Way Back Wednesday #4

I know I haven't posted recently, my holidays have been busy. Christmas was good, family behaved, I didn't act a fool in front of The Girlfriend's parents. It's all good. So here is a Way Back Wednesday, originally posted April 22, 2005. Enjoy.

Parting The Seas


Since the topic has been vomit recently, I thought I would retell another adventure I had.

At one time, I was living in Memphis and dating a girl in Louisville. I was pretty enamored with her and was very eager to impress. She decided to visit me one weekend and I went overboard with the preparations in my usual manner. I called my sister, who married an Italian from New York, and got the Bonnono family spaghetti recipe. It was a pretty serious concoction with three different kinds of meat and then fried meatballs along with it. I spent all day cooking it and was very pleased with the result.

Around five that afternoon, just about the time I was expecting my company, she calls and gives me some lame excuse about snow flurries and how her mom doesn't want her to drive. Forget the fact that she was out on her own and had recently bought a four wheel drive Jeep, I knew it was a lame excuse because the weather channel made no mention of snow. I found out later that I was just something (or someone) to do unless a better offer came along.

Refusing to wallow in my misery, I called four of my buddies and told them I had an Italian feast ready to eat. Naturally, they swarmed my house. One of them brought one of those huge bottles of cheap wine and we all began to eat and drink like it was our last meal. I certainly drank more than my fair share, trying to numb the heartbreak I was feeling.

Once we were finished with dinner, somebody suggested a movie. I don't even remember what we went to see, but I recall the theater being full. Since I didn't feel like I had punished myself enough, I insisted that we stop by the liquor store and buy some bourbon or rum or some other bottle of devil's urine to sneak into the theater. I got my big cup of coke and whatever and downed it completely, barely pausing to breathe.

Shortly thereafter, my body started giving me the signals that I had imbibed too much. The dry mouth, the spinning room, etc.

A short pause to brag. I am a professional puker. That is not to say I puke a lot, but when I heave, I always empty my stomach into a container. None of this cleaning carpet or wiping off the couch for me. It is one of my few true talents.

So the chunky style, partially digested dinner began to make it's way back up my esophagus. I grabbed the big gulp cup that I had just emptied and made the most god awful noises filling it up. The poor bastards in the rows in front of me were not aware of my professional standing in the North American Society of Professional Pukers (N.A.S.P.P.). I don't remember much from that night, but I remember thinking that this must have been how Moses felt parting the Red Sea. The four or five rows in front of me must have experienced a mass panic. Men were climbing over girlfriends, children were being trampled, and I swear I heard a cat make a sound like it had caught it's tail in a blender. The entire theater had spread out and began to look back for the culprit and the victims that he had hosed with vomitus.

I sat there holding my cup full of chum and eventually figured out that they were looking for me, so I began to look over my shoulder for the offender. Ushers came down the isle, the movie was completely disrupted, and the only people that knew I had done it were my friends. They were laughing so hard that the manager soon came down and began to ask if anybody needed help. They all began to point at me (with friends like that), but in the darkness it just looked like I had a full soda. All of the employees began to shine their little flashlights between the seats looking for the disaster that surely must be waiting for them. Eventually, finding nothing out of the ordinary, they left and everyone's attention returned to the movie.

I feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch that found that cup of vomit.



I wake up every day and go to bed every night knowing I'm the luckiest guy on the fucking planet.
-Hugh Hefner

Way Back Wednesday #3

I originally posted this in another blog on April 16, 2005. Enjoy the third installment of "Way Back Wednesday."




Beer For Bait

In February of this year, a friend and I went to Clearwater Beach for some sunshine and fishing. I'm not really the bubba type that hangs out on a levee all day with a cane pole and some hotdog pieces for bait, but I do like to go deep sea fishing. It's just being out on the water more than anything else, although I do enjoy taking my catch to the local "Crabby Bill's" so they can cook it for me.
The first day we were there, the water was a little choppy, so the boat we had chartered wouldn't go out. Desperate for some pole time (take a deep breath out there strippers), we ended up finding one of those large boats that takes about 40 or 50 people out. The pros of a trip like that include the fact that they sell beer on the boat and even though it was pretty early in the day, I started knocking back the golden nectar of the gods, drinking them quick enough that they didn't have time to become tepid.
Meanwhile, there was a family next to me that obviously didn't have their sea legs yet. It seemed that three generations had decided to test the waters that morning, a young son, about eight or nine, his dad, a large tattoo covered man that I suspected was on leave from the military, and grandpa, who had his floppy fishing hat complete with lures embedded into the brim. Well, the little boy was oblivious at first to the prow of the boat crashing up and down with the waves and quickly pounded down two Sprites, a bag of potato chips, some peanuts and a chocolate bar. Fifteen minutes later, while I was on my fourth beer, pee wee looked a little green around the gills. Sure enough, he bellied up to the rail and began to chunder over the side of the boat. This is when the true hilarity of the scene began. Dad's breakfast began to rebel on him and he soon joined his son, hurling huevos rancheros and god knows what else into the Gulf of Mexico. Feeling left out, gramps began to do his best yak imitation.
So I'm sitting there, getting more fucked up than a two dicked billie goat, watching three generations heave their guts out. It reminded me of an Adam Sandler movie and my only regret is that the last two living cells in my brain didn't tell me to take a picture. It would have ruled on ratemyvomit.com.

Apolo Ohno I'm Not

I have become fascinated with hockey, that's no secret. I've been going to Predators games for a couple of years now and the athleticism these guys display impresses me. They seem more graceful on two thin blades of steel than most people do walking and yet when somebody gets out of position I have found myself thinking "I could have gotten to that puck."

Keep in mind, the last time I was on ice skates was around 1983. I skated for an hour and my ankles hurt for a solid week afterward.

One day last week I was surfing the Preds website and found a link for adult amateur hockey. A light bulb goes off and I say to myself "That sounds like fun!" One problem. See above. I'm pretty sure that my teammates would insist that I knew how to skate. So, on the same page, I find the open skate schedule for the same rink. Since I'm not working (buwahahahaha) yet, I decided on a whim to go ice skating today.

I was fairly tentative at first, holding onto the rink boards as I gingerly moved around the oval. As I gained a little more confidence, I let go of the boards and skated on my own. There were some bobbles and a lot of arm waving (I'm sure it looked like I was trying to land an airplane), but after a half hour or so, I thought I was starting to get the hang of it. Swish, swish, I was starting to enjoy the sound of my skates on the ice. I hadn't really master turning yet, but it wasn't a big deal since there were very few people skating.

Soon, I became over confident, I was starting to build up speed, swinging my arms like the speed skaters do and then......BOOM! I discovered the toe pick. I knew there was a difference between figure skates and hockey skates, but I didn't think to ask for hockey skates at the rental stand. If you happen to drag a figure skate, the toe pick bites into the ice and everything goes topsy turvy. Fifteen minutes later, when I had stopped spinning and sliding across the ice, I found myself spread eagled, laughing hysterically. I really had no idea what happened between the time when the toe pick found the ice and when the ice found me, but it was a hell of a ride. I bruised my hip a bit, but I got up and skated for another forty-five minutes. I think I like it. Of course if I really want to try to play hockey, I'm gonna have to get used to seeing the ice close up.

Insomnia Sucks!

I can't sleep tonight. It happens every once in a while. The Girlfriend gets upset because if I don't go to bed with her, she thinks something is wrong......or that I want to go upstairs at sneak a look at porn. The sad fact is, sometimes I just can't sleep.

I was laying there in bed tonight, listening to The Girlfriend snurffle (she isn't feeling well) and my mind started to wander. I ended up thinking about my time in college, which isn't unusual. I guess it's because those four and a half years spent at the University of Tennessee were the last days I had that I didn't have to worry about anything. I mean, yeah, there are tests and projects and papers and such, but in the grand scheme of things, school work just doesn't match up to mortgages, car payments, etc.

Invariably, I always end up thinking about my fraternity. I haven't talked to any of those guys in ten years or so, but for four and a half years, they were family. They recently tore down my old fraternity house and I guess that was what got me thinking tonight.

Each pledge class in the fraternity used to take time late in the quarter and vote on which brother had been the biggest pain in the ass during their time as pledges. Fall quarter, my sophomore year, they all voted for me. What did this mean? Something called a "Goat Ride."
Basically, they kidnapped me at the Halloween party, which pissed me off to no end. It was a great party and I had gone as Pepe Lopez, the guy on the tequila bottle.

I was thrown into the trunk of a car and they drove for what seemed like hours. They finally stopped and I was pulled out of the trunk. I was somewhere in the middle of the woods. The rules were that they had to leave me money for a phone call and a six pack. That was pretty much it for the rules. They tied me to a tree in my Pepe Lopez outfit (think sombrero and horse blanket) and left a six pack of Black Label next to me. They were laughing and having a good ole time, one of them slapped me on the shoulder and said "Have fun getting back Bat." I wasn't too worried, most of the time the kidnapped brother was back within the hour. I had the presence of mind to yell at them as they were leaving "Hey, I need a quarter for the phone call!" One of the pledges turned around and walked back to me. He leaned over the six pack and I could hear the clink of metal on metal. "There ya go," he said as he walked away. In the faint moonlight I could see that there was a quarter on top of one of the beer cans, but IT WAS BENT!!! I called them every foul name I could think of as they walked away. They just laughed.

I waited until they drove off before I tried to get loose. I knew if I slipped my bonds while they were there, they would just come back and tie them tighter. It didn't take me long to get my hands free. I quickly chugged one of the beers, grabbed one more for the road and left the rest of them sitting there. Off I go in my horse blanket and sombrero carrying a Black Label. I stumbled through the woods for what seemed like and eternity, I couldn't find the road that the pledges had used to get back into the woods. Finally, I came upon a black top road, but no traffic. The moon is gone by this time so I just pick a direction and start walking. Eventually, I hear a sound behind me and see a set of headlights moving toward me. My thumb goes out, Pepe Lopez outfit and all, and the vehicle slows down. As it gets closer, I'm able to see that it's what I like to call a "kidnapping van." One of those vans with no windows past the front doors. The van stops and I open the door. I can't really see inside, but a man's voice says "where ya headed?"

"Just to the next truck stop or whatever, " I reply. I swear to you the guy replies, "Well saddle up partner."

So I climb up into the van, thankful that it's warm and I have a ride. My first hint of trouble is when the driver peels out and barrels up to ninety miles an hour on this two lane. The second hint of trouble is when he opens his pie hole and the words start to come out faster than the van was going. I quickly learned that he was headed home to South Carolina. He had apparently driven non stop from South Carolina to Michigan and was now almost home, all in twenty-four hours. NON STOP. He tells me that he does this three or four times a week and I soon realize that I don't want to know why he needs to do this. The man was wired!!

We drive for a little while (he drives, I hang on for dear life, not wanting to look, but not daring to close my eyes because it's obvious that I've hitched a ride with a psycho) and dawn begins to break. I see a truck stop up in the distance and instantly and insistently tell him "This is fine, this is fine!!! Right here!!" He locks up the breaks (I kid you not) and we leave about twenty yards of rubber on the pavement. I hop out and RUN to the truck stop. Last I saw of him, there was a cloud of smoke and the sound of an engine being revved to the limit as he took off.

So now I'm at a truck stop. At least it's civilization, kinda. There isn't anything else around but more woods. I go inside and find a phone. Without any cash, I have to call the fraternity house collect and pray that somebody is sober enough to answer the phone. Bob picks up and says "What happened to you? We figured you had a girlfriend pick you up or something since you didn't come back to the party." I muttered a few expletives, explained that I was at a gas and go somewhere in the boonies and I needed somebody to come get me. He asked where I was, so I leaned back from the phone and asked a waitress coming out of the truck stop's diner. She tells me I'm at so and so on highway whatever. I tell Bob and he says he is on his way.

Nothing to do now but wait. I head out to the front of the diner, sit down on the concrete and lean back against the wall. In my horse blanket and sombrero. I soon nod off only to be awakened by a friendly voice saying "Son? Son?"

I tip my hat back and look up to see the kindly face of a septuagenarian and his aged spouse. He leans down and says "Don't worry son, everybody has a time when they are down and out," and stuffs three dollars in my hand. Normally, I would have protested, but I suddenly became aware of what I must look like after stomping half drunk through the woods all night in a horse blanket and sombrero, not to mention what I must have smelled like. I simply said "thank you sir," and took the man's money.

Just as I was finishing up my bacon and eggs, Bob arrives. He takes one look at me and starts laughing. I just glared at him and climbed into his truck. He hands me a beer and says "Do you realize you are about thirty miles across the state line in North Carolina?"

The rest of the quarter, I was much nicer to the pledges.

Way Back Wednesday #2

Part two of way back Wednesday. This was originally posted on April 13, 2005.



The Rat King


Today, when Daisy and I were chasing an errant wasp through the house, I got a little bummed thinking about a black lab I used to own named Gabby.

Gabby was a fantastic dog. Probably the smartest, most sensitive dog I've ever owned. She never caused any trouble and was quick to learn new tricks and loved her frisbee. We had moved into a fixer-upper in a neighborhood in Memphis called Cooper-Young. The house was a mess, but I sank a bunch of time and money into it and turned it into a quaint little cottage with hardwood floors and unique molding.

The rest of the neighborhood was a mix of run down rental shacks and houses much like mine that had been restored. On one side, I had a doctor living in a restored Victorian, but on the other side I had a mother and son team that owned seven dogs in a three bedroom crack shack. With all of their dogs, they couldn't afford to pay their utilities, so they ran a generator in one room with a fan in the window to exhaust the fumes. Unfortunately, the generator room was directly across from my bedroom and I got to lay awake at night listening to the damn thing run. The only consolation that I would get was in the middle of the winter. Sometimes I would wake up early in the morning while it was still dark, to the sounds of the generator running out of gas. That earned me a chuckle because I knew that one of the inbred pair had to get up and refill the thing with gas or wake up freezing because they had no juice for their space heaters.

Eventually, mom and son moved out. I peaked in the windows and thought "glad that isn't my house to clean up!!" Little did I know that once the people and dogs moved out, the rats and fleas no longer had a food source. Thus began The Great Vermin Migration. We battled fleas for a couple of months, but the rats hung on for quite a while. Now I grew up in the suburbs and was used to the little field mice coming into the house when it got really cold, but I was not prepared for the hordes of cat sized rats that invaded my home. I tried traps for awhile, but I guess the rodents just giggled as they dragged that traps off with the bait still in them. I switched to poison, which was a pain, because not only did I have to keep it away from the dog, but the damn vengeful rat that ate it would crawl into a wall and die, leaving the stench of dead animal permeating the house. When we had visitors, I would pull them aside and tell them "The misses is lactose intolerant, please ignore the smell."

Gabby became quite the rat catcher. Of course, she would tear up vinyl flooring and baseboard to get to them, but she was earning her keep and she was proud of each success. Slowly, but surely, the problem began to fade. That is until the King of the Rats made his appearance. Gabby and I were in the kitchen when the big ass bastard bolted out from the dishwasher between Gabby's legs. Gabby and I were both so startled that at first we didn't move, but then the chase began! The dog followed The Rat around the corner into the laundry room. The "laundry" room was a small alcove with the washer on one wall, the dryer on another and the hot water heater in the corner between them. The doomed Rat lifted the edge of the washer, gave me the finger, squeaked "piss off loser" and then ran underneath, dropping the washer behind him. Gabby was irate and was very vocal about it. I grabbed a broom and jumped up on the washer, jabbing the broom behind it hoping to flush the monster out. I think Gabby understood and became very quite, assuming the pounce position to cut the enemy off when it reappeared. So, I'm jabbing away with the broom, cursing the rat's lineage when Gabby starts raising hell again. I turn back to tell her to chill out, I'm on top of it and I notice that she is no longer focused on the washer, but on the space behind me. It was like a Kung Fu movie or something from the Matrix. Everything slowed to a crawl and I slowly turned to my left to face the water heater. As I made my turn, my eyes became entranced by the beady, snarling image of The Rat King sitting on my hot water heater inches from my face. Time stopped. Mexican rat stand off. The Rat King made his move, lunging for my face. I quickly flipped the broom and caught the bastard in mid air, laying the smack down on the fucker with the working end of the broom. The Rat King sailed over my shoulder and Gabby leapt to snag him in mid flight. I didn't know rats could scream. Gabby chomped once and then dropped the rat's nasty ass at my feet, deader than......well, dead. Final resting place? Garbage can. Gabby got two treats that night.

Gabby moved north several years later, shortly after my divorce. I still miss the dog.

May I Have My Penis Back Now?

I went to the mall to today for the third time in as many days. The great thing about being out of work (I don't start the new job until January eighth) is that the mall is empty. I finally managed to finish up my shopping, the last stop being T.G.I. Friday's for a gift card. While I was waiting for the hostess to bring me the card, I noticed the music playing overhead. Band Aid. Being a child of the eighties, I was very familiar with "Do They Know It's Christmas." I was humming along with the tune thinking, "aw man, here comes a part I love, when Sting sings 'The bitter sting of tears.'" I was kinda getting into it, singing out loud, when the most powerful part of the song caught me singing along. When Bono sings "Tonight thank God it's them, instead of you" in that powerful voice of his. The sheer enormity of his voice and those words suddenly caught up with me. I'm not very religious or very introspective. I don't worry about the world's problems or spend time reflecting on how fortunate I am. In that brief moment, that small amount of time that it took Bono to sing those words, I was suddenly all of those things and more. I was flooded with thoughts of "damn I'm lucky to be well fed, to be free to live as I choose, to be able to go about my daily business without being persecuted, to have somebody that cares about me, to have a family safe from strife and famine." My eyes welled with tears. Then I found my dick, said "fuck" out loud, snatched the gift card out of the waiter's hand and stomped out of the mall, grinching and scrooging the entire time. I will now re-establish my manhood with a stream of profane language.

Mutherfuckingcocksuckingdingleberrylickingfudgepackingsunnuvabitch!!!

Whew! Now I'm gonna go watch some NASCAR, drink a Schlitz and scratch my balls (just to make sure they are still there).

Click On The Hyperlink

Ok, a bottle of wine and certain things become very amusing. Go here and listen to why I'm laughing so hard.

A Post To Satisfy The Restless

My week was fairly uneventful. I went on a second interview to a local hospital and they made me an offer on Thursday. The job wasn't exactly what I wanted, but the money was right, the benefits were good and The Girlfriend threaten to twist my teats off if I didn't get work. So, the bad news? They actually want to see my social security card on Monday. I haven't seen the damn thing in probably close to twenty years. They wouldn't accept a drivers license, birth certificate, or pass port. So Friday, I had to go to the social security office and mingle with the unwashed masses. Warning: What follows is unabashed snobbery. The place was packed with non-English speaking types and the homeless. A two hour wait while "Ramona" allowed her toddler to run freely while carrying a huge stinky load in his diapers. I lost count of how many times I had to stop the little ankle biter from sticking his fingers in the electrical socket that was next to me. The rest of my time was spent keeping an eye on "Roscoe" the homeless man. It was 21 degrees outside (I kid you not) so I understand him camping out in a government building trying to keep warm, but must he make a spectacle of himself? The sleeves were cut off of both of the jackets and the three shirts he was wearing. He had all manner of home made crap hanging off of his neck. Most of it looked like it was made with his own hair. On his wrists he had those athletic sweat bands like a tennis player might wear, but twisted into the bands were plastic dinner forks. Rather than sit down and enjoy the warmth, he insisted on shuffling around the entire lobby moving his considerable pile of junk from one location to the next, each one a little more inconvenient to everybody else than the last. When he wasn't moving all of his belongings, he was barging in front of the line, interrupting the person conducting business with some useless information about how he and his son had the same name and that was why he was having trouble getting benefits. My guess is that he was angling for a crazy check.

So after my two hours in line, it takes two minutes to turn in my form for a replacement card. The lady looks at me and says "You should get that in about two weeks, maybe longer with the holidays." I guess I won't get to start my job anytime soon.

Now that I was exhausted from dealing with so many nut jobs, generally stinky people, and bums with no jobs (I left just in time, I was starting to have family reunion flashbacks) I was looking forward to getting home and eating some leftover black bean soup that I had made. It was not to be. The cell rings and guess who? The Girlfriend. The conversation went something like this.

her: Where are you?
me : Driving home.
her: Well turn around and get on I-24.
me : Uh, why would I want to do that?
her: I locked my keys in my car.

So, I drove to a town 45 minutes away to bring her the spare key. She was contrite and offered me all kinds of sexual favors, but I was hungry and made her take me to lunch at The Chop House.

I'm sure that it is no surprise that the drinking began shortly after we got home, thus the Christmas music now on my blog. I blame it on the booze.

Are you happy now Jordan?

Way Back Wednesday

I'm starting a new tradition here at Bat Shit Crazy. I used to have another blog, but for various reasons, I ended up putting it aside and started this one. The Girlfriend suggested that I re-post some of the things that I have written in my new blog. So, I present to you Way Back Wednesday.



Originally posted April 3, 2005

What's In A Name?

I was married to a Catholic for 8 years. She referred to herself as a "C & E" Catholic and never really tried to get me involved in the church. After 6 or 7 years she decided that she wanted me to attend mass with her. I was reluctant at first, since I've never been a particularly religious person, but it was important to her so I acquiesced. The mass was confusing to me. It was nothing like the services I had been to as a child. When I was little, my parents would put me on the church bus and ship me off to Southern Baptist services every Sunday. Since I was not a complete moron, I began to suspect that there was an ulterior motive for my little Sunday trips because my parents never went. (I'm guessing they were just glad to have the rug rats out of the house for a couple of hours.) The fact that they never attended and the fire and brimstone sermons insured that the indoctrination never really got a solid hold on me. When I finally went to mass with my ex, I was impressed. Not really with the message, but with the ritual and symbolism. I was like a tourist. Things were going well and I was thinking that if she wanted me to attend more services, I would probably accommodate her. Then, as always, I screwed the pooch. It was during one of those pauses for quiet reflection that my pager went off. My pager never goes off, but I did at least have the foresight to set it on vibrate. Never the less, it startled me and my reflexive and very loud, Tourette's like "SHIT!" did not go over very well with the rest of the congregation. That was my last mass.

I thought about that little episode because John Paul II slipped off his mortal coil this weekend. All of the news websites included little side stories on how the new pope will be elected with John Paul's obituary. Again the ritual of the church fascinated me. Apparently, around a thousand years ago, the newly elected popes began to take new names upon taking on the responsibilities of the office. There have been numerous Leos, Gregorys, Johns, etc. The articles really don't go into detail about what kind of process each new pope goes through to chose his new name. I am under the impression that it is a personal decision and left up to the individual. I'm guessing that the Catholic clergy aren't overly imaginative because they seem to have run out of ideas, hence the combination of names, John Paul, with the last two popes. If the college of Cardinals have taken up reading my blog, I am offering my services for choosing the name for the next father of the Holy Roman Church. There is no fee. I'm not a greedy man. I'm just an agnostic that would like to help an ancient organized religion connect with the world of 2005. When the white smoke rises above the Vatican, I suggest that the new leader of the worlds largest religion be introduced as His Holiness Pope Elvis I.

Slowly Recovering

It was quite the weekend. Friday night we took in a movie (Bobby, excellent, go see it), Saturday we went to Wally-World to buy Christmas ornaments (pain in the ass, don't recommend it), Saturday night we went to the hockey game (Preds lost in overtime, depressing) then on to the Wildhorse Saloon for a Keith Anderson concert (the expression on The Girlfriend's face made it worth it, do something for your significant other today), Sunday we took the train (not a big deal if you are from one of those cities with commuter trains) to the Titan's game to watch them beat the Colts on a 60 yard, last minute field goal. I was just about recovered from the weekend, then I managed to write the world's longest run on sentence (see above), now I'm exhausted again.

Hopefully, I will have a job interview tomorrow. I'm not in a bad position money wise, but The Girlfriend is starting to give me THAT look when she comes home from work each day. I reckon' I don't blame her. If the roles were reversed I'd probably do the same. I've been trying to keep the house picked up, dishes done, laundry folded, and cook dinner at night, but it doesn't compare to an eight hour day at work. Besides, a fella can only watch so much "Green Acres."

On a side note, The Girlfriend got a free gift for opening an account at a local bank. I'm so jealous it isn't even funny.

Just Say NO!!!

I completely stole this from Heather Anne .

Don't Like The Weather? Just Wait.

Ok, this is ridonkulous. Yesterday it was a balmy 74 degrees here (that's Fahrenheit, none of that goofy French centigrade crap is allowed in this part of the South), I had the windows open and the upstairs portion of the house was almost sweltering. This morning, The Girlfriend wakes me up to go fetch the garbage cans. These two honkin' big cans have been blown down the driveway by the wind. I go outside in the t-shirt and shorts that I had been sleeping in to fetch the wayward cans. Mistake! It's colder than a bucket of penguin shit outside! I come inside to check the weather channel's web site. 34 degrees that feels like 22 with the wind chill! (Again, Fahrenheit, suck it up Canadians.) By my math, that's a 40 degree drop. (You have no idea how hard it was for me to come up with that number, even with 6 toes on each foot I had to count on some digits twice.) What ever happened to a GRADUAL change of seasons?

Oh, on a side note, while looking up yesterday's temp on the internet, I came across the information that last night's moon was "waxing gibbous." Now most folks will tell you that I'm a fountain of useless information, but I have to admit I've never heard this term before and it struck me as funny, so I looked it up, hoping that there would be some bizarre, arcane definition. I was quite disappointed. If you are interested, go here .

Side note number two. Bud Selig, Major League Baseball's commissioner for the last 14 years, has said that when his contract expires in three years, he will retire. Mike Greenberg(pictured above) announced on his early morning show, "Mike and Mike in the Morning," (broadcast on ESPN2) that he was throwing his hat in the ring for the position. If I had a vote he would get it. An obvious fanboy, Greenie would make all of the changes that Joe Everyman wishes MLB would make. Although he is a bit to metrosexual for me, I can't think of a better fit for the job.

Drive it like you stole it.