THURSDAY

I must say, after digging out that Metallica song from my Woodstock post, I've listened to it several times. I really like that song!

Today is one of those lost blog days for me. Most of the day came and went with little inspiration. I will say this though. It was a good day - a very good day. I haven't been able to say that in quite awhile.

But enough of that depression. I do have a story to tell. But it will have to wait a day. But my train of thought is this. There was an article on Yahoo this morning that told about how some Santa Claus' in Australia are being asked to say "Ha ha ha" instead of "Ho ho ho," because the word "ho" might be offensive to women.

GIVE ME A FUCKIN' BREAK!

I'm sorry, but Jolly Old St. Nick has been around for centuries. "Hos" have only been around for 10 years or so. So Santa's got dibs!

Ha ha ha - I think I'd punch Santa in the mouth if he said that shit to me. Go ahead Santa, say it! I triple dog dare ya!

But anyway, the "Ho ho ho" reminded me of a personal story of mine from my days as a repo man in Milwaukee's inner city. It's a pretty good story. But you'll have to wait until tomorrow - maybe only 15 hours from now though.

See you on Friday!

UPS AND DOWNS

Unfortunately, that describes my life these days. Don't comment me for details. Because none are forthcoming in this blog. But suffice it to say, there have been some very depressing things as of late.

Speaking of depression, have I ever revealed that I once institutionalized myself back in 1997, after serious thoughts of suicide? Yes indeed. I was also diagnosed with depression at the time. What a downer of a blog topic, huh? But who cares. At least it fills my quota for the day.

I spent three days hospitalized, before they felt I was safe to go out and face the world again - with a handful of pills. Those were strange days indeed. Most peculiar mama. Woah!

And they let me out just in time to attend the funeral of a friend's mother. Want to know what's weird? The night she died, I actually dreamed about her. Note to others - stay away from my dreams!

WOODSTOCK 94

Back in 1994, I was presented an opportunity. I guy I knew who owned and operated a radio station, came into my video store one day and said, "Hey, do you and Meff want to go to Woodstock?" Keep in mind that this was about four days before the event was to take place. Thinking he was joking, I stammered, "Uh... sure." And then he explained.

He was given a contest giveaway by the promoters - who may have been Pepsi. I can't recall. Actually, it may have been something called "Media America." Whatever, it's not important. So anyway, he was told that the promoters had originally offered the giveaway to WAPL out of Appleton. But WAPL turned them down. The catch was that in exchange for the prize, they had to do a shitload of advertising for the promoters. So instead, they gave the contest to the guy I knew - who could care less about having to provide extra advertising.

So after listening to what he told me, I then said, "So... how am I supposed to win this contest?" His reply - "I'll rig it!"

It's nice to know people in high places, huh?

Well, the contest was for two people. There's no one else other than Meff who I would even consider for such an event. So I immediately called him. And he was onboard.

A day or two later, the guy literally did in fact have to rig the contest. I was the "lucky caller" who called in one night. And I stood right next to him as he announced on the air (around midnight) that I had won. It was a small radio station that probably didn't have any listeners that time of night. So he then called the promoters and gave our names and such. Two days later, I received a package by Fedex - two round-trip plane tickets, two tickets to the concert - and two VIP passes that allowed us to go anywhere on the concert site - with the exception of backstage. Cool!

So on Thursday night, I drove down to Meff's. Our plane left Milwaukee at some awful hour like 6:30 in the morning. So we had to be up by 4:00 or so. Meff's dad drove us to the airport. Needless to say, I got to Meff's around 11:30 at night. And between the excitement and showing him the tickets and stuff, we didn't even attempt to go to bed until after 1:00 AM. And then we couldn't sleep at all. We ended up staying up all night. Ugh.

Now, Meff says we flew Midwest. I think he may be mistaken though. My expereince with Midwest is that they have direct flights into Newark. Our flight had a layover in Cleveland - where I paid way too much for a subpar sandwich. But I digress. Neither of us could sleep on the plane. And Meff was in constant pain, as he had forgotten to take some sort of pill that keeps his ears from exploding at high altitudes.

Once we arrived in Newark, we found the promoters. Apparently there were two contest winners from every state. So there was a grand total of 200 people there. We overheard some stories about how other people had won their tickets. One station had a "gross" contest, where the winner had eaten some sort of worm sandwich. Another winner had to bob for apples in a vat of manure. In our case... we knew a guy who rigged the "contest." HEHE. No, we didn't tell them that though.

After sleeping for maybe three minutes on the floor, we were all huddled into two buses for the two-hour drive up to Saugerties, New York - about 10 miles away from where the original Woodstock had taken place 25 years earlier. We got a nice view of New York City, as we headed north up the the New Jersey turnpike.

We arrived at the site somewhere in the early to late afternoon. By this time, Meff and I were tired and miserable. We felt awful from the lack of sleep. We were shuttled off the bus and brought to a special roped-off area where there were 100 red tents lined up. Our tent area was actually about a mile's walk from the actual concert site. So we were away from the mass of humanity of 400,000 people! And the best part was, we had 24-hour security around our tent city. So we could come and go as we please, and not have to worry about our stuff. Woohoo!

We got wristbands. Then we sort of bummed around the area for a bit, before we crashed, grumpy, exhausted and tired, into our sleeping bags. People were talking all night - or so it seemed. And even though we were a mile away from the two stages, we could hear the bands playing. On Friday night, they had a series of local bands playing. We were delirious with overtiredness. Both of us regretted having done this. It literally seemed like hell. But you know what? The next morning, we woke up, and felt fine. It's amazing what 40 hours of no sleep will do to your mind and body.

We decided that it was time to eat. The concerts weren't scheduled to start until around noon. So we walked over to McDonald's. And then we got in line - the longest food line known to man! I shit you not, we waited two hours in line - for McDonald's food! They weren't selling fries. It was only burgers, fish and chicken. Plus, the manager had taken a large piece of construction paper and had covered up the entire neon menu. In its place, he wrote out the few items they were actually selling - and their "new" prices for those days. Needless to say, it was more than double what it should have been. Talk about taking advantage of a captive audience! I felt really sorry for the workers. They were overworked beyond belief.

Eventually we got our food, and found a spot in the parking lot where we could sit and eat. There was a great big wooden privacy fence behond McDonald's. And I kept noticing that people would disappear behind it - then come out on the other side. I was intrigued. I was thinking there was some sort of drug activity going on. So when I was finished eating, I took a look. I walked around some bushes, then damn near literally almost stepped on two girls - who were squatting and peeing. One of them calmly looked up at me and said, "We're here." Indeed they were. I turned around and walked away. When they came back out, I went back in, and peed myself. When in Saugerties...

We went back to our campsite and discovered there was a shuttle bus that would take us to the concert site. Cool! We hopped onboard. The shuttle was supposed to come every 20 minutes or so. But this was the one and only time we ever saw it. The second time we tried to take it, we stood in line for over a half hour. It never came. So from that point on, we always walked. It really wasn't that far anyway.

So we got off the bus onsite. And we were immediately hit with that familiar scent of marijuana hanging in the air. I hadn't smelled it in years. But there's no mistaking it. And after awhile, it felt like you could get buzzed from the secondhand smoke alone.

So there we were, walking around in a giant field. We sort of walked in the direction of the stages. We saw a variety of acts playing at one time or another. But we didn't really settle in and actually watch and enjoy them. But we made a point to try and see Crosby, Stills & Nash. They were playing on the north stage - the main stage for the "big" acts. And then we ventured into the sea of humanity. Little tents set up everywhere - people milling about - no real walking paths. We went in a little ways, then turned around and came back. The whole process took about 90 minutes. We didn't make it very far. But we did see just about the whole set. The crowd went nuts when they were singing their song "Woodstock" and got to the line "By the time we got to Woodstock, we were half a million strong..." Remember, this band played their first professional gig together at the first Woodstock back in 1969.

We ventured back out and sat down to relax on a hill near the south stage. And then the rains came. And it rained, and rained, and rained, and rained. We went back to our tent - for what good it did us. By the time we'd walked that mile, we were soaked. At some point that day, we ventured out once the rain stopped. We discovered that a woman at a nearby house had opened up a hot dog stand in her front yard. At $1.00 per hot dog, it was a much better deal than the McDonald's food. And the wait time was a normal minute or two - as opposed to two hours. From that moment forward, every meal we ate was hot dogs.

In another blog, Meff mentioned the port-a-potty situation. Yes, they had them. However, they apparently didn't have enough. Because they filled to the top by Saturday morning. This wasn't just the port-a-potties in our tent area. No, this was the situation with every port-a-potty in the entire concert area. I read a review of the festival a few weeks later. The review made mention of the place stinking. It did indeed. From that moment on, we simply used them for peeing - if they were used at all. And for the record, neither Meff nor I dropped a deuce the entire time we were there. We simply refused to let it happen. Thankfully, our bodies must have sensed the problematic situation. Because they fully cooperated.

We went back to the concert site that afternoon. And what had once been a nice green field, was now a gray sea of mud. There was no grass left anywhere. The place was a mess. We were immediately approached by a guy in a pickup truck. He was selling shirts and sweatshirts in a shop onsite. He said we could each pick out a free one, if we'd each be willing to carry a box up to his location. Meff and I said sure - as did four or five other people. It seemed easy at first. The boxes weren't that heavy. However, they were large and very awkward, making them extremely difficult to get a good hold of. After two minutes, we realized we were on the boxed equivalent of a death march. This guys's location was quite a ways away. And it may have taken us 15 minutes to get there. The summer heat was beating down on us - no doubt helped by the humidty of the post-rain. So when we finally got there, we were all dripping from sweat. I grabbed the most expensive sweatshirt he had. I earned it!

The mud was thick and gray. At one point, I sunk so far into it that my shoe came off. I had to carefully place my foot back into it, then squirm around to try and get it unstuck. What a weekend...

There was a schedule of performances. Bob Dylan was coming on at 5:00, as I recall. So we got down near the north stage to get ready. I noticed a special fenced-off area, just to the left of the stage. And the people going in there seemed to have the same VIP passes that we had. I said to Meff, "Let's try it." Meff was his usual hesitant self. But he simply got behind me and let me lead the way. And sure shit, that area was for us! We walked right in, and got a killer view of the stage. From that point on, this is where we always went. We found ourselves leaning on a chain-linked fence, getting a nice view of the shows.

Bob was in rare form that night. The usually slurry-voiced folk-singing God sang every lyric as clear as day - and in tune! The highlight was when he sang "Rainy Day Women No. 12 & 35." That song repeatedly features the lyric, "Everybody must get stoned." Now in all fairness, the song means that literally - getting stoned with rocks thrown at you. But I think it's fair to say that when Bob wrote it, he had a double meaning in mind. The audience latched onto that second meaning. And there was plenty of pot-smoking all around.

Each artist was to play roughly 90 minutes. Then the stage would be redone for 30 minutes to prepare for the next act. Nine Inch Nails (who Meff and I had no interest in) were to come on at 7:00, followed by Metallica at 9:00. Aerosmith was supposed to close the show on the north stage on Saturday night. They were scheduled to come on at 11:00. We both wanted to see them. So we left to get some hot dogs, and planned to be back by 11:00.

We headed out around 10:15, and got down to our special VIP area around 10:45. To our surprise, Metallica was still playing. In fact, we learned that their set had just started. I guess Nine Inch Nails must have gone long. So what the hell. I liked a couple of Metallica's songs. So we stayed. And I'm glad we did! Metallica was the highlight of the festival. Those guys fuckin' rocked! The audience was eating it up. They must have gotten a little rowdy too, as every five minutes, members of the "Peace Patrol" (the security) would carry someone out on a stretcher and take them backstage. We were on the other side of the fence, right next to the backstage entrance. So we saw every one of them. I think people just got a little over-moshed. No one looked seriously hurt.

For their last song, Metallica played a song entitled "So What." Neither of us had ever heard of it before. In fact, I've since learned that it wasn't available on any Metallica album in the U.S. at the time. But they performed it live quite often. For those of you unfamiliar with this little ditty, it features lyrics like, "I fucked a sheep. I fucked a goat. I rammed my cock right down its throat. So what!" It's a delightfully vile song. At one point, Meff turned to me and said, "I like this song!" I couldn't agree more! And thanks to the miracle of Youtube, here is the exact performance we saw from that very night. Watch it. It's only three minutes long. It's just fast, hard, rock and roll. And it is a catchy tune too. Tell me you don't enjoy it!



Metallica ended their performance after that song. Then it was time for Aerosmith. About 40 minutes later (about 1:15 in the morning) the boys from Boston came on. And just as they started singing, the rains came again - another downpour. At this point, Meff had had enough. He decided to go back to the tent. I chose to stay. I figured that by the time I walked a mile back, I'd be soaked anyway. So I might as well stay, get soaked, and watch the show. And stay I did. Aerosmith put on a great show as well. And this is where I got one of the most surreal moments of my life. During their encore, they finally played their classic "Dream On." As expected, every lighter in the place went up. And there I was, in the middle of a muddy New York field, at 3:30 in the morning. The sky was dark. There were hardly any lights. Yet the flames of those lighters cast a golden glow over 250,000 people, while the band played on. It was an absolutely incredible sight to see. No photogrpahs could have done it justice. You just had to be there. I'm glad I was.

After the show, I unwedged my feet from the muddy footprints I'd made. I then made it out to the park road, and back out of the site. I then wandered past a few houses on the main street, where I saw kids strewn about, just laying in people's yards, and in some case, laying on the side of the road, sleeping. Again, too surreal. I kept wondering about Meff, as this was the first time we'd been apart the whole time. But alas, he was safe and sound back in the tent. By now the rain had stopped. And I was remarkably dry by the time I went to bed.

On Sunday, I think we went back to the concert site just once. We'd basically had enough. And there were no big acts that we were really interested in. Peter Gabriel would have been nice. But again, we could hear him singing from our tents. So we stayed put. By 7:00 Sunday night, the festival was over, and people began the leaving process. Our bus didn't leave until Monday morning. So we had one more night. The next day, as we were packed and waiting for our bus, another guy pulled up in a truck and tried to sell us some T-shirts. They were probably bootlegs. But hell, they were something like two for $5.00. So I bought two.

I recall nothing about the bus ride back, nor the experience at the Newark Airport. But I do recall our layover in Cleveland. Believe it or not, we ran into two fellow concert-goers. And this couple actually had photographs they'd developed at some one-hour place. That was cool.

I must have been quite a sight when my parents picked me up at the airport. My once-colorful shoes were now dark brown. I hadn't showered, shaved (or shit) in three days. But I was alive. Incidentally, when I got home, I scraped off a bunch of the dried-up mud from my shoes, and put it in a bag. I still have that bag today - my souvenir - genuine Woodstock 94 mud.

I have some pictures from that weekend. They're up at my parents' home. One of these days, I'll retrieve them and post them here. Again, this was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. But would I do it again? Hell yes! (Well, at least back then I would.)

WILL BLOG FOR WOODSTOCK

Well, reading Meff's blog today reminded me of a very interesting memory we shared together - Woodstock '94. Yes, us two schmoes attended that three-day bonanza. And how surreal it all was.

So that clinched it for me. Tomorrow I shall blog about the experience, as best as I can recall it. I'd do it today. But screw that! I already did a decent-sized blog entry today - read the post below this one. And this whole blog-a-day thing sometimes leaves you struggling for topics. Now I got one. And I will appropriately save it for tomorrow.

Hey, I just blogged twice today! I'm such an asshat!

PATRIOTISM

There seems to be a bit of patriotism floating around this blog area. It makes me question my own. Do I have national pride? I do indeed. I don't outwardly show it. But it is there. For years, I've wanted to have a flag on our home. And years ago, we got the flagpole at least. But alas, laziness prevailed - like it often does. The flagpole rests in our garage today.

My late-grandpa fought in two wars - WWII and Korea. He was a commander in the Navy. He never much spoke about his days in the service. But every now and then again, a story or two would emerge. To this day, I regret not probing him for more. because I don't think he had any problem talking about it. He just wasn't a big talker in that regard.

Some things I do recall. I remember him telling me about swimming in the middle of the ocean, while a couple of the other sailors would stand guard and watch for sharks. He also told me that his ship once ran smack dab into a Japanese mine. Fortunately, the mine was a dud. For had it exploded, his ship would have sunk.

My grandpa was in the pacific during WWII. One of his jobs was to pilot the great big ships that would carry troops, tanks and supplies to land. He would drop them off, then head back out for more. Picture the beginning of the film "Saving Private Ryan" to get the idea of his duties. The only difference was he was in the pacific, while the film shows similar actions in France.

He did tell me once that while on patrol on an island somewhere, he accidentally stepped on a dead Japanese soldier. His ship also had to deal with the onslaught of kamikaze pilots. For the record, he said the kamikazes were mostly ineffective, as they could simply shoot them out of the sky (for the most part) before they were able to crash into the Naval vessels.

Lastly, in early August, 1945, my grandpa's ship (among countless others, no doubt) received new orders. They were to proceed to Japan and launch an attack on Tokyo. To this day, I have never heard any news story that told of this plan. But my grandpa insisted it was true. While he wasn't a captain onboard the ship, from what I understand, he worked closely with him. So he was privy to some information that not everyone else was. The assault was expected to be a very tough one. Anyway, they set sail for Japan. However, prior to their arrival, the United States apparently had a different idea. On August 6th, they dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima. Three days later, they dropped another one on Nagasaki. Based on same, the Japanese surrendered, thus ending the war.

And that's about all I know. My grandpa fought in two major wars, and lived to tell about it. I only wish he would have told a little more.

THIS ASSHAT BLOGS ABOUT SURVIVOR CHICKEN

Great title, huh?

It's Sunday morning at 11:11 as I begin this blog entry. I believe it's going to take about 50 minutes to complete it.

Being Sunday, and November in Wisconsin, this means only one thing to most of the population. No, it's not church. It's Packer football. Yes, I am one of the devoted followers. And while I may not eat, drink and breathe everything Green Bay Packers, I am a huge fan. In fact, I'm an owner. Yes, I am one of the shareholders of Green Bay Packers Inc. I own one share. What does that get me? Not much. The stock has no monetary value. It's basically worthless. But it does offer one thing - pride of ownership. Oh, and it also lets me attend the annual shareholders' meeting in July. I went one year. It's very boring. It's all pie charts and revenue information. However, I think I may go again this year. Now that the novelty has worn off, the actual number of people who attend those meetings has dwindled down to maybe 20 or 30. And last year, those lucky folks got a guided tour of Lambeau Field. They also got free ice cream. Yes, myself (and a guest of my choosing) are going this summer.

So anyway, this leads me to Survivor Chicken. What is this you say? Well, several years ago, my wife and I stole a recipe from my dad. We tinkered with it a little bit, and came up with a beauty of a meal. We began a tradition of eating this meal on Thursday nights at 7:00 - when one of our favorite shows (Survivor) starts.

These days, as my wife and I are eating healthier, we haven't followed the tradition. But we're making it today. My parents are coming down today, and will be here by noon - kickoff for Packers Vs. Vikings. It's also the day we're celebrating my dad's birthday. So we thought we'd make our favorite meal.

Here's what it looks like right now.



Here are the tools of the trade.



What exactly is the recipe? Well, you put a little olive oil in the pan, then place the chicken (we prefer all thighs) in it. Then the key ingredient - McCormick's original chicken seasoning. You douse the chicken with it. See below.



Then you just cook it. When it's close to done, you boil some rice on the stove as well. Once the chicken is done, and removed from the pan, you take the boiled rice, and dump it into the chicken pan. Then you mix it up with all the cooked chicken residue. Note, if there's too much grease in the pan, use a baster to remove some of it. You don't want the rice to be swimming. Look down to see it.



Then it's time to eat. Personally, we like to take that chicken seasoning and douse the rice with it as well. And I like to take the chicken skin off, and mix it in with the rice. Yes, I know full well that chicken skin isn't the most healthy thing to eat. But damn! It's ever so tasty! And like I said, we haven't eaten this meal in a long time.

This dish may be the main (non-sexual) reason I will never leave my wife. That and the fact that she's so darn beautiful.

Oh, incidentally, I was bored the other day. So I did an internet search for "survivor chicken." And amazingly, I found this. SURVIVOR CHICKEN Incidentally, his recipe is completely different from ours. But his name origin is exactly the same. Interesting.

Got to go. It's kickoff, and time to eat!

ALL HAIL JJ MANNERS!

And her double entendres.

I think I'm in lust.

And all hail my lovely wife for having no problem with my extra lusting.

SATURDAY

S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y NIGHT!

With those immortal lyrics, the Bay City Rollers took over America in 1976. Hailed by some critics as the next Beatles, they were virtually washed up by 1977. Oh well. At least they left us with one memorable tune - a nice catchy tune. Check it out below. Granted, it's an obvious lip-syncing performance. How can you tell? Well, the lead singer (the drummer) doesn't even have a microphone.



So it's Saturday morning as I type this. My wife is at work. And I'm playing daddy. Our oldest daughter (age 4) starts basketball at the YMCA in about an hour. While she does that, I'll put our youngest (age 2) into their kid care. Then I'll get my workout in. The rest of the morning and afternoon will be reserved for various domestic duties such as washing dishes, doing laundry, and generally cleaning up.

Blogging on the weekend is hard. Why is it so much easier to blog from work? Anyway, perhaps I'll have more later. Until then, here's another Saturday song - some vintage Elton John.

HORNINESS?

What was I thinking yesterday? I know I had something good to talk about. But for some reason, I can't remember what it was. Strange, I can remember vivid events from grade school, 25 years ago. Yet I can't recall a blog topic from less than 24 hours ago.

I must be getting old. Is 36 old? Perhaps it is.

Well, I'll try to tackle it anyway. Of course this subject is somewhat risque. And as at least one of you knows, my mother discovered my class blog a few months ago. But has she ventured over to this one? I don't think so. I've given her strict orders that I absolutely will NOT discuss ANY information listed on that class blog. There are some things that a parent simply should not know. And several of those things are revealed in that blog of mine. There has been an occasion where I revealed something, or remembered something I'd posted, and I'd say to myself, "Oh God, my mom knows THAT too?" Yikes! That is why the blog is off limits for discussion. It's my coping mechanism. It's called denial.

So anyway, horniness. What was I going to say? I don't know. So how about some theories then? I'm 36. According to all the experts, my sexual peak was 19 years ago - a time when I was barely getting any, if at all. No, I didn't have a way with the ladies back then. If you'd have seen me, you'd understand why. I looked like a mess. I was always clean. But I looked "unkept." My hair was ridiculous. But again, it was clean. And had you smelled it, you would have discovered the scent of Pert Plus, or Head & Shoulders - or whatever brand my parents were buying at the time. Ask Tina Short! She used to pet my hair during our senior year. She said it felt like cat hair - nice and smooth. I wasn't "getting any" from Tina either. Not that I wouldn't have minded it though. She was cute - and a lot of fun. My friend Jason was going out with her. He was a lucky guy.

I'm digressing. So anyway, what I was about to say is that I think my personal horny level has peaked over the last few years, and shows no sign of regressing. How is that possible? I don't know. But I'm not complaining. I guess my theory is use it lose it! Keep its usage up, and it will keep coming back for more.

Too much information? Perhaps. But when I'm behind a keyboard, anything goes!

This blog-a-day thing is fun. Now the real test - the weekend. Maybe it's time for some pictures too.

SURVIVOR

Yes, it is Survivor night. The show that ushered in the still-neverending plethora of reality shows is one of my guilty pleasures. My wife is just as guilty. In its now 15th season, I can admit that I've seen every single episode - every one!

Of course it helps that in my office, we have an office pool. I won it once. I've finished second (which gets me nothing) a few times.

Anyway, enough about Survivor. Let's move on. For reasons that will remain unsaid, I had a pretty cool night last night. Everything that I'd hoped for occurred. Ah... nice.

How cryptic!

Life update - I am down 40+ pounds since June 4th. I've been taking my time, doing it right. There's no magic pill or no massive starvation diet. I'm just eating much healthier foods, and exercising everyday. My wife and I have taken to going to the YMCA everyday. I run (more of a fast walk actually) 30 minutes everyday, at a 30-degree incline, at 4MPH. I usually burn off 720 calories in that time. It's a great workout! I sort of dread it. But I feel so good when it's done - like I've accomplished something. And the proof is in the belly - or lack therof.

I have a somewhat deep question to ask. But I'll save it for a later date - if I get myself an audience.

On another note... horniness. On second thought, I'll save that topic for tomorrow.

WRITER'S BLOCK

So I'm sitting here at work. Well, I'm at my place of employment. But at the moment, I'm not really working. I'm blogging.

So it's day two of my own "blog-a-day" thingy that I started five days too late. So sue me. But anyway, I have nothing to write about.

Life is ok these days, could be better.. But things are always looking up. We could use more money. Who couldn't? Oh, here's some news. I am officially a published author! Yes, that's right. An article I wrote a few months back has in fact been published in Midwest Airlines in-flight magazine, "My Midwest." And I got paid a handsome fee for my 1100 words! If you're at all interested, check it out! Follow the link. MY MIDWEST

THE FLINTSTONES

So, I will try to do this story justice. But my wife thinks this is one of those moments in which you just had to be there. We shall see.

Last night we sat down to dinner. We did so in front of the television. Sad? Sure. Whatever. I make no apologies. Anyway, my girls have taken to "The Flintstones." That warms my heart to no end! Anyway, we were watching an episode while we ate.

It was the episode where Fred and Wilma switched jobs for the day. Fred was under the impression that a stay-at-home mom's work isn't "real work." He thought he could pull it off, and considered it a "vacation day." In the meantime, Wilma went to work at the quarry for Fred.

So, Wilma discovers (just as Fred does) that each job is difficult. She keeps screwing up and dropping giant boulders (with the aid of her dinosaur) all over the place, nearly hitting fellow coworkers.

Well, in one scene, Wilma's not so lucky. Fred's boss, Mr. Slate, comes over to find out what's going on. And all of a sudden, Wilma drops a giant boulder right on top of Mr. Slate's head - which forces him into the ground. My wife sees this scene and immediately takes a big breath of shock, while at the same time, lifting her right hand to her chest. Now granted, had this been a real man, on a real construction site, there would have been cause to do that, as the result of the boulder would most likely have caused instant death to the unfortunate recipient.

But this was a cartoon. Mr. Slate calmly slid the boulder out of the way, and climbed out of the hole, no worse for wear.

And I began to laugh. And I continued to laugh. Pretty soon my sides were hurting and I was coughing. My lovely wife, realizing what she had done, also began to laugh. When I was finally able to regain my composure, I put my hand on her shoulder and calmly said, "It's ok. It's just a cartoon. Mr. Slate is going to be fine."

And we both laughed some more.

I hope I did this story justice. It was one of the funniest moments we've shared in a long time!

BRITNEY SPEARS

Ok, let me say off the bat that I can't stand Britney Spears. I've always said that she has two talents - the left one and the right one. For those who can't read through my subtle humor, I am of course referring to her boobs. I don't think she can sing. Her voice sounds metallic. Her music sucks. She comes across as an absolute airhead. She's a train wreck of a person. She appears to be a bad parent. She's been in and out of rehab.

In a nutshell, the girl's a fricken' mess.

Despite the anti-Britney stance I've had for years, I've always been attracted to her physically. I've often commented on how ashamed I've been to have to admit to that. But damn! The girl has always been smoking hot! Who cares what she sounds like. Britney Spears is the reason God created the mute button.

So last night she made her "comeback" at the MTV Video Music Awards. No, I didn't watch it. But this morning, I've seen tons of news reports on how she bombed. According to the reports, she looked fat, out of shape, forgot to lip sync, looked lethargic, and generally appeared uninterested. Word is she broke out in tears after she walked offstage.

If Britney Spears were to disappear and never be heard from again, I'd be just fine with that. Let's face it, her core audience was a bunch of 10-year-old girls. Those girls are all grown up now. No one is going to buy her music anymore. She's done.

But holy crap, they say she's fat and out of shape? Give me a fuckin' break! Sure, maybe she's put on 15-20 pounds. But she still looks great! Plus, she's given birth to two kids! Find me a woman alive who wouldn't want Britney's body (minus the alcohol intake) after having two kids.

The evidence is below. Given the opportunity, I'd be all over that like a cheap suit. Since her star has fallen so far, maybe I've got a chance now. Probably not, but it's nice to dream.

DEAR ABBY

I found this column in Friday's paper. It moved me. So I'm posting it here.


MOTHER LEARNS LATE IN LIFE TO ACCEPT GAY SON AS HE IS

DEAR ABBY: My husband and I raised our two sons and two daughters. One son and both daughters married well. Our other son, "Neil," is gay. He and his partner, "Ron," have been together 15 years, but Neil's father and I never wanted to know Ron because we disapproved of their lifestyle.

When I was 74, my husband died, leaving me in ill health and nearly penniless. No longer able to live alone, I asked my married son and two daughters if I could "visit" each of them for four months a year. (I didn't want to burden any one family, and thought living out of a suitcase would be best for everyone.) All three turned me down. Feeling unwanted, I wanted to die.

When Neil and Ron heard what had happened, they invited me to move across country and live with them. They welcomed me into their home, and even removed a wall between two rooms so I'd have a bedroom with a private bath and sitting room -- although we spend most of our time together.

They also include me in many of their plans. Since I moved in with them, I have traveled more than I have my whole life and seen places I only read about in books. They never mention the fact that they are supporting me, or that I ignored them in the past.

When old friends ask how it feels living with my gay son, I tell them I hope they're lucky enough to have one who will take them in one day. Please continue urging your readers to accept their children as they are. My only regret is that I wasted 15 years. -- GRATEFUL MOM


DEAR GRATEFUL MOM: You are indeed fortunate to have such a loving, generous and forgiving son. Sexual orientation is not a measure of anyone's humanity or worth. Thank you for pointing out how important it is that people respect each other for who they are, not for what we would like them to be.

You could have learned that lesson long ago, had you and your husband contacted Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG) when you first learned that Neil was gay. Among other things, the organization offers support groups and education for parents who need to learn more about gender issues. (The address is 1726 M St. N.W., Suite 400, Washington, D.C. 20036.)

I INVENTED "DROP A DEUCE"

By now we've all heard the line. "I got to drop a deuce." What does it mean? To be blunt, it means that you have to take a shit - pinch a loaf, go poop, drop a load, make dookie... Whatever you wish to call this crude act of nature is fine by me. But everytime I hear the phrase "drop a deuce" I cringe a bit. Why?

Because I invented the phrase.

I can't take full credit for it however. Meff, my partner in grammar-related crime, also had a hand in it. (Not literally. That was Doug Wall. But that's another story. See my other blog for the details.)

Back in the early-1990's, Meff and I began to refer to certain things with our own terms. We would often borrow lines from movies or whatever. For instance, a woman was simply refered to as a "hello." But it wasn't just any hello. You had to say it in a lecherous voice - sort of like Lenny & Squiggy did in Laverne & Shirley. I know what you're asking now. What were men called. Well... we simply referred to them as "pumpernickles." Yes, there is an original for that phrase. But don't ask. I could tell you. But there really is no coherent explanation to it. So why bother.

Ever heard of the word "loud?" Of course. But we didn't use it. Instead, we replaced the short word "loud" with a much longer phrase: "Ranken's mother's fart hole." In other words, if we were to walk into a loud bar or something, we might say, "Wow. It's like Ranken's mother's fart hole in here!"

Again, don't ask. Hell, I'll bet Meff can't even recall where that one came from.

We used the word "khan" for a variety of purposes. But overall, it usually referred to something being affirmative. "Should we get a pizza?" "Mmm... khan!"

I can't even tell you where that one originated.

But anyway, we also used terms to describe our toilet-related bodily functions. We expanded on the classics #1 and #2. For peeing, we simply used the word "solo." So if we had to go to the bathroom, we might say, "I got a solo brewing." If we wanted to state our intentions without using a full sentence, we would just utter the phrase, "solo." But you couldn't just say the word. You had to say it in a low, monotone voice - like Jabba The Hutt did in Return Of The Jedi, when he pointed out Han Solo (Solo!) hanging in his chamber, frozen in carbonite.

As for the act of defecation, I coined the phrase "deuce." Meff immediately approved. I believe the confirmation took place in my parent's TV room in their 9th St. home in Manitowoc, back around 1990 or 1991. Over the years we would often say things like, "I've got a deuce brewing" or I gotta drop a deuce." And then of course there was the dreaded "creamy deuce."

At some point, a year or two later perhaps, both of us were sort of getting into the band Kiss. We'd each purchased the Kiss greatest hits CD, "Double Platinum." One of the songs on the album is called "Deuce." It's from 1974 or something. The last line of the chorus is, "He's worth a deuce." What that means is a mystery to me. But Meff and I surmised that it fit perfectly with our own meaning of the word. You know how people sometimes say things like, "He ain't worth shit!" Well, in the context of the song, the character who was "worth a deuce" was also a hard-working man. Therefore, this guy was "worth shit" - the opposite of "ain't worth shit." Makes sense, huh? Well it did to us!

We used that phrase for years and years. While some of our other bizarre terms may have died off, this particular one stuck.

Then one night in the summer of 2000, my wife and I were watching the very first season of Survivor. There was a contestant named Sean Kenniff. He finished fifth. But a few weeks into the show, he commented into the camera, something to the effect of, "I haven't dropped a deuce since I got here."

I stood up from the couch and screamed! That's my term! I was shocked. I immediately called Meff and told him about it.

Since that time, the term deuce has now found its way into the American language. I still get a bit bothered everytime I hear it. But I guess I should be proud. I gave birth to a new catch phrase! And I give credit where credit is due. Meff contributed as well. Without his approval, there would be no deuce today!

Earlier today, I spent some time exploring the origins of the phrase "deuce" - as it applies to shit. Most of the entries I discovered were found in online urban dictionaries. Most of them were from the early 2000's. However, I did find one earlier reference from November, 1999. But still, that's a good eight or nine years after Meff and I coined the phrase.

I will admit that there could very well be other people out there who may have coined the same phrase on their own. So be it. But that doesn't change the fact that Meff and I also coined the phrase on our own - a phrase that neither of us had ever heard uttered before. And now, 16 or 17 years later, that term is fully engrossed in our pop culture.

So the next time you drop a deuce, I want you to think of me!

What a legacy.