of whatever class project one of us made him, a #1 dad mug, or some car wash certificates. He always seemed thankful, and now that I've got a few dad years under my belt I realize why.

Happy Father's Day to all you dads, or guys who work hard to fill that role. We're often made to look like fools on TV and in the movies, but we serve a purpose and all the turkey basters and loud pronouncements about men being obsolete can't negate that fact. Keep working hard to be a good father and if you're lucky, there may be a coffee mug with your name on it.

I'll be ushering in Father's Day with two editions of WGN Overnight. That's right, another weekend of double Noonan. On the Friday/Saturday show, we'll be checking on all the great weekend activities for you and your dads and then on Saturday night/Sunday morning I'll be visited by the Insatiable Insomniacs and we'll play "Father's Day Trivia" during the "Overnight Arcades." All that and more when you tune into the mighty 720 during the wee hours. Have a great weekend. Later....Brian

Get That Out Of Your Mouth

2008-06-06T11:26:00.002-05:00

Today I might sound more like a cranky old man than I usually do. I try to keep an open mind about things (Really? Hey this is my post, I can write whatever I want and by the way, stop arguing with yourself like someone else is there.) and remember that I was once a youngster, prone to bad decisions (that hasn't really changed) and willing to be a slave to popular trends that vanished as quickly as a pastrami sandwich in front of Rosie O'Donnell. Even with my new found accepting attitude, sometimes I'm pushed to the brink and forced to exclaim either out loud or to myself, "What are you, nuts?"

Yesterday, "Daughter" and I were running errands. She's out of school for the Summer which is another story all together. As it was lunchtime, and I'm such a nice dad, I gave her the choice of picking a place for us to enjoy some mid-day sustenance. I knew what she would pick given our location at the time of the request, but I like to let her make the decision. She feels large and in charge, and that's a good feeling to have once in a while. "Daughter" suggested we dine at the bastion of fine Eastern cuisine, Panda Express. Nothing says "welcome to the exotic far East" like red plastic trays and a steam table, but I have a soft spot for Orange Chicken, that sickeningly sweet combo of chicken parts and breading in a gelatinous sauce, so off we went. I actually don't mind Panda Express every once in a while. For a fast fix to quell a craving for Chinese food, it isn't half bad. There's a ringing endorsement huh?

Here's where Mr. Cranky was roused from his fitful slumber. We walked up to the counter and were greeted by a young woman. I couldn't tell you exactly what she said, because the sounds emanating from her face were gurgled and sounded as if she were drowning on some lobster sauce. I thought the difficulty may have come from my end, since I've been known to not pay the utmost attention to uniformed food slingers. That wasn't the case. Every sentence this girl tried to force from her mouth came out so garbled that I thought I was listening to a Trans-Atlantic propaganda broadcast from Tokyo Rose. The ordering process at Panda Express is fairly simple and shouldn't require my asking "What?" or "Pardon me?" thirty seven times. Maybe this unfortunate fake blond is touched in some way and is incapable of clear speech, I thought in a rare moment of compassion. Not so. When she finally turned to face me, in what I hoped was a move that would clear the static from our communication, I spied the problem. This 19-22 year old girl had a piece of metal jammed though her tongue that was the size of Tiger Woods' golf tee. Since she wasn't screaming out in pain, I figured this wasn't the result of a wayward Ginsu knife, but rather the culmination of a really bad thought process.

I've seen pierced tongues before, and not only in gentleman's clubs or illicit DVD's. Many seemingly rational people are willing to jam hunks of metal through their tongues to alter their speech patterns. That's not the reason they do it of course. These human pin cushions will tell you that they're expressing their individuality, making a statement or, the most popular reason reason I've heard, (and I make it a point to ask as many of these orally decorated individuals as I can for their justifications) is that it enhances certain sexual acts. Wow, how bad is your sexual partner that you need them to plunge a barbell through their tongue in order to get you going? I may not be the most adventurous guy in town, but suffice it to say, I have made a few trips around the block and I have never thought to myself, "Hey now, that thing she's doing feels great, but you know what would make it even better, a hunk of metal grating me like fine cheese." Add to that the fact that while basking in the afterglow, you have to talk to someone who purposely made themselves sound like an audio book read by Lou Ferrigno and Marlee Matlin. Yeah baby, I'm ready for round two. Even if your tongue piercing wasn't a nod to sexual adventures, the image will still be there. You can't sell a tongue piercing as anything else. Well, I guess you could sell it as stupid, but that's just me.

I pointed out to "Daughter" the ridiculousness of the piercing and she agreed that the girl sounded challenged and looked like her second career would most assuredly involve a carnival midway. Hopefully I was able to get my point across during this bonding/mocking moment and she will remain piercing free except for the more socially acceptable ears, which send only one signal, namely, I want someone to buy me diamond earrings. We'll see how that works out.

Guess what? I'll be hosting two installments of WGN Overnight for the next few weeks. If your weekend plans include very little sleep, tune in tonight and tomorrow night ( 2-5 am Sat. morning and 1-5 am Sun. morning) for the big shows. Twice the fun for the same low price. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Look Over There, It's History

2008-06-04T16:14:00.002-05:00

I have been lucky enough to have been alive for a few moments that could be considered historical. I remember the first moon landing, the end of the Viet Nam war and the introduction of the Big Mac. All important events, and depending on the day, each gets the top spot on my personal list. Sure, there are more. You want a list? Look, time is short so you'll have to believe me. I've seen history and so have you. Sometimes it slips by us unnoticed and then there are days like today (technically last night) that you can't over look.

The Democratic primaries were set up to have a historical outcome. The two leading candidates were a black man and a woman. Whichever candidate became the nominee would be the first of their respective groups to achieve such a goal. Last night, Barack Obama became the first African American to become a major party nominee for President of the United States. Think about that for a second. There, your second is up.

What a turning point in this country. It wasn't too long ago that black people couldn't vote, eat at a restaurant or ride in the front of the bus. There are men and women alive now who fought for Civil Rights in the face of brutality, dogs and fire hoses that are now seeing their efforts bare fruit. I am happy for them. I'm also happy for myself and the rest of this country.

I can't pretend to know the suffering of others. I won't even try to talk about the history of racism in this country, but I will say this, I believe that the nomination of Barack Obama is a huge step toward finally putting aside the past. Will there still be racism? You bet. Just last night I heard an old woman from Kentucky on the radio. She told the host she was "afraid for America, because Obama will nominate Lewis Farrakhan or someone like that to be Vice President." Sadly, she's not the only person who feels that way. There will always be people to whom skin color is all the reason they need to write someone off. Obama's nomination may also help to quiet some of the racist rants from the other side as well. How will people like Reverend Wright and Father Pflager, among others, preach that "the white man is keeping us down" if a black man is President? It doesn't carry the same weight if your man is in charge. Maybe both sides will have to drop the old school posturing and admit that while things are still far from perfect, we're on the right track.

Let's enjoy today. Progress has been made and something historical has happened. I know that there are all kinds of people, black, white, whatever that never thought they would see this day in their lifetime. Take a few moments to reflect on that. The General Election Campaign has begun and who knows what the results will be, but for today at least, America has taken a huge step toward the future. I'm going for a Big Mac. Later...Brian

I'm Seeing Triple

2008-05-27T09:56:00.003-05:00

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

2008-05-22T10:07:00.003-05:00

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

2008-05-16T09:01:00.004-05:00

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?

2008-05-14T10:18:00.003-05:00

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

2008-05-09T10:30:00.004-05:00

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

2008-05-08T11:46:00.004-05:00

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

2008-05-07T11:55:00.004-05:00

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

2008-05-01T12:07:00.004-05:00

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

Earth Day My Eye

2008-04-22T14:37:00.002-05:00

Greetings tree huggers, baby seal cleaners and recyclers of all ilk. Today is Earth Day, a day set aside to remind us to take care of the planet that so lovingly takes care of us. Sure, it takes care of us, unless it decides to unleash a tsunami, earthquake, drought, hurricanes, well you get the picture, but like an emotionally abused child on Mother or Father's Day, we need to block those things out and send a card.

I was trying to figure out a fitting way to honor Earth Day and give Mother Nature a proverbial reach around. I could try to put out the tire and Styrofoam fire that has been burning out back since 2006. Maybe I could stop dumping my used engine oil down the sewer or strip mining the baseball field at the park. I'm sure those would all be good, but they all seem to require a Herculean effort and since my commitment to Greek mythology ended the day I bought "Daughter" Disney's Hercules, I'll have to try something else.

I know, I'll reduce my carbon footprint by cutting this short and turning off the computer. Seriously, right after I watch three hours of Dragnet 1968 on Hulu.com and send a few emails. Happy Earth Day. Later...Brian

Cougars and Earthquakes and Popes Oh My!

2008-04-18T10:27:00.003-05:00

What a week! So much is happening that the mother board in my little brain overloaded and shutdown. Where to begin? Let's start with the fact that like Carole King, at about 4:30 this morning I felt the earth move under my feet. Thankfully I did not feel the sky tumblin' down, tumblin' down. Mother Nature decided that the Midwest had not endured enough, what with an extended winter followed by tornadoes and flooding, and decided to rock and roll the joint with an earthquake that measured a 5.2 on the Richter scale. I'm no seismologist, but that seems pretty strong to me. It was so strong, that despite the epicenter being about 240 miles South of Chicago, the tremors were felt all the way to Milwaukee to the North and Marietta (home of the big chicken) Georgia to the South. The shaking woke me up, but I didn't realize why I was awake and went right back to sleep. "Wife" however had a different reaction. I'll save you her theory as to why the bed was shaking violently enough to wake her up. Suffice it to say it involved me and an unholy activity. Why that was her first response, I'll never know, but once that thought left her dirty mind, she realized that neither Jerry Lee Lewis nor I were responsible for the whole lotta shakin' that was goin' on. I feel sorry for "Wife". One of the main reasons she gave me for fleeing the temperate climate of sunny Southern California was her almost paralyzing fear of earthquakes. To be roused from slumber by a quake in Chicago is the ultimate irony. It's as if she's being stalked by what she fears most. Well, maybe not what she fears most judging from her initial hypothesis as to the cause of the shaking.

I should stop now, but since this post has such a clever title, I better cover the other topics quickly. A cougar was shot by Chicago police the other day as it roamed untethered through a neighborhood. No, it wasn't a randy soccer mom on the hunt for a playmate, that's what I thought too, but an actual cougar. I won't bore you with the science regarding why cougars are now walking among us, but it's a little freaky. Some of the more unenlightened were angry with the police for killing the majestic cat. According to these animal lovers, the police should always be carrying tranquilizer guns in the off chance they run across a 150 pound killing machine that walks on four legs instead of two. I'm not a proponent of wholesale animal killings, but if I were heading down an alley and a cougar turned to come at me, I've got two words for you, Fire Away! Cougars are hard wired to do one thing, be cougars, which means, stalk, kill and eat things. I'd rather have a dead cougar than hear of a kindergarten kid becoming the blue plate special at the wilderness cafe.

If you couldn't tell from all the funny hats, the Pope is in the country. This is Pope Benedict 16 (I didn't look up the Roman numerals) first visit to our country. Yesterday he met with victims of clergy abuse and apologized to them. He's been having to answer questions about that issue since he touched down. It's about time. I know that sitting with the Pope can't erase the horrible things that happened to the victims, but it's good to see him make the effort after all the years of covering up the church has done in this country.

All right, I gotta run. I've got some highly technical projects I need to attend to and I'm procrastinating like Pat O'Brien is leading me down the long hall to my date with the chair. I really have no more diversions I can justify, so it's off to work. Don't miss the big show on WGN tomorrow night/Sunday morning. I could tell you we have a fun, entertaining and informative program planned, but if you listen, you already know that, so I'll just tell you that you won't be disappointed. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Just Another Mundane Monday

2008-04-14T09:11:00.003-05:00

My apologies to the Bangles for co-opting the title of their fine 80's hit. On second thought, I withdraw my apology. What are Suzanna Hoffs et al going to do? Maybe they'll walk like Egyptians over here and we can have it out. Our feud will burn like an eternal flame. I would have added some more songs to that joke, but after those three hits, the Bangles are off my musical radar. I should have chose a Journey song and then I could have run out a streak of references.

The morning started off with me listening to every windbag and mic jockey talking about Barack Obama's statements over the weekend. Since I can't get to my microphone until next Saturday, this will have to suffice. Obama said that small town people are bitter, and frustrated so they cling to religion, guns, fear those who are different and are anti-immigrant. His Democratic opponents and Republican adversaries are calling him elitist. I'm calling him honest. Have you ever spent any time in small town America? Go to any rural community that has been ravaged by the economy and see how accepting those folks are to outsiders. Some of them are carrying guns to church and then yelling at the Mexican busboys working at the Sirloin Stockade breakfast bar. Doesn't it strike you as odd that rich, white, pampered politicians are calling another politician elitist? Hell yeah he's elitist and so are Clinton and McCain. Did you get a gander at the tax returns of those people? None of them are rubbing elbows with the great unwashed on a humid Sunday afternoon at the local Wal-mart. Check all of their resumes. I guarantee there's not a GED or community college on any of them. I want my leaders to be somewhat elitist. Who wants some yahoo with bad diction and dubious dental hygiene running the country? It would be nice for them to have some contact with the real world. I want the president to know the cost of milk and gas, but I don't need him pumping his own and then running into the AM/PM for a gallon of 2%. Besides, call me crazy, but anyone who has been in the cloistered world of government for as long as any of these people have are not common folks any longer. They may want you to believe they are, but just watch the horror in their eyes as they choke down a funnel cake while stumping at the county fair and you'll know they are longing for some lobster salad in the Congressional dining room.

The rest of the day doesn't hold much excitement. How's this for glamorous? I'm off to change the sheets on the beds. See, I'm no elitist. I could have my domestics do it, but I like to keep some semblance of normalcy, that, and I have no domestics. (Post Interrupted) Hey, here's some news. I just got a call from my agent. (elitist and show bizzy) I got a call back for the commercial I auditioned for Friday. I guess they want to see a little more topless man candy. I will oblige. Look at that, mixing the mundane with the exotic to create another day in my vida loca. See what I did there? I started the post with a song and ended with a song. I'm not apologizing to Ricky Martin either. Later...Brian

Best Laid Plans and Guilt

2008-04-11T09:45:00.003-05:00

This week started out with such promise. As I told you, I was lucky enough to attend the White Sox home opener Monday afternoon. If I may quote singer/world saver Bono, "it was a beautiful day-ay-ay." The sun was shining, the kabobs sizzled invitingly on the collapsible grill, the beer flowed freely and my cigar stayed lit. The Sox winning in dramatic fashion was the icing on the cake. Things were going swimmingly as I got home and settled in for the night with "Wife and "Daughter". I should have suspected that the fickle finger of fate would point it's gnarled digit my way.

After falling into a peaceful slumber, I was awakened Tuesday morning at two by a pain I can only describe as "Holy S**t! Somebody hit me in the head with a machete!" Let's be clear, I've had my share of headaches in the past brought on by various causes, but nothing that ever yanked me from deathlike slumber. I downed four ibuprofen and slipped back into the land of nod. When the alarm went off at six, my head still felt like Joe Pesci had it in a vice and I had been caught counting cards and fondling a showgirl in Vegas circa 1967. Over the next 34 hours I ingested more pain killers than I had in my previous forty some years. I had planned on updating here more this week, but the sound of the clicking keys made me want blow up the house, but even in my altered state, I realized the explosion would most certainly be louder and more annoying. I did however have to go to an audition. It was for a prestigious theater company so I couldn't pass it up. Have you ever tried to play a Russian enforcer, complete with bad accent, while little gnomes in your head were trying to push out your eyes? Me either, but except for the gnomes, the rest is true. I'll make a long story short, since reading this is probably giving you a headache on par with mine. I took "Wife's" advice/nagging and went to the doctor. He yanked my neck around, gave me some medicine and after the frequent and recommended dosage, the headache mercifully ended Wednesday night, just in time for my heart to be ripped out.

As you know I am an unapologetic fan of American Idol. Wednesday night was the second annual "Idol Gives Back" charity drive to help save the world. I don't know exactly how much of the billions of dollars the show makes Idol actually gives back, but I do know that they want us to give, and they pull out all the stops to get their way. Only the truly heartless wouldn't be moved by film clips of children dying of AIDS and malaria in Africa or impoverished children in Kentucky and other parts of the US. You know me, I'm all heart, but come on, after the first seven clips, I get the picture. I'll make you a deal, I'll double my donation if you cut one of the clips and show me five more minutes of Fergie doing one handed cartwheels in her skin tight leather pants. Hubba Hubba! "Wife" got caught up in the moment and wanted to make a contribution, but only wanted to do so if she could make the donation to one of the top twelve Idols who were mock answering disconnected phones in the studio. I wish I were lying when I tell you she hung up at least six times because she got through to Jenny, Bob, or some other well meaning volunteer who couldn't carry a tune well enough to enter the pop culture psyche. Finally, as the finalists were performing their closing number, she relented and let some nameless, fame less, phone jockey take our money.

I'm off. I have another audition today. This one is for a commercial. Here's some horrifying news, I have to do it shirtless. I know there are some chubby chasers who might like to gaze upon my hairy form, and truth be told, I have made two TV appearances sans shirt, (no, not Cops, real shows where I got paid and built up my union health insurance), but standing in a cold room acting like an under dressed giant is making me a bit antsy. We'll see how it goes. Show biz...gotta love it. Try to stay up late or wake up at an ungodly hour Saturday night/Sunday morning for another installment of "the original and still the best" WGN Overnight. The show is still being built, but we'll have the Arcade, "Idol Chatter" and a financial expert to help us survive these tough economic times. I may even tell my riveting headache story. Don't miss it. Have a great weekend. Later....Brian

Take Me Out....

2008-04-07T07:50:00.003-05:00

To the ball game. That's the plan for today. I was fortunate enough to get an invite to the White Sox home opener and I'm as excited as a kid on Christmas. Well, that might be an overstatement since Christmas morning never included, beer, cigars, and large men in ill fitting replica jerseys. After years of missing opening day, this is my second one in as many years. I like this tradition. It makes me fell manly, American and slightly buzzed, not a bad trio.

The morning is going to be filled with the hectic assembly of chicken kabobs and a chili pepper infused cheese ball. Fancy right? Sure we could go old school and grill up some hot dogs, but we're evolved, refined tailgaters, not run of the mill parking lot cooks. "Wife" was kind enough to whip up some key lime bars to satisfy my sweet tooth and give us the sugar boost we'll need to walk to the park after hours of pre-game fun.

I know I've been gone awhile. I missed telling you about "Daughter's" Spring Break which ate up an entire week, my birthday, which was nice by the way, since I've been adopting a new attitude that seems to be making life a bit easier, and Hillary Clinton dodging imaginary gun fire. A lot of folks bashed Hillary for that, but not me. Who among us hasn't come off an exceptionally rough night and felt like snipers had taken off the top of our heads. I also had my yearly visit with the accountant to deal with the "Man". Yes, just like a large man in a velor track suit with a surname ending in a vowel, the IRS wanted their cut of my financial empire. How disappointed they must be with said cut. Wow, now that I think of it there were a lot of things that needed to be dissected here, but unlike Marty McFly, I can't go back in time. If I could, I'd have Huey Lewis put on retainer. That guy ruled, but I digress. I'm all about looking to the future.

Part of the reason I decided to make time to post this morning is because I was forced to realize again how limited our time here can be. I found out the other day that one of my neighbors died. We found out too late to go to the wake, etc. and were shocked by the news. He went into the doctor for a physical, found out he was filled with cancer and was gone in a few months. I liked the guy. He was an old school South Sider. Sometimes he said things that were a little outside the PC norm, but he seemed like a good guy. He was also a fan of this forum and would quote it whenever we saw each other. So this one's for you Denny. God speed.

I'm off. The kabobs aren't going to assemble themselves. Baseball is back. Can Summer be far away? Go Sox! Later...Brian

Topic Stew

2008-03-20T09:25:00.003-05:00

It's the first day of Spring and a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love, harmony and college basketball. That may be true of a young man, but for me, (a not so young, but not too old man) my thoughts are dominated by racism and hookers. How's that for the season of rebirth?

Tuesday, senator and presidential candidate Barack Obama gave a speech that many are calling the most important speech of his life. You know the details, and if you don't, shame on you. I bet you know who was kicked off American Idol last night. (It was Amanda, the "rock and roll nurse" in a travesty of American taste) It's almost impossible for anyone to discuss race without it dissolving into an argument, but Obama may have come the closest. He is able to look at the race issue from both sides, thanks to his background and was able to calmly address the anger on both sides of the debate. Would it have been easier to just sweep the issue under the rug? Sure, but that's almost as bad as the problem itself. While the speech won't fix the problem of race, maybe it will get a few people taking and give both sides some insight.

I'm a little confused as to why people are making such a big deal about Obama sticking by his friends. Last week he was asked if he considered accused felon and long time pal "Tony" Rezko a friend and this week he had to defend his friendship with Rev. Wright. People seemed shocked that Obama would still consider these guys friends or in the case of Rev. Wright, "like family" even though he didn't agree with their actions or words. What does that say about people and their view on friendship. I don't know about you, but I admire a guy who sticks by his friends. Obama isn't doing it blindly. He's not saying that everything his friends say and do is right. He even has said that if the allegations are true, he would be disappointed and that Rezko wouldn't be the man he thought he was. Obama also said that Rev. Wright said things he was vehemently opposed to, but he hasn't cut either man loose. Maybe it's just me, but that's what I thought friends did. You stick by your friends even when they do things you don't agree with. Part of being a friend is telling them when they're out of line. That character trait seems lost on the braying masses who can't wait for Obama or any candidate to dump people from their past at the first sign of trouble. Isn't that why we hate politicians, because they don't seem genuine? To me, Obama showed what kind of man he is. To paraphrase Tammy Wynette, stand by your friends.

From politics, it's not too big a leap to talking about hookers. Is anyone else tired of hearing about Ashley Dupre, the "high priced escort" who went down..er, I mean brought down the governor of New York? Why do we care? It goes to show you how hypocritical we are. Society looks down their noses at these women and their "business" but can't get enough of the details. From her stint as an escort, to her old Girls Gone Wild video, to the big ABC Primetime two hour special on prostitution all the way to the "Cathouse" shows on HBO we are fascinated by hookers, sex and the taboo of it all. I can understand the curiosity. I suppose that's why Dupre stands to make a killing from her story. Isn't it odd that Ashley will make good money for her story, but some twenty dollar street walker is a pariah for doing the same job in a car instead of a suite? Maybe it's because she's closer to the Julia Robert's, Pretty Woman kind of hooker we all romanticize rather that the meth addicted, cellulite ridden, pimp payin' reality.

Enough soap boxing. Here's a programming note. I'll be filling in for Steve and Johnnie, Friday morning from 2-5 am on WGN. If you're up late/early tune in. I'll have the weekend report, some amusing tales and maybe a visit from "Teddy Vegas". That's a lot to jam into three hours, but I'll do my best. Later...Brian

Is That A Blarney Stone In Your Pocket?

2008-03-17T08:50:00.004-05:00

Top of the mornin' to ya. 'Tis a great day for the Irish. Yes, it's St. Patrick's Day and as you can imagine, I'm already three sheets to the wind. That would be funny/sad if it were true. Maybe it is. You'll never know unless you're packing a Breathalyzer under your green shirt. I know there are some people who are still drunk, given the fact that the celebrations began weeks ago, but came to a head Saturday. The big Chicago St. Patrick's Day Parade kicked off the festivities and every Irish pub or sports bar that could convince their waitresses to wear a short kilt had promotions running. Some places even tried to sell their versions of "family friendly" celebrations by having Irish dancers, face painters and balloon sculptors. These "artists" always seem creepy to me. They always have a little apron dangling in front of their junk and spend an improper amount of time fishing around for the "right color" balloon. Then half way through the process of making a wild hat, or an out of proportion giraffe, they stop, and hold up a monstrosity that inevitably looks like a prop on an adult film set. Hey, if I wanted my kid to see a dildo, I'd have them take a longer look at you balloon jockey.

That being said, "Wife" and I will be taking "Daughter" to our local pub later today to let her soak up a little of her heritage while her old man soaks up a little of his motherland's liquid exports. What better way for a child to learn their history than by listening to depressing music,
eating pickled meats and watching adults drink beer and try to kiss each other because they have a silly button on their chest? I wish I were that kid. To be honest, I'm really looking forward to seeing a few of the bands today. I get a thrill out of bagpipe music and for my money, you can't beat a tin whistle.

Since we all know that timing is everything, today is also the day that senior citizens can start riding public transportation for free in Illinois. That's perfect. I can't tell you how many times I've been out on St. Patrick's Day and had the blarney scared out of me by some elderly driver who had pounded a few too many green beers having mistaken them for some type of healthy tonic. Now we can load all the hopped up seniors onto the trains and let the government take them home.

I just realized that all the time I've spent writing could have been spent in the lab perfecting my "Black and Tan" pour. There is a skill to keeping the two beers perfectly separated and I am nothing if not a perfectionist. I'll spend the better part of the day on my experiments. The good thing is, unlike cancer research or other things that really matter, even if I make a mistake, it tastes good.

Happy St. Patrick's Day! Later....Brian

Hey, Remember Me?

2008-03-14T10:00:00.002-05:00

Howdy stranger. It's been a long time. So much has happened since last we visited. I've neglected Valentine's Day, the Northern Illinois tragedy, a crazed house frau slamming into my car and even Groundhog's Day. I'm back just in time to wonder about the woman whose ass became fused to a toilet seat because she hadn't left her bathroom in two years. I've had some lengthy dealings on the throne, but usually once my legs fall asleep I call for help. Apparently she had some mental dysfunction (really?) that made her feel safe in the can. I too sometimes seek solace in the W.C., but again, once I've perused the current issue of Entertainment Weekly I call it a day and go to another room in the house. I don't care how nicely appointed your bathroom is, I can't imagine wanting to spend two years in there. Hers was not a high line, four star poopatorium either. She's a fine, trailer living nut case. Have you ever had to use the bathroom in a trailer? I'm not proud to say I have, and trust me when I tell you, five minutes in one of those aluminum cells is four and a half minutes too long. Anyway, the authorities finally got her, toilet seat and all, to the hospital where she's now undergoing a very painful and personal separation. I got stuck to a vinyl car seat one summer, and I know how much getting out of that Gremlin hurt. I can't imagine having a plastic Peerless seat scraped from my delicate hind quarters.

By now you're probably thinking,"Hey Brian, you're back, but why the absence?" No excuses. I'll thumb nail it for you. Almost three weeks of working the overnight shift filling in for the great Steve and Johnnie, doing my own shows, so much inter-family illness that a "Quarantine" sign should have been plastered to our door, a serious health scare with our oldest dog (things seem ok now) and a general sense of too much going on. See, nothing more than any of you are going through, but it makes composing witty missives seem less important. Take heart in knowing that I have been harassed by a number of people for not being more diligent. Peer pressure being what it is, I'll try harder. ( I know, you've read that before.)

Here's the part where I shamelessly plug stuff. Don't forget to listen to the big show on WGN Saturday night/Sunday Morning. I'll have lots of Irish music, and Irish trivia during the "Overnight Arcade" all to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. There are sure to be more surprises. Another thing. You know how I like to embrace technology, well I've joined Facebook. One of my fine listeners has started the "Brian Noonan WGN Overnight Fan Club". I know, I'm as shocked as you are, but flattered none the less. If you're a Facebook member, drop by and join the group. Total world domination is the goal. Have a great weekend! Later...brian

He's Not In The Book!

2008-02-08T10:58:00.000-06:00

I'm aware of the fat that I didn't share my voting story with you yesterday as planned. Usually, I have some lame excuse like "the dog ate my computer" or "I was scaling an ice covered rock face", but this time, like MC Hammer, I have an excuse that is 2 Legit 2 Quit. While perusing the website of a large metropolitan newspaper (I hate New York) in an effort to prep for the radio show, I was infected with a virus. Not your run of the mill, mucus expelling virus, but the insidious computer type. Thanks to various spy ware and virus protection programs, I was eventually able to rectify the situation. It should have been a quick fix, but since I sometimes look at the computer like my dog looks at PBS, and I have a near paralyzing fear of deleting major operating systems, the process took most of the day. Throw in the fact that I had to get a haircut, (Computer be damned. I have an image to uphold) and you have the makings of a lost day. Now without any further ado.....

I hope you were a responsible citizen and cast your vote Tuesday. You know me, I'm civic minded to the core, so after taking care of a few things I headed to my polling place, not only to vote, but to pick me up one of those sweet "I voted" stickers. Nothing impresses people like a guy wearing a sticker on his coat. Don't believe me? Just ask any conventioneer in a hotel bar. My polling place is the local library. I think that's a respectable location to cast a vote. Knowledge is power and all that, books, being informed. You follow my logic right? It sure is better than one of the places I had to vote when I lived in California. For one election I went to a person's house and voted in their garage. The ballots were then put in a blue plastic tub. That didn't seem very official. For all I knew, this was some back alley voter fraud. Did I voice my concerns? No, I just swiped the guy's lawn mower and called it even.

So I'm in the library (remember) and I approach the table to sign in and get my ballot. Seated at this table were four senior citizens who were acting as the election judges, poll watchers and gate keepers of the democratic process. The man seated in middle, put down his McDonald's Chicken
Select (I wish I were kidding) and asked my name. Since "Wife" and I have voted at the library before, he immediately found my card and I signed my name. That's when the fun started. A woman who was so old she may have been a delegate at the Constitutional Convention let out a guttural howl. "He's not in the book!" She yelled it so loud that I thought a cadre of librarians would rush in and shush us in unison. "He's not in the book!" She couldn't stop saying it. I stood before her and and noticed that, in fact, I wasn't in the book. I saw that "Wife's" name had been written in at the bottom of the page. "There's my wife's name, I'm at the same address. I've voted here before." I tried to explain. "He's not in the book!" Man, this woman was single minded. The judge who had my registration card tried assuring her that I was, in fact, OK, and that she could just put me in the book. "He's not in the book!' "Well, just put me in the book." "You can put him in the book." "He's not in the book!" After thirty seven minutes of an improvised "Abbott and Costello Meet the Founding Fathers" routine the book keeper wrapped her gnarled hand around her quill pen, pulled it from the ink well and scrawled my name in the book. The judge handing out the ballots and I didn't fare much better. I had to shout my party affiliation four times. (Maybe he didn't get it when I responded "every day!" when he asked "Party?")

I saw news footage of people using high tech, touch screen voting machines. I wasn't on the tech express. I was handed a paper ballot and a black, Bic , Write Brothers, pen. What is this ? Am I in 7th grade electing a homeroom rep for student council? This is a presidential primary. I felt like I was back in grade school taking a standardized test and filling out my Scan-Tron sheet. I could barely focus on my votes since I was concentrating so hard on keeping my pen mark inside the circle. I'd hate to think that my vote didn't count because I had failed coloring in kindergarten. (Yeah, I did, but that's another story. It does explain a lot of the choices I've made, being outside the lines and all.) I finished voting, clapped the chalk off the erasers and headed out. My sticker was a badge of honor for about ten minutes. I think I lost it somewhere in the grocery store. For the rest of the day, I was reduced to running up to people and telling them I voted.

Now that the electoral process is over for a few months (in Illinois anyway) I hope you'll stay up late or wake up early Saturday night/Sunday morning and listen to the big show on WGN. This week we'll have regular features like the Overnight Arcade and Idol Chatter, but I'll also be talking to my resident music experts from Heave Media, getting their Grammy predictions, and discussing childhood vaccines and other medical issues with the very engaging Dr. Fatima Kahn. What a show! I may even do my election story live. Think of it, these words brought to life. Dare to dream. Have a great weekend. Later....Brian

A Week Of Superlatives

2008-02-06T10:48:00.000-06:00

This week could be the most significant, top-notch, world class, incomparable, non pareil of all the fifty two that will make up 2008. That's not just me talking, that's the label attached to at lest two of this week's days.

It all started Sunday with "Super Bowl Sunday". Just putting the word "super" in front of something immediately sets it above the rest. If it weren't for "super" there would only be a man in a red cape and tights (just creepy), a bowl (boring unless it contains a yummy hot fudge sundae) or for those of you in Chicago, a dawg ( regular hot dogs can't compete). No, Super Bowl Sunday not only had the biggest game, but now the title of the biggest Sunday. The game was very exciting and lived up to it's billing. Does anyone else wonder why Archie Manning hasn't started some kind of quarterback stud farm, selling his MVP laced manberry juice to athletically challenged couples across the heartland? Good Lord, that guy can produce quarterbacks. I bet if you tried to catch a sample, it would be able to escape as many lab techs as you could muster and then still throw a completion to a waiting ovary that would clamp the seed to it's helmet and complete the play. Wow, I went a long way for that one didn't I?

Not to be outdone by Sunday, Tuesday was dubbed "Super Tuesday". I can't say I'm a fan of using the same grandiose description for a second day, but originality is a lost art. It was a super day indeed with primary elections in over twenty states. I'll share my voting tale tomorrow (hopefully), but it was exciting to watch the returns and to feel invested in an election. I know we're all invested in every election, but this one feels more significant to me. In keeping with the title of today's diatribe, let's say that this is a monumental, noteworthy, consequential, and vital election. Might I also suggest using an on-line thesaurus. Words are fun.

What to do with the rest of the week? I don't think I can go on just living out regular days. Monday wasn't "super" but it was sandwiched between two "super' days so it got a little of the residue smeared on it. Today is Wednesday. Boring! I know it's Ash Wednesday, but after I finish taking stock of my sins and begin my Easter preparation, the day still needs a nifty moniker. The weather is awful, so let's say today is "Worst Weather Wednesday". Not too uplifting, but it fulfills the superlative theme and my love of alliteration. I could go on like this, but then I take all the naming joy out of your lives. It's a fun game. Find your own adjectives and prescribe them to the days. Come on, don't be the only person on your block who isn't celebrating "Supreme Saturday". (that one's mine)

As Perry Mason used to say, "A side bar your honor." I just got news that the big show on WGN is doing very well as far as ratings. (Number 1!) That's due in no small part to all the people that listen. I want to thank you again for your support. My eventual media domination couldn't happen without you. You're unrivaled, unequaled and unparalleled. Later...Brian

Digging Out

2008-02-01T15:34:00.000-06:00

I just got back in the house after two hours of snow clearing excitement. Between the blizzard from above and the blizzard of political messages we've all been deluged with the last few days, my head is spinning.

I spent last night watching the Democratic Presidential debate. What a love fest. I thought that at the end Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton would hold their embrace a second longer and then dissolve into a passionate kiss. Where were the fireworks? Only in their eyes. The two candidates spent so much energy avoiding offending the other that they bored me silly. I did learn a little about both candidates positions, so I guess that's good. What I really learned was how much alike they were. I also enjoyed all the shots of the celebrity laden crowd. here's a thought. If you're campaigning on a platform of helping the middle class, why not let some of them into the debate? Are you or I supposed to believe that Steven Spielberg is worried about paying for his health insurance or of the bank foreclosing on his compound? I did like some of the swipes both candidates took at the Republicans. At one point, Barack even made Hillary laugh. Now there's an accomplishment. Still, I did miss some of the feud style hysterics that filled the Republican debate. I think John McCain could still whip Mitt Romney in a fist fight. With the way they're going after each other, it may come to that.

While I was being civic minded, the heavens dumped almost a foot of snow on the area. After making "Daughter" breakfast, packing her lunch and letting out the dogs, the phone rang. It was the school district's "snow tree" letting us know that school was closed. How about calling a little earlier for the families who have before school activities. Now i have a turkey sanwich in the fridg, and no one to eat it. "Daughter" was ecstatic, as for me, the jury is still out. We haven't had a snowfall this big in a while. I like the snow. It makes the yard look bigger and everything look clean. Removing it is usually a breeze thanks to my giant snow thrower, but today, the snow, with help from the village snow plow and it's unending practice of covering the lower third of my driveway with an entire community's snow, made the job difficult. I battled the elements, and I won. My driveway and sidewalks are now the envy of my neighbors. I even went the extra mile and plowed all the way to both neighbor's houses. Look at me, I'm a snow angel. I even had to clear an area in the back for the dogs to do their business. It's hard to vacate when the snow is covering the door, if you know what I mean.

I hope you can stay up late Saturday night and catch the big show on WGN. We'll have comedian Mike Schmidt and his twisted view of the Super Bowl as well as "Super Bowl Trivia" on the arcade. throw in some political talk, "Idol Chatter" and you've got yourself a heck of a show. I really appreciate all the people who listen, but I can always use more like minded, entertainment loving supporters, so tell your friends. heck, tell your enemies too. They might like the show so much you become friends. I am a snow angel, bringing people together. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

F**K 'Em If They Can't Take A Joke

2008-01-25T09:42:00.001-06:00

I don't mean to be provocative with the title of this post, but I'm really getting tired of all the politically correct, narrow minded thinking that has taken over our society. I know this is a topic that I've written about before and talked about on the big WGN show, but despite my impassioned pleas, I have not made much progress changing the hearts and minds of a humorless populous.

It seems to me that people have become incapable of taking or getting a joke. ESPN's Dana Jacobson was participating in a roast of fellow sports broadcasters "Mike and Mike". According to reports, she was "swilling vodka" and launched into what some considered a tasteless tirade. Her insults were not only directed at the dueling Mikes, but included shots at the University of Notre Dame (one of the Mikes Alma Mater) and at Jesus himself. She has now been suspended and forced to make a public mea culpa. Why? Because some people cried foul, that's why. Before some of you get your panties in a wad, let me say that I am a fan of both Jesus and Notre Dame. Both have brought me moments of joy and moments of disappointment. The latter brought on by multiple Irish losses. Most people wouldn't defend speech like Jacobson's. Who wants to come down as pro Jesus mocking? I guess I have to.

If you've never attended a roast, not the sanitized Dean Martin roasts you can buy on late night TV, but a real roast, let me enlighten you, they are raucous affairs. The purpose is to embarrass the "Guest of Honor" and insult just about everyone in attendance, especially the other people on the dais. It is a grand tradition and not for the faint of heart. The Friar's Club is known for their roasts and made the mistake of letting outsiders view one, leading to the Ted Danson black face uproar a few years ago. Tasteless jokes are not only encouraged, but they are expected at these events. The roasters have to bring their best (worst) material and deliver it fearlessly. The content is definitely not for everyone, but if you're putting on a roast, that's what you get.

I think it's fine for some to say they were offended by her remarks. The "jokes" may have been disrespectful, poorly thought out and even (the worst sin of all at a roast) not funny, but unless Jacobson was expressly told to "keep it clean" I think she was within her rights to say whatever she wanted. According to reports she was booed off the stage. That should be punishment enough. Some people shouldn't attempt humor. It's not a gift all have been blessed with, and as Dana now knows, it's not easy. The embarrassment she felt after the event would have served as her wake up call. Having to face her co-workers would have been her penance, but the P.C. Brigade wasn't satisfied with that. No one in the media is allowed to make any mistakes without having to don their sack cloth and ashes and pound their chests for forgiveness in the public square. At least Notre dame was smart enough to say that they realized the situation in which the comments were made. If only we could all be as wise as Notre Dame.

Lighten up! She screwed up in an arena that was meant to foster groans, insults and "oh no" moments. It really is a shame that just because the "jokes" were aimed at Jesus and Notre Dame, the knee jerk reaction is to make this woman suffer in public. She needs to stay on the job. Obviously she needs the cash to hire better writers.

Stay up late Saturday night to listen to the big show on WGN. I've got a lot of interesting stuff planned, but if things go as usual, those plans may fall to the wayside. I might even say something that you disagree with. Before you go crazy, take a second and ask yourself "Is he joking?". We all need to do that a little more. Have a great weekend. Later....Brian

No, This Isn't ACME!

2008-01-23T11:20:00.000-06:00

I was going to write some long winded, no doubt hilarious build up for this story, but when something is this wild, why bury the lead as they say in the newspaper business? (Despite being a "dying medium", newspapers still have some influence. How else can you explain my Drudge-like fascination with fedoras decorated with a "Press" card?) I guess I ended up sticking with the original plan. I can't help myself. Once I start writing, the words tumble out like a politician's insults.

Did you take a gander at the picture over there? Yeah dude, that's a coyote. "Wow, Brian, were you out in the wilderness, tracking the cagey beast? Were you shadowing a Nature photographer? Did you copy that picture from Google Images like you do the rest of your art work? " No, no, and no! I took this picture out my family room window. That's right, Wile E. Coyote was in my backyard. Now I could understand his visit if my yard were over run with road runners, giant strap on rockets or trays of tasty meats, but such is not the case. Except for scattered piles of frozen dog doo, which Wile E. found interesting enough to sniff a few times, my yard is bait free.

I was in the front of the house when I heard "Daughter" shrieking. I'm used to hearing her bellow, but this time her shouts sounded a little more dire. She was so excited, she couldn't even get the word "coyote" out. I must admit, I was pretty jacked myself. How often do canine predators come ambling into your yard? You would expect that my dogs were going crazy with this lupine intruder sitting out back staring at the house like he was casing the joint for an Ocean's 11 type heist. You would be wrong. Baloo, my old (13) dog, rose to the challenge despite having lost her hearing, poor eyesight and a bad hip. She stood at the door and let Wile E. know she meant business. Spike, the young (3) big dog looked out the window, then laid down on the floor without making a sound. He didn't bark until the coyote left the yard. It was like watching someone who hid during a fight, emerge from behind a dumpster and yell "Yeah, and stay out." The entire family was mesmerized watching the coyote watch us. He stayed in the yard about five minutes and then went next door, sitting in their yard, casing their house. He did the exact same thing in the next two yards, and then returned to the cover of the wet lands.

Is it sexist for me to keep calling the coyote "he"? I usually assign the masculine pronoun when unsure. I could have done a little research, but checking a coyote's sex wasn't on the top of my "to do" list.

It's very exciting for me when nature comes calling. I get a thrill out of seeing things where they don't belong. You know, things like vegetables on my dinner plate, some one's granny at a Motley Crue concert or a wild beast perusing my patio. I keep watching for the coyote's return, but alas, he hasn't made another appearance. Now I'm like the young boy from Shane, calling out "Wile E., Wile E." Maybe if I paint a train tunnel on the side of the house.... Later...Brian

The Cold Is Coming, The Cold Is Coming!

2008-01-18T10:59:00.000-06:00

Panic is setting in throughout the Chicago area today. There have been no terrorist threats, the only recent UFO sightings have been down South (which really shouldn't surprise us) and the Governor is not offering free mass transit rides to space dwelling, terrorist, senior citizens. No, the cause of the panic is the impending arrival of ...wait for it...cold weather.

The weather monkeys who populate the local media are calling for a whopping two days of sub zero temps and unholy wind chill readings and the populous is getting their long johns in a bunch. I know, freezing temperatures in January, in Chicago, does this signal the end of time? If you believe the weather monkeys, yes indeedy!

We're all being told to take measures to protect ourselves and our loved ones from the frigid climate. Oh no! Whatever will I do? Please weather monkey, give me helpful tips. Stay in the house. Got it. Wear a coat? That's a novel thought. I had already laid out my halter top and gaucho pants for tomorrow, but I guess I can throw on a coat. Remember that heat escapes from my head so I should wear a hat. OK, but then where will all my cartoon frustration be released? Should I check on my elderly neighbors? I can't. They're all out riding the buses for free. Thanks Governor. Now the streets will be littered with seniorcicles. I'm just going to pull my grill inside and fire it up to keep warm. That's no good? Thank God for the weather monkeys. I would surely perish if not for their timely and informative tips.

Here's a weather tip for you. It's January. Suck it up and do everything you can to stay warm. Simple huh? I'm off to burn my furniture. I know the thermostat would be a saner way to control the temperature of the house, but I'm crazy with fear.

If you can thaw out long enough to turn on your radio, don't miss another exciting installment of the big WGN show late Saturday night. I'm going to be visited by the "Insatiable Insomniacs" and we'll play the "Tri-Bond Challenge" during the "Overnight Arcade". Sounds fun, right? We may even talk about eating raccoons. Now that's good radio. Have a great weekend. Stay warm. Later...Brian

Ear Plugs Sold Seperately

2008-01-15T11:38:00.000-06:00

OMG! That was undoubtedly the most popular text message being sent by thousands of Chicago area "tweens" last night after witnessing the most popular thing to come along in music since the advent of the ear.

On a blustery, frigid night, the pink tour bus of Hannah Montana (no relation to Tony Montana of Scarface fame, even though they both said hello to their little friends) aka Miley Cyrus pulled into town and brought with it one of the highest grossing concert tours of the year. Tickets had sold out in minutes, but "Wife" and "Daughter" were there. The first response I got after telling some friends about my ladies (yeah, I'm Mr. 1973) heading to the show was "How the hell did you swing those tickets?" I was shocked by the tone of envy in their voices. Maybe the envy was tinged with greed, knowing that a pair of tickets to see the pre-packaged Disney musical creation could fetch thousands of dollars on the open market. That makes more sense.

I didn't have anything to do with securing the tickets. "Wife" in her infinite wisdom joined the Miley fan club, "Miley World". One of the perks of the $30 membership was that a "limited quantity" of the modern day equivalent of Willy Wonka's golden tickets would be offered to the faithful the day before the rest of the screaming masses could vie for them. At the appointed time, "Wife" went into a "refresh" button pressing frenzy which culminated in a pair of tickets in the upper atmosphere of the venue. I was informed that these precious dockets would be our Christmas gift to "Daughter", ensuring "Wife" the title of coolest mom ever.

So last night, off they went. "Daughter" had been saving money from Christmas gifts, and other gestures of generosity so that she could continue to fill the coffers of the Disney Corporation and a teenage millionaire. Normally, I try to instill some sort of fiscal responsibility into her little noggin', but last night I knew she would spend like a drunken sailor. (No offense to all the drunken sailors who are known to frequent this forum, but you know it's true, you spend like crazy after a few highballs.) "Wife" did apply some bakes to the consumer train and "Daughter" came home with the requisite concert T (priced 300% higher than my first concert T. It was the Eagles by the way.), some fake all access laminents and a $10 glow stick that "Wife" said was the must have for every girl in the place.

The revues were glowing. "It was awesome! It was better than I ever expected." was how "Daughter" phrased it. "Wife" just smiled and said loudly ( the two and a half hours of constant shrieking, not her own, had left her ears a bit tingly) "that kid puts on a really good show." According to my sources, there were backup dancers, pyrotechnics and video screens. The music was good and the hot topic of a body double was not an issue, since Hannah/Miley let her opening act sing while she transformed. "Wife" said that right before the change, Hanna and her opening act launched into a spirited rendition of the KISS classic Rock and Roll All Night. Who knew that these kids partied every day? Not the kids in the audience. "Wife" reported that thousands of little faces suddenly went slack, but the parents took the opportunity to bob their heads and shake their tail feathers.

So "Daughter's" first concert is in the books. It was a real bonding experience for both "Wife" and "Daughter" and I'm glad they were able to share it. I'm also glad I didn't have to. I don't care how loudly Hannah, Aly and AJ sing it, I doubt they really rock and roll all night. Later...Brian

Don't Cry For Me

2008-01-10T09:18:00.001-06:00

"There's no crying in baseball!" We all remember a bloated, drunken Tom Hanks character shouting those immortal words at one of his players in the fine Madonna vehicle A League of Their Own. Until the other day, I thought that was the credo for politicians as well.

A lot has been made of Hillary Clinton's "emotional moment" on Monday, so I figured I should weigh in as well, seeing as I'm widely considered a political pundit, and by "widely" I of course mean that no one in their right mind would consider me a political pundit. I just like the sound of "political pundit". It feeds my love of alliteration, and allows me to spew spittle (see, alliteration, the writing equivalent of my Achilles heel) ala Walter Matthau in Grumpy Old Men. Everyone from media "experts' to the homeless guy in the park has been spouting their opinions on the episode. Was it a calculated move by a savvy politician, or a genuine moment of emotion by a woman pushed to exhaustion? Was it a sign of weakness, or a glimpse of humanity? Wow, I'm even starting to write this like a talk show host. Feel free to pretend you're calling my show when you answer the previous questions. I have seen a lot of people cry, or get choked up, which is a more accurate portrayal of what senator Clinton did, but since I'm not a true "political pundit" but a wisenheimer I can exaggerate a little. I had never seen such behavior from a person seeking the Presidency. I've heard of the Ed Muskie incident in 1972, but the fact that I was only 9 at the time means I was not accurately following politics like I should have been. The only crying I saw was my own when my Stretch Armstrong began leaking green goop. (I can't stop)

It would be easy to dismiss the emotions of Hillary Clinton as a measured ploy to attract voters. Many people on both sides of the aisle feel that may be the case. The cynic in me feels that way too. I have first hand knowledge of the inner workings of political campaigns, (not Clinton's) and I know that all kind of strategies are implemented to garner votes. It would be easy to write the Senator's show of humanity off as just another tactic, but I won't. I'm going to tap into my inner softy and choose to believe that she was being genuine. The driven, polished politician finally showed us all that she actually is made of flesh and blood and not just hard wired by some evil computer genius like the cyborgs in the Terminator films. It was nice to see a hint of a real person lurking beneath the pant suits and pearls. I just hope the rest of the field doesn't take this as a cue to start bawling at the drop of a hat. I can't see John McCain breaking down like he's looking at a basket of kittens during some stump speech, but to be honest the thought of John Edwards having a hissy fit when his hair gets messed up fills me with glee.

I do hope that this sends a message to all the candidates that besides being informed on the issues and having a plan for the future, the voters want to believe that their leaders are people first, who do have feelings and are able to express them. I don't want my President blubbering like a simpleton all the time, but it's good to know that everything isn't always black or white. If that were the case, we'd all vote for Mr. Spock. Hey...there's an idea. See, punditry in action. Later...Brian

Back To The Grind

2008-01-07T08:52:00.000-06:00

Well it would appear that the holidays are now officially over. An unseasonably warm snap facilitated a weekend of dismantling my exterior holiday illumination and today the final nail was driven into the holiday coffin, the alarm clock rang at 6 am signaling "Daughter's" return to school. I can't say I'm too sad about the end of the season, but I do miss the Disneyesque quality our neighborhood takes on during the holidays. Now we have to endure eight gray weeks until Spring.

The end of the year has been chock full of happenings that beg to be commented on and I will get to them in good time. It was brought to my attention this weekend that more people may be visiting here than I previously imagined. The cross promotion between the radio show and this blog is starting to bear fruit. Who would have predicted it? I'm not trying to pump myself up or anything, it's just nice to hear. On the flip side, now I feel pressure to deliver. Will I "cowboy up" and bring it, or will I crumble? I love when I ask myself the tough, rhetorical questions. It makes things seem so dramatic doesn't it? Adding the life or death aspect to the blog process elevates it to a new level. Maybe "Death Blog" could be one of the games on the new version of American Gladiators. I'm ashamed to say that "Wife" and I endured over an hour of that quality programming last night. I was a fringe fan of the original version, but during fits of laughter last night, I realized that the new and improved spandex battles could be a harbinger of the end of time.

Listen, I enjoy seeing hard bodied ladies in form fitting outfits as much as the next guy, and I'm sure the ladies enjoy the cartoonish male gladiators. There is something weirdly erotic and terrifying about these characters, but after watching them beat, toss and shoot at the various contestants, I started to wonder how long it would be until the tennis balls being shot out of the cannon were replaced with real shells. One female contestant cracked her head open and you could see the crowd licking their collective chops as their blood lust was satisfied. Maybe I'm hanging out at the wrong places, but have you ever seen anyone like the "Gladiators" walking around your neighborhood? I think they're created and stored in some lab and let out only after Hulk Hogan dons his 'do rag and shouts "brother" the requisite number of times.

Enough of this. I don't feel like dwelling on my time wasting any more. I have important things to do. Look, I'm doing it again, adding gravitas to the mundane in order to infuse the events with a sense of urgency. Truth be told, I just need to shower and pick up dog doo now that the snow has melted. How's that for urgency? Later...Brian