So, my wife saw my last entry about my old girlfriend and flew into a jealous rage. She dumped my favorite glitter lotion down the drain, then set fire to all of my Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants books. Then she tore up my Justin Bieber posters before pulling out the cast iron frying pan and hitting me over the head…made some eggs…then hit me again while kicking me in the crotch at the same time. While I was writhing on the floor wishing I didn’t own a head or a crotch, she drove straight to the bank and withdrew ALL of my personal life savings and donated the entire $2.17 to the Democratic party!

I’m kidding. She doesn’t know care. Besides, she still interacts with her pot-smoking midget of an ex-boyfriend over on Facebook. I’m using that knowledge as leverage and will probably use it as a first line of crotch defense if needed.

My laptop is such a pessimist. Every day I get a little box that pops up telling me my computer is equipped with SMART Predict software and that “we predict your hard drive will fail.” It’s been telling me this every single day for the past year and it’s getting hard to stay positive in life when my computer keeps bringing me down. I’m waiting for the day it really does fail and a box comes up saying, “Ha! Told ya’. But would you listen? Noooo….I’m just a silly little machine, right? What do I know? Well, it’s always the same. I always warn them, but they never listen. Humans…sheesh. Maybe next time you'll pull your head out and pay attention.”

Next time I want a happy laptop that tells me, “We predict your hard drive and you will succeed today and every day. Peace out.”

This will be only a short blog workout because the big wedding is only days away and I can feel myself being sucked harder into that vortex with each passing hour. Guests will start arriving throughout the next few days and from what it sounds like, they don’t appear to be in any hurry to leave, so my blog may go dark for a little while. I spent three hours in the ER last night with my groom-to-be son who was experiencing dizziness and nausea after taking a blow to the head while cutting firewood. Everything checked out fine – a very poor attempt at getting out of a wedding. He should have added amnesia….and aliens….and that he’s now gay….because so were the aliens…they did something and there’s not much he can do now. So many more realistic possibilities.

My blog predicts all of you will succeed today.


 

I had one of those Bill and Ted moments last night. I’ve always had nostalgic tendencies, but usually they’re brief and fairly shallow. Last night, however, I guess all the conditions were right and I found myself firmly back in a place I haven’t been much since I left.

It was late and I was the last one awake, sitting at the kitchen table looking through the Facebook pages I’d just found of the two brothers who were my college roommates. These two also happened to be the brothers of Helene, the girl from France I dated for nearly four years during those college years. As I was sleepily browsing through the photos of their current lives, there it was. Mixed in with all the others was a shot of Helene, taken back in the 80s at roughly the same time we dated, looking just as sweet and gorgeous as I remembered.

And that’s when the Bill and Ted thing took control of me. Suddenly I was swooshing back through time, just like in the movies. In a matter of seconds I flashed by key moments in my life. My children’s births, weddings, different homes, holidays…..past presidents…Bush, Clinton, Bush, Reagan, Carter….oops, too far (I’m not very good at controlling the Bill and Ted accelerator)…stuck it in reverse…back to Reagan and …I was there.

And I mean really there. I guess you could say I was truly lost in the moment. I stared at the picture and remembered every inch of her pretty face….every curve, every soft freckle of her fair skin. We were so in love back then. We knew we would marry and be together forever. We fit so well, and we couldn’t wait to see each other whenever we were apart. Four years is a long time to be with someone and it truly was a very good four years. I spent the next hour or so lost in those years and the things that were so ‘Helene’…the cute notes she’d write, the nicknames, how sweetly affectionate she always was, and of course, Saturday night date night which was always the highlight of our week.

I’m not exactly sure what happened to Helene and I. There was never any one thing that led to our breakup and we loved each other to the end. Though we’d grown deep roots together, we were still young and sometimes things happen for a reason. In the next few years we both wound up marrying the true loves of our lives. I closed the laptop and sped back to the present….Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush, Obama, Michelle Bachmann……oops, too far again.

But is it possible to have more than one love of your life? I think so. Actually, I know so. And if Brittany Murphy hadn’t died, she would have come around eventually. The vibes were too strong. A good friend told me I’ve been very lucky in love and I suppose that’s true. I love my family with everything I have and given the opportunity, I wouldn’t trade my life for anything. Hardly a day goes by that I don't look at my wife and think, "Wow...I can't believe this woman is all mine." But if Helene and I had married all those years ago, would we have been happy? Yes, I do believe so.

Next time I have a Bill and Ted moment, it’ll be about guns and football and spitting and elk meat and other manly stuff.



 

Being a conservative Republican type, I am automatically labeled as one who rapes and pillages our mother earth for fun and profit, but this is only partially true and I have the reusable coffee filter to prove it. Paper coffee filters are less than paper thin and come in packs of about 9 billion, so I’m thinking in my lifetime of coffee drinking this little eco-filter is saving the life of one average tree…branch. Okay, maybe a stick. If everyone did their part, the world would have more sticks.

I think my rape and pillage index numbers (RPI) are pretty close to the national average. I’m not as good as some, but better than others when it comes to saving the planet, and I definitely want to save it because this is the planet I spend most of my time on. I admit that my conservation efforts are part-time at best, unlike the scores of ‘environmentalists’ populating my town who claim to be hardcore simply because they drive a Prius, buy organic kale, and pull one handful of noxious weeds in a sea of 42 billion weeds. These same people bag up their dog’s poop on local trails, but leave the plastic bag on the trail, thereby creating a biohazard that wouldn’t exist if they’d just looked the other way when Rover unloads. The RPI numbers of these so-called environmentalists are no better than mine, but their FOC (full of crap) numbers are way higher.

Every little bit helps, even the little bits of the hypocrites. Just admit that it IS a ‘little bit’ like the rest of us! And stop the discrimination! Outside of our local credit union is a section of the parking lot with a sign that reads, “Parking reserved for low-emission vehicles only”. I looked but couldn’t find the section marked “Parking reserved for high emission gas hogs”, so I parked there anyway, figuring that while I’m parked I ain’t emitting nuttin’! I feel like such a good environmentalist when I park and don’t pillage.

Plus, I eat pretty healthy. Fruits and veggies are good. And if you can break a tooth on your bread, you know it must be healthy. Though I’m thinking of suing Walmart for peanut butter malpractice because their all-natural ‘no-stir’ kind totally required stirring and I almost got a cramp. I’m not into sustainability because I have no idea what that means, but it’s a word that makes the hippies healthy and happy and nothing’s healthier than a happy hippie. Personally, I’m into ‘stainability’ and is something I practice all the time, but this starts an evil chain reaction because now I’m supposed to buy ‘green’ stain remover which costs twice as much but only works half as well. But at least I’ll probably feel good about myself and have more sticks. Can you imagine a world for our children and their children without sticks?

This blog is biodegradable and stainable and possibly sustainable. You can read it with a clear conscience without worrying about its effects on my favorite planet. My old blog was not and was carelessly discarded where it’s pillaging somewhere and not decomposing. If I wasn’t a Republican I’d feel bad about that. This new blog has a softer tone that will break down more easily when the time comes for it to meet that big blog in the sky. Hug a blog today.

 

Five unrelated and really boring thoughts, just to keep the blog blood flowing. Maybe it’s the late summer doldrums, but Blogville has crawled to a virtual halt and it’s important to exercise your blog regularly, even if you don’t feel like it. Otherwise it gets fat and lazy and doesn’t even care that it’s fat and lazy because it’s way back there on the 42nd page of blogs where no one will notice. It becomes self-conscious, reclusive and just plain unhappy. If you love your blog, don’t let this happen. Just a few simple exercises a couple times a week should be enough to keep it healthy.

1. The other day my truck was apparently parked too close to the mailbox for the mailman to pull up close enough to reach it, so he parked and left a note INSIDE my box telling me that he couldn’t deliver that day because the mailbox was blocked. I scribbled an apology on his note, but also asked that if it happened again would he please be kind enough to leave my mail with his note since he’s in the general area anyway. Didn’t get a reply, but it’s probably not a good idea to piss off a postman.

2. If the same annoying mosquito is buzzing around my head for years and years and I decide to just ignore it, hoping it will go away, but of course it doesn’t and every so often comes down and bites me, at what point does the blame shift from the mosquito to me for allowing it to buzz and bite and annoy for so long? And how do I get rid of it without actually squishing it? This concludes the deep and philosophical portion of the blog workout. It gets shallower and less strenuous from here.

3. My wife sells Avon and uses me as a guinea pig sometimes for some of the male products, particularly the Patrick Dempsey line. It’s not working. I’m still me and she’s probably disappointed. It’s possible I now smell like Patrick, but just typing that out made me realize I don’t really want to smell like another man. I want a smell all my own. I want my own fragrance. "Eau-de-Party - the new provocative scent from Avon. With a rugged bouquet of musk and corndogs, you'll smell like the man you always wish you were but currrently fall far short of being."

4. Lana and I were talking about DVDs the other day and she asked how many I owned. I wasn’t sure, but I’ve since checked. 106. It’s taken years and years to reach that number and they’re not all mine. It’s a family collection, kids included. My very first DVD was “The Cutting Edge” and the most recent was “Inception”. My collection favorite is “Never Cry Wolf” and my least favorites would be “Beaches” and “Mona Lisa Smiles” (wives…what can you do?). And though it may be hard to believe, I do not own every Brittany Murphy movie ever made. Probably only about 4 of them, I think. I remember checking Ebay several years ago for autographed Brittany Murphy photos. At the time they were auctioning off in the $15 to $20 range. Should’ve done it. Now that she’s passed away, they’re all well over $100. At least I still carry a pic of Brittany in my wallet, and I’m pleased that my future daughter-in-law supports me in my right to do so.

5. Whoever said money can’t buy love was a wise man. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness was an idiot.


That was not a good workout at all and I really didn't feel like doing it, but at least it got my blog up off the couch. Now it needs a nap and I need coffee.





















 

On this day in 1977, Elvis died. And my dad had a stroke. Not because of Elvis. Dad’s still doing well. Elvis…I’m not sure.

I saw a couple of guys walking down the street arm-in-arm this afternoon and just assumed they were gay until I went past them and realized one of them was blind. Though they still could have been gay. Then I passed a man and woman arm-in-arm and assumed they were not gay, but could not confirm the status of their vision. However, by then I had learned my lesson and decided they were also gay and blind. The moral? Not all gay men are blind and not all straight couples are not blind while holding hands. Not that there’s anything wrong with being blind. For in my blindness I failed to see the real blindness that I would have seen if I wasn’t blind to the blindness of the blind. Amen.

I’ve been inspired in recent days from a couple of gifts my brother brought back for me from his vacation in Jackson Hole, Wyoming last week. The first was a Maker’s Mark bourbon-infused cigar that has inspired me to drink and smoke more, but the other was a book on the life of famed Teton mountain guide Glenn Exum. I have to say 2011 has been a rough year and with all the worrying and stress, I’ve gotten away from the things that make me whole, like climbing and running and mountain biking, etc. I’ve done some here and there, but not like I’m used to. So I’m less than whole. I’m not sure what percentage I am. Reading the tales of Glenn and his buddies climbing all over the Tetons since the 1930’s with no ropes and nothing more than an old pair of football cleats is inspiring. I used to do that kind of stuff all the time, but I’ve let it drift away in recent years. This book has been a swift kick in the butt, which is better than a kick in the crotch because those tend to lower percentages. Getting kicked in the butt and crotch at the same time is rare, but it happens.

Life’s little do-overs are good. Not that this was really a do-over, just one of those kickstarts. I’m not sure what I’d do with a real do-over. You know, the age-old question, if you had it all to do over again, knowing what you know now, etc., etc. Imagine the chaos if everyone got one. Adam and Eve….would they make better choices knowing the fall of mankind held in the balance, as well as the apple forever being labeled as the black sheep of the fruit family, not to mention the low self esteem of snakes for eternity? Striking out labor pains for all women to come? Or would they say, “Eh…that’s their problem. Let’s party like it's 4,000 B.C.”

In some ways, I always felt that Noah was Adam and Eve’s do-over. Not really, but…it was a fresh start. I do not blame Noah for the mosquito because I have to believe he tried to leave them behind, but they followed anyway. Sometime during the second week he probably pulled out the Biblical-Strength Deep Woods Off, but his wife told him to be careful because God was already pissed about the incident on Day 9 when Noah and the crew got hungry and butchered one of the mastodons for some burgers, thereby depriving all future generations of mastodon burgers. Of course, with only one mastodon left there was no reason not to have more burgers later in the cruise.

Sometimes my entries have a point. This is not one of those times.

 

First of all, I would like to thank KayJay and Katya the Horsefly Whisperer for their courage and generosity in pulling me out of the devil’s hands in recent days. And before I forget, thanks also to Lana and Scarlett for the birthday badges that led me into his hands in the first place. I am actually grateful for this, as it was a trial I needed to face to move forward in life yet I kept putting off, so they got me started by shoving me into the fires of hell while the other two pulled me out. WDC teamwork. Thank you all!

I am safe now until I approach the number 63, which should be light years away…unless that MB ponzi scheme takes off.

My son just informed me that trying to spruce up our humble home for the arrival of wedding guests next month is like polishing a turd. Gee thanks, son.

The county fair is in town this week, and as much as I love the unrelentingly fragrant smell of barnyard animals and their waste, as well as spending $32.50 for a miniature sno-cone and a bag of cotton candy, I think I’ll pass. Again. I’m afraid our fair is just too big for me. The thought of a Montana county fair probably conjures up some appealing small-town romantic images, but this happens to be the second largest county in the state and the fair is just too friggin’ large and populated for my tastes. With people and cows.

I wonder if those small-town carnivals really exist. You know, the kind you see on t.v. shows, with straw-haired country boys holding hands with their cute little sundressed country girlfriends…watermelon-eating contests…a few pigs, a few rabbits…baked goods everywhere…and not much more than a ferris wheel for thrill-seekers. I’d like to think so, but probably not. Here, a large percentage of the shoulder-to-shoulder fair-goers are white Montana boys wishing they were from the ghetto, with large flat-billed hats and over-sized shorts basically draped around their ankles, and teenage girls trying their best to look as slutty as they can with the shortest of shorts, tight low-cut tops, and about 5 pounds of mascara per eyelid. And every time they open their mouths, it’s like the sweetest of country jam!

So I don’t go to the fair anymore. But it’s not only the large punk invasion that keeps me away each year. There is the memory of that horrible day almost 30 years ago. I was on my favorite ride, the Rock-O-Plane, with my friend, Casey (of my crime spree fame), and my youngest brother, Tim. The ride was over and the operator was slowly moving the machine cage-by-cage to unload the passengers. It was a cloudless sky, but suddenly the unmistakable *drip…drip…drip* from the cage above panged like chunky toxic rain on the roof of our compartment before streaming through the weathered criss-cross of steel and onto my brother, who was already on the brink of intestinal eruption.

Trapped like rats, helplessly suspended high above the ground while being coated in vomit, panic took over while my mind raced to come up with anything to suppress my own eruption. I caught a glimpse of the crowd below pointing up in our direction with nauseated expressions and for some reason this settled my own stomach. Embarrassment trumped nausea that day. I thank God for that embarrassment. Casey buried his head and tried to find his own escape. Tim erupted.

The *drip…drip…drip* was passed on to the cage below and for all I know it continued from there. Suddenly, I thought of all the times this scene must have played out on this very ride in countless cities with countless numbers of punks over the years. My Rock-O-Plane innocence was lost. I never went back. But every time a faucet drips…every time the rain splatters off the roof…I DO go back.






 

I was attacked by a horsefly during my weekend in the mountains. Horseflies generally don’t attack, but this one did. Usually they kind of lumber about like some frumpy beady-eyed and overweight middle-aged man, lazily surfing for porn, bouncing slowly around from body to body until they decide to stop and try one out. But this one was young and sleek and built for power and speed. And intelligent, too! He wisely latched onto my toe, which is the part of my body farthest away from my hand-swatting defense system. I couldn’t help but be impressed, despite my desire to squish him like a zit.

But it turned out he was too aggressive for his own good. He bit into me with a vengeance, but he went in too deep for a quick exit, probably thinking I was no match for his speed and intelligence. I shook my foot violently but this obviously wasn’t his first rodeo and he held on expertly, no doubt timing his escape for the first sight of my hand swooping down from above.

But he chose the wrong target on this day. I am well-seasoned in horsefly warfare and pulled the double-secret right-heel-bump maneuver from below to knock him nearly unconscious on the ground before me. He never saw it coming and from there I finished him off…a promising horsefly warrior, gone too soon. However, he did draw quite a bit of blood, something middle-aged, frumpy horseflies never do, so he died in honor. I now have this sizeable scab on my middle toe, which is the toe I use to flip off really short people who need it, but it still works.

I know that was a little long-winded for a horsefly story, but I felt it was a story that needed to be told.

In other news, I'm really embarrassed to ask but I need a merit badge to possibly save my soul. I barely ever notice the number next to my username until Satan is involved and then all I see are pitchforks and horns and pointy tails and evil. You may remember when I was stuck on 18 for the longest time and blogged about how unsettling it was. 666….6 + 6 + 6 = 18. I believe it was NOVAcat who saved me from the clutches of Satan that day and gave me a badge.

Well, now here I am stuck on 36. Every time I log on, all I see are 3 sixes and it haunts me. 3 x 6….666. And not only that, I also noticed the review/rating number next to my blog is 18 as well! Why does Satan keep following me around WDC??? He’s so annoying. If I could just get ONE badge…any badge…just ONE….I would gladly repay whoever spares me from the devil’s grip with a badge in return. Unless, of course, you happen to be stuck at 17 or 35 because I would hate to deliver you into the devil’s hands myself. It’s no fun there. I would just pay cash (GPs). Any help can’t come from Scarlett or Lana since both have given me a badge in recent weeks and apparently WDC has rules about that. I have always loved the number 37. I want my blog to be a happy place. 37 is a happy number that would make me and anyone who visits happy and free from temptation, but I realize these are stressful economic times so I would understand if no one can do it. In lieu of badges, prayers and exorcisms are always welcome.

Hey, I just had an idea for a merit badge network marketing ponzi scheme. I get three people to give me merit badges and each of them finds three people and each of them finds three people, etc., etc. This could also work with gift points. Those of us at the top of the pyramid would rake in the badges and GPs until the feds moved in and shut us down.

 

It was yesterday, July 29, about 100 years ago that it all went down. It was the crime of the century. I remember it well because it was the day before my 18th birthday…and I was in the center of it.

The day started innocently enough. My brother Jeff and I had picked up my friend Casey late the night before and drove up into the mountain canyon where we lived at the time and picked a spot to hang out for the night. It was a quick, spur-of-the-moment decision, and we wound up having a nice evening sitting and chatting around the fire. Little did we know how our lives would fall apart the very next day.

Our quiet mountain morning would soon turn into hell on earth. Shots were fired, high-speed car chases ensued, arrests were made, and we were frisked, cuffed and thrown in a police car where we were hauled back to the county line to be identified. That summer, a trial ensued that made Casey Anthony’s look like baby crap.



Okay, what really happened that day is Jeff, Casey and I woke up that morning up the canyon and decided to harass the very creepy family that lived in the property next to ours. And I DO mean creepy. Straight out of Deliverance. Sheep and chickens wandered freely inside and out of their home. Dead sheep rotted around their yard and their filthy, half-naked young kids would sometimes play with them. They were a constant nuisance to our family…letting their sheep onto our property and even fatally poisoning my beloved Saint Bernard one evening.

So we drove by their old log home that morning, skidded to a stop, and opened fire. BB guns, mind you. And slingshots. We were careful not to hit windows, just the log walls. Yeah, we were tough drive-by shooters! Diehard bad-asses. We sped off up the canyon and were soon being pursued by Mr. Creepy who was inches from our bumper, honking and flashing his lights. He got our license info, I guess, and backed off.

Eventually we had to come out of the canyon, so we raced by their home again on my way out to the highway to take Casey back to his home in the next town. We didn’t get far. Soon a police car was on our tail, lights flashing, siren wailing, and we pulled over where we were frisked, cuffed and hauled back to the county line where Mrs. Creepy and her kids identified us as the perpetrators. She claimed we broke out all her windows, which we did not, but the cops would not listen to our plea to go and see for themselves.

The trial of the century was actually just a few meetings in the very small office of the local juvenile officer. Mrs. Creepy showed up for the second one and announced that she didn’t want to press charges because God would get us on the Judgment Day, to which my mom told her she always was a horse’s ass. The juvenile officer calmed everyone down and we went on our way…exonerated at last. And since juvenile criminal records are wiped out when you reach 18, mine lasted all of ten hours.

It was the beginning and end of my life of crime. Good times.




 

I love to read life stories. And not the usual rags-to-riches biographies of the celebrity world, though those can be kind of fun sometimes. It’s the stories of the little people that fascinate me. People like us. I was reminded of this yesterday while reading NOVAcat’s blog. It’s interesting to me to see the timeline of a person’s life and the events that stand out as being something that ultimately shaped what he or she has become today. That curiosity burns brightest for the people I’m acquainted with, but don’t really know that well. People like you.

I thoroughly enjoyed the series that Scarlett and Nada did years ago, going year-by-year through their lives, and Tor and Cassie Reynolds (and her hubby) used to write wonderful entries about memorable events in their lives. I’m sure there are others I’m forgetting, but I really miss those…probably because I’m getting old and sappy and more and more sentimental in my old sappiness. People don’t generally write entries like that anymore, so I find myself cruising through WDC biographies a lot, even those of people I don’t know. I like to see where fellow writers are from and maybe get a brief glimpse of their journey to here.

I’m not saying I don’t like the entries everyone writes now. Of course I do. But every so often I like to read a little autobiographical history of everyone here. But, it’s hard to write about yourself. I definitely understand that. I’ve never filled out my own bio, probably because I know I’d just be an intelligent buttocks (smart-ass) and waste everyone’s time. But maybe someday I’ll be in the proper frame of mind to do it right. Most I read are good, but I’ve also learned a lot on how NOT to do one.

The angry bio is a turn-off. “I’m bold and loud with an attitude and say whatever the hell I want to say and if you don’t like it, you can just @%$# off!” Yeah….that really makes me want to check out your port. Nothing like being yelled at before I even read one word.

It’s also fun to be crushed under the weight of a loooong and intensely heavy bio.

“Day One: I’ll never forget the morning I exited the warmth and safety of my mother’s womb. I didn’t want to go, but they made me and I’ll never understand why. Why destroy a child’s joy, his comfort? Why break his very spirit? Cold foreign hands passed me around as the frigid open air pierced my tender skin. I heard crying and knew they must be tears of disappointment. Already I was a failure. My eyes couldn’t focus on the ghostly shapes around me, but I didn’t want to look anyway. Was this hell? Was this all there was? I was whisked away to another room filled with more ghosts where I was poked and treated like an 8th grade science-lab experiment. A fear like I had never known in my 14 minutes of existence coursed through my body. I wanted to run, but I didn’t know how. By noon, severe depression set it. By 2 p.m. I knew I was bi-polar and possibly autistic. And I had a rash. I cried out in pain, but instead of comfort I was shoved into my mother’s breast for the first time. My vision had improved enough for the image to be seared into my brain for eternity and to this day even chicken breasts cause anxiety attacks. It was right at that moment I realized no one would ever truly listen to me.

Day Two: My first night was a sleepless one, and my anger began to burn as hot as my rash…”




Like I say about once a year in this blog, “Find the balance, Daniel-San. Balance not just for karate. Balance for WHOLE LIFE!” And for bios. There….you’re all safe from another Karate Kid quote for at least another year.

 

The first rule in backpacking is to buy food that everyone else hates so you don’t have to share. I did well with the bite-size Almond Joy and Mounds since I knew everyone else hated coconut, but I got totally played when my kids grimaced at my honey dry-roasted peanuts choice in the store the night before the trip, yet hogged them all by the second day. They’re learning early how to play the game. I couldn’t help but feel proud.

The second morning of our hike, we came across the local and clueless search & rescue team searching for a hiker who apparently was dehydrated at the Twin Lakes area high in the mountains. Not sure how that works when you have two lakes to drink from, but the rescue team was about five miles north of where they needed to be and had no idea where to go so we told them how to find the trail system that leads to the lakes and went on our way. I would have offered to help, but I only had so many bite-size candy bars and wasn’t sure if the hiker in distress liked coconut, plus I didn’t feel it was worthy to share with someone dehydrated by a lake. A grizzly or bigfoot attack victim, maybe.

The second night I had a great dream possibly brought on by mountain water organisms that burrowed into my brain. I dreamed I died, but didn’t go away. And not one of those corny “can’t pass through till I complete my unfinished earthly business” kind of not going away. I just stayed. I looked the same and acted the same. In the dream, I went up to my wife and told her I was dead and she said, “No you’re not” and I said “Yes I am”…”No you’re not”…”Yes I am!”, until I finally I told her to try to hit me because she wouldn’t be able to since I’m not real. She took a swing and connected and it hurt bad, so I was getting more and more frustrated and told her to check the papers for news of my death which she did and eventually found it. “Huh, well you look fine,” she said, and then asked if I could go to Walmart since I was around and we needed milk. I didn’t want to go because I felt self-conscious being dead in Walmart, but I went and it turns out being dead in Walmart is pretty much the same as being alive there.

I did get to experience what a fish feels like. While grabbing onto the branch of a downed tree I was stepping over, a little barbed piece of wood inserted itself into my finger and when I pulled away, half my arm was ripped off. Okay, just a nice little chunk of skin, but it bled like crazy so I finally had to stop and put on a band-aid because once those Bigfoot catch the scent of blood or peanut butter it’s over. It was a cute band-aid with penguins on it because my wife buys the band-aids. And I guess since I didn’t actually bite the log, it’s not a true fish story, plus I had no moral revelation either since I fished with unregrettable joy later in the trip. I’m sure a fish would do the same if he were in my shoes/fins.

We really didn’t see any animals the whole trip. No Bigfoot, no bears, no elk or deer…nothing. The smell of a group of four hikers intensifies with each passing minute and does create a sort of force field, but I’m still surprised we didn’t see a thing other than one golden eagle one evening, though it may have been a bald eagle with a really good toupee.

Anyway, we survived the trip and now I’m preparing to survive the arrival of my wife’s quiet mumbling brother and his loud barking wife and their 27 kids who will be showing up this afternoon and spending the night on their way to Canada. They never ask if they can stay here, they just tell us when it will happen as if we should be honored by their presence. They’re nice folks and I can take their tribe in small doses, but the problem is their doses sometimes increase with no warning. “You know, we don’t really have to be in Canada till Friday, so we can stay a few extra days. Are you going to the store? Your fridge is kind of bare.” Ugh…I got shivers just typing that.


 

Since I just blogged yesterday, I wasn’t going to write again till I got back from the weekend hiking trip, but I had these reflective thoughts running through my head this morning and decided to blog again. I hate it when that happens. I'm going to wear myself out.

Not reflective like a mirror….that would mean only I could see those thoughts. Reflective like….well….you know…

Party’s Visible Reflective Thoughts:

To say Blogville isn’t what it once was is a major understatement. Long gone are the days when its crowded streets were constantly buzzing with activity and ducks and chickens roamed freely. I think all of us living here in those glory days, 4 or 5 years ago, knew this would eventually happen to some degree. I remember talking with a friend here during that gold/blog rush period and we both agreed it couldn’t last forever. The Blogville pendulum would eventually swing the other way.

But even I did not envision such a drastic swing. I remember well the days when I’d log on here and find 15 to 20 ‘regulars’ on the first blog page alone. To be honest, it was always a little overwhelming trying to keep up with so many, so when things did finally slow down a little here, it was a bit of a welcome change. But now when I come on, I’m lucky if I find ONE person I know on the first page or two.

And that is my fault, I know. I see a lot of new names on the blog pages who seem to be blogging regularly. There is no reason not to reach out and try some new people and see if maybe we can’t liven things up around here. New friendships, new fun perhaps. No, things will never be what they once were here. It was the perfect storm back then – a wild and crazy mix of entertaining personalities descending on Blogville at the same time. People who were writers first and bloggers second. Most were already members of WDC when they added the blogging feature.

And therein lies one of the major problems of a possible Blogville resurgence. It’s not free to live here. If someone only wants to blog and nothing else, there are plenty of other free sites to go to. We are the wealthy, gated community of the blog world. WDC is not a blog-only site, so it’s understandable that those who only want to blog will not come here. But despite that, there are plenty of bloggers still posting on our blog pages and maybe they deserve some attention.

No, Blogville will never have what it once did, and I know many former residents skipped town in droves when the views and comments dried up. I don’t blame them at all....even if they are a bunch of unfaithful ingrates who'd probably leave their spouses before their first cup of coffee if they woke up one day and didn't get the smooch they're accustomed to each morning. I'm kidding! Sheesh! I do understand. A writer needs to be read and that feedback is essential to our growth. Those people won’t be coming back, but the friendships will endure regardless. I’m all for expanding our writing horizons and I've checked out other sites as well, but I just haven't found any I like. But I'm also lazy and don't really want to go anywhere else. I like it here. Maybe I’m just too stubbornly loyal, or loyally stubborn….or just plain stupid …to ever leave. It may be a quiet ghost town now, but I have faith that it will one day rise again to a thriving metropolis, with new faces and new adventures. Or not. But if not, well, then I guess we’ll see which one of the old Blogville fogeys is the last one standing.


 

This will be one of those all-over-the-place, shotgun entries that has no purpose, no soul, but it will feature an actual shotgun later in the show if you make it that far. If not, just pretend you read it and leave me a “Nice entry, Party!” comment and get on with your lives. But these are my shotgun thoughts for this Tuesday, July 19, 2011.

Let’s see….last night I invented a nice kielbasa pasta dish with ingredients I found laying around the house, under cushions, and in far corners of the refrigerator. It was good, I think, but my wife was disappointed that we had no salad fixings or parmesan cheese to compliment it. “But at least we have each other,” I said, but got a look in return that said how much she likes salad and cheese. The happy engaged couple came over soon after and ate it all with no cheese regrets. While here, they told us that all the wedding announcements have been mailed out and the total was more than they’d hoped. If they’d listened to me a few months ago, they could have saved some time and money. I found a wedding planning website that said to only mail invites to people whom you’ve have a meaningful conversation with in the last year. That would have trimmed the list down to about four and excluded some of the family. Heck, I’ve been to weddings where the bride and groom wouldn’t have been invited.

Our cats have been throwing up a lot lately. I’m not real thrilled about this, but I think they're just making a statement because I tried a different, cheaper cat food. I was thinking about the way we drop everything and rush over to scoop up a gagging cat in pre-vomit stage before they start unloading on the new carpet, all while screaming for anyone else in the house to “Get the door! Get the door!”, then hurl the animal out on the front porch and slam the door. I’m sure this is exactly the kind of treatment a sick cat needs, and I wonder why I never thought to do that with my kids when they were infants and started spitting up on the couch. “Get the door! Get the door!” Oh well, maybe with the grandkids.

I’m afraid of gas stoves. I like the way they cook my food inventions, but every time I turn one on, I wonder if it will be my last moment on earth. I fear I will be exploded all over my pan of eggs and eggs are expensive. Just thought I'd share that fear since I live with it every day.

There is a mountain meadow north of here called Skunk Meadows. I have never seen a skunk there, but I have seen an elk. Later this week I will be hiking through a place called Elk Meadows where I have never seen an elk, but am hoping to see a skunk to complete the irony. If so, I will be petitioning the FBI, CSI and NCIS to change the names of these meadows to better represent the animal affiliation. Please pray for this to happen.

Well, the vacuum cleaner says I’m going to have a good day so I’d best get on with it. The cord retractor is usually my horoscope. Some days I press the button and the cord comes back weak and eventually lays lifeless on the carpet, far from being fully rewound. When this happens I suddenly lose all energy and wind up laying on the carpet with it. But today it snapped all the way back with energy. I feel good.

I had more stupid stuff to say, but I’ll leave now since this is already pretty much the worst blog entry ever made. I felt a need to get something out before I leave town. Thursday morning I will be heading out on a backpacking trip till Sunday evening where I will (insert bad white actor’s deep Indian voice) “Be one with my brother the bear and the wolf…and the pine tree and the mosquito and the bat…and hopefully my sister the skunk.” Someone requested a shot of the happily engaged couple last week, so I will leave you with one of my favorite shots of them. I promised you a shotgun, so here it is...along with the rest of the arsenal. Don’t they look happy and sweet? Let the ‘shotgun wedding’ jokes begin.

While lounging around the other evening chatting with my son and his bride-to-be about their upcoming wedding, my wife casually threw out a comment about their future kids. She must have forgotten my decision never to have grandkids, but I played along for the hypothetical fun of it. I gloated over the fact that I don’t have any of my wife’s family blood running through my veins, but reminded my son that he does and that any future generations of his will have to suffer the consequences of that until the bloodline runs thin enough to stop wreaking havoc on their spouses and mankind in general.

I explained: “For example, there’s a good chance your children will take about nine days to get ready and out the door when going out to eat, another four days to order once they finally get to the restaurant – because, even though they’ve been to this same restaurant a thousand times before, they still don’t know what they like - then another seven days to eat about four bites at which point they’ll ask for a box to take the leftovers home where it’ll sit in the fridge for a few weeks until it changes color.”

Her turn, glaring at me not the kids: “Or……your poor sap-filled kids will torment their families with a multitude of meaningless sentimental traditions honoring everything from decades-old sporting events to the birth of Engelbert Humperdinck’s fifth child.” She continued, with a terribly unmasculine impersonation of her sap-filled husband: “Hey, everyone! It’s July 14th! You remember what happened on this day eleven years ago, don’t you? This was the day we got new tires on the car and we all went out for ice cream later. Do we have any ice cream? We need to go get ice cream. We need to keep the tradition alive!”

Me: “It was September 23rd and it was nine years ago. And Engelbert only has four kids.”

Her again, on a roll now: “Your son won’t be able to hold a conversation without using obscure movie lines, and then will interrupt those conversations to ask, ‘Do you remember where that line's from?’”

Me: “Your daughter's family will starve because she’ll come home from a $200 supermarket trip and the only food in the bags will be a few stalks of celery and a box of saltines. But you’ll be set for life with paper towels and cotton balls.”

Her: “Your son will get emotional watching golf.”

Me: “Your daughter will have an uncontrollable desire to rent Diane Keaton movies.”

Eventually we ran out of material and the kids seemed unfazed. I’m glad because despite all my talk of no grandkids, I do get a little excited at the thought of them. Those happy times 15 to 20 years ago before my own sweet kids grew up to be cynical and know everything were the best years of my life and I look forward to reliving them through my kids’ families. In moderation! From a distance! I have a wealth of Engelbert Humperdinck information to share as well as a whole new movie-line language to pass down to make their lives (and their future spouses’ lives) richer . I won’t fully admit that quite yet and if you mention this blog, I’ll deny it.

This entry will self-destruct in five seconds.

 

The three people who still read this blog may remember there’s a wedding in my family’s summer plans, and it’s suddenly speeding right for us like a bowel movement in its unstoppable final moments. I’m not good at planning weddings. Funerals, THOSE I can handle. Funerals are the diarrhea of bowel movement event planning and pretty much happen whether you’re ready or not. The guest of honor is eager to get on with his or her death and they basically plan themselves. That’s more my speed. Diarrhea speed.

The only real differences I see between weddings and funerals are the color schemes and the food. For some reason, people think it’s okay to bring a plastic container of Walmart sugar cookies and burnt homemade zucchini bread to a funeral because the attendees are obviously too distraught to care. But they do care. Next time you go to a funeral, check out which direction the guests’ first glances go when entering the place. It’s not the front of the room, but the back where the food is. Most of the time their disappointed faces immediately sag dejectedly as they shuffle to find a seat. You’d think they were at a funeral or something. While living, everyone always says, “When I die, I want you all to have a party, man! Good music, good food, good beer…NO tears!” but no one ever obeys those wishes.

Personally, when I die I want to see rivers of tears shed for me onto mournfully decorated tables that have steak on them. No zucchini bread. There should be excessive weeping and every guest should have their own personal large box of tissues, and if I look down and see someone’s not working it enough, I’ll use my new death powers (in the movies everyone gets some kind of special powers when they die) to have a goose crap on their heads when they leave the building.

Maybe people have better food at weddings as a way of jumpstarting a venture that only has a 50% success rate. It’s vital to pick the right foods for a successful marriage, but the odds of death continuing after a funeral are fixed at 100% so there’s no need to have good food. Still, studies show that homemade zucchini bread makes a funeral sadder.

My only real experience in planning a funeral was my Mom’s and it didn’t go well. First of all, the funeral home we chose may as well have been called “Ed’s In-n-Out Discount Bereavement Center and Crematory” for the way they hustled us through the service like cows through a cattle chute (please notice I refrained from using yet another bowel movement reference here, though it would have worked nicely). When the guests lingered into the second hour, anxious funeral home attendants nervously checked their watches as another round of people bearing zucchini bread filtered in for the next show.

To be fair, it was my first attempt at a funeral so I should get some leniency. I was so young, so green, so unaware that the power of food is far greater than the power of grieving. I’m excited for my next death so I can show off how much I’ve learned! But the brutal fact about Mom’s is, there WERE Walmart sugar cookies and homemade zucchini bread present in the building. I’m not sure how Mom felt about that, but the flat tire I found on my car immediately after being shoved out the door by the funeral home attendants might have been a clue. An excellent first use of her new powers. I’ve spent the last eight years apologizing to her and I think we’re good now.



 

I learn a lot from Twitter. I just found out that today is National Kissing Day AND National Fried Chicken Day. Nothing like a greasy smooch, I always say. Everyone must want their own day now so they have to double up, though I think National Virus Appreciation Day on Oct. 3 is a better match for a kissing day. But, yeah…fried chicken is better than kissing and totally deserves its own day.

The other night I was sitting out on the front deck - without a parka and long undies for a change - enjoying one of the warm summer evenings that have finally found Montana, when I noticed something attached to a wicker basket my wife left on the porch. I put down my nail polish and examined more closely and noticed it was cocoon-shaped, fairly large as non-alien cocoons go, and covered in little tiny brown spots. This couldn’t be good, I figured, and sure enough, when I gave the speckled blob a few squirts of my Avon Skin-So-Soft Bug Guard with SPF 30 and Naturally Fragrant Penetrating Moisturizer Spray (practicing my marketing skills…maybe I’ll get advertising royalties for blogging), the little dots scattered.

Spiders! Billions of them! I needed reinforcements, so I rushed inside, grabbed the ant spray (it was all I had), and blasted their evil little cocoon party straight back to hell where it belonged! Bodies scattered frantically and for a moment I felt a bit of remorse. Little baby spiders are actually kind of cute, like baby skunks and (some) humans. It was total chaos down there in the spider world. I’m sure it was in all the spider papers the next day. “DEVASTATION! Family of 14,729 wiped out. Only 4 survivors found.” There’d be lots of quotes about the “toxic storm” and the “gruesome tangled sea of legs and eyeballs” and how witnesses reported seeing a large “boot-shaped object” swiftly crashing down repeatedly on the scattering mob immediately after the storm hit. Not since the 2007 serial housefly murders in the kitchen have so many lives been lost.

Not only did I end their miserable little lives before they could grow up to be creepy and make me crap my pants in fear, but I also disrespected them by using a weapon intended for the lowly ant. Spiders and ants have endured racial tensions for centuries, and the spider would like to think that something intended to kill the common ant cannot possibly be strong enough to kill a spider, but they would be wrong. It’s quite the con the bug spray folks have going. “Spider Killer….Ant Killer….Fly and Wasp Killer…..Hornet and Wasp but not Fly Killer….Female Spider Killer…..Small Inside House Spiders With Spots….Transgendered Roach Killer….”, and all with varying prices. Ha! Any of them can probably kill a human, so all varieties of bugs will die using any kind of spray. I find the cheapest one and go with it. Though not cost-effective, Pantene Extra-Hold Fortified Natural Oil Replenishing Hair Spray also works well in an emergency, as does Fresh Lemon-Scented Hi-Gloss Shine Pledge Fine Furniture Polish and 100% Anti-Bacterial Summer-Breeze-Fresh Odor-Eliminating Lysol Disinfectant. Disinfect and destroy at the same time. Non-stick cooking spray does not work, but the insects do slide off the wall easily after squishing.

Tick encounters are also up around here and my wife even had one attached to her head the other day. There are several ways to try to get them to come out on their own because it’s bad to yank them out only to find you left their filthy little head still embedded in your own filthy head. The propane torch idea didn’t go over well, so we tried to smother him in Vaseline 100% Pure Petroleum Jelly Enhanced with Healing Aloe and Herbs, the idea being that when the little suffocating vampire realizes he can’t breathe, he’d back out of my wife’s head on his own in search of air. This one never works and I’m pretty sure was invented by a Vaseline rep, but my wife prefers it over fire for some reason. Fire almost always works, but there is often collateral damage. I eventually latched on to his body with tweezers and gently tugged and was surprised when he pulled right out, though it appeared he had some of my wife’s brain in his mouth. It looked brain-like anyway, and when I would try to talk to her, she kind of zoned out and stared at the wall. No, wait…she always does that.

Enjoy your day of kissing and chicken.

 

Bigfoot likes peanut butter. I learned this the other night on a show called “Finding Bigfoot” that I stumbled upon after turning on the t.v. to find the president talking. I instantly got bored and found Bigfoot on another channel and learned this valuable information. I thought I would pass it all on to you in case you missed it. They didn’t mention which brand, though. “4 out of 5 Bigfoot prefer Skippy over Jif!”

How’s summer going? Here it’s just finally getting started and we’ve got the naked hippies to prove it. On one of our first warm, sunny days I went hiking up one of my favorite local trails and was greeted at the top by full frontal and backal hippie nakedidity. Darn hippies just can’t keep their hemp briefs on when the sun comes out. At least two of the three were girls, the other I’m not entirely sure. It’s bad when you’re naked and people still can’t tell if you’re a guy or a girl, though that happens with hippies and I think they’re proud of it.

Despite the minimal sunshine in recent weeks, I’m just now recovering from one of the most impressive transmogrifications in my long and storied sunburning career. (I just now learned of the word ‘transmogrification’. It sounds groovy and I’ll probably use frequently from now on.) My sons and I went for a hike a few weeks ago and not until we jumped out of the truck at the trailhead did we realize we’d forgotten something. “Didn’t YOU bring the sunscreen?” “No, didn’t YOU?”

Apparently, the bottle was left on the kitchen table, now protecting the table from harmful 75-watt rays emanating from the ceiling bulb and our fate was sealed. Or seared, I should say. Or transmogrified! Spending a sunny day hiking through high altitude snowfields left us all with that beet-red look of permanent embarrassment, which actually fit pretty well. By Day 3, I was already coming out of my skin and I checked the mirror constantly to see if the new me would be more butterfly and less snake.

Transmogrification. I just can’t stop saying it. It’s like a new toy.

On Day 5 it was bad. I mean really bad. I looked like me, only worse! I was almost unrecognizable and kept using the “I am not an animal! I am a man!” line, but my family’s never seen that movie so it was wasted. We have kids in the house and they like to rapidly eat all our food until it’s gone, so the daily Walmart trip was in order and no amount of begging and pleading or offers of cash and prizes could convince my wife to take my place. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said, smiling with her perfectly intact face. “Nobody cares.”

So off I went and it actually wasn’t that bad. People scurry out of your way when they are frightened. I pretty much had every aisle to myself and was able to get out of there quickly. However, a quick check in my truck’s rearview mirror before and after entering the store revealed that my freak status had morphed from Defcon 3 to Defcon 5 in just the short time I was in there. Back at home, my wife suggested a facial cleanser she uses each night, but it was no match for what was left of me. Apparently it requires pores to work properly, but all of mine were long gone in dead dried sheets of skin that had already separated and broken up in the atmosphere and were now softly drifting away in the Montana summer breeze. Somewhere east of here it’s snowing and I apologize for that.

I hope all of you are off to a good summer. Tomorrow is the 135th anniversary of Custer’s Last Stand. Please celebrate responsibly. I wonder how much Custer’s body has transmogrified in the past 135 years.

 

Yesterday morning I shuffled out to the kitchen and sleepwalked through the morning ritual of feeding the cats, both the cute one and the disgusting slob, then poured the first of what I’d hoped to be many cups of coffee. My wife soon joined me, and as she settled on the couch, a loud and repetitive noise from somewhere outside pierced the morning quiet.

“What IS that bird?” my wife asked, annoyed.

“A Subaru, I think.”

Whoever it was finally got their car started and left us in peace again, so I sat with my coffee and turned on my laptop to find an e-mail from my father-in-law. I sighed and took my first sip and began reading. ”Good Morning. I showered this morning – had another diarrhea session at 12:30 a.m. Mom seems to be constipated.” That was pretty much all I remember…of the e-mail and the coffee. I sat there in my sleepy state, frozen with a semi-nauseated grimace and a mouthful of coffee, trying not to swallow while thinking of non-brown things, which is hard with a mouthful of coffee.

Eventually I thought of enough other colors to swallow and get up to slice the yummy loaf of banana bread I’d made the day before. It was brown. But I felt a little better and went for it. My daughter was awake by then and walked by as I began to slice so I asked if she would like the crusty ends and she said she loves them and all crusts. I know this is a vicious lie because I have seen her avoid bread loaf ends and told her so. “Well, those are stupid,” she said.

“But they must exist,” I reminded her. “For all things must have a beginning and an end, stupid or not. Except God and the universe. And donuts.” She walked off without a reply, no doubt contemplating her own life’s crusts. Never waste an opportunity to teach your kids about life through baked goods, I always say.

Later in the day we made our way 50 miles north to my Dad’s place since my brother and his wife are visiting from Alaska and staying with him. Dad likes animal crackers. I never really see him eating anything else. He has a huge vat of them on his counter that never seems to run dry. Visitors are drawn to that vat like my son to a couch. People often stand around it like they would a campfire, feeding on its contents and chatting away. I came up with a great idea while sitting around the cracker vat. ‘Cannibal Crackers’. Instead of rhinos and tigers and hippos, there would be arms and legs and heads and….well, G-rated parts. I think it would appeal to the cannibal in all of us.

Later, my son the birthday boy and his fiancé arrived. I had just finished frosting his birthday cake, which was also brown, and sticking the previously-blown-out candles on it when my daughter walked by and said, “I love how we save used candles.”

“You do?” I replied, knowing she doesn’t.

“Not really.”

“Tom Hanks would have saved them,” I said, as I always do when someone talks of throwing something out that might still have some use. To be fair, Tom had no disposal service on his island and really had no choice, but that’s beside the point. My future daughter-in-law, who is studying to be a surgical technician, remarked how much weight Hanks had to lose in the filming of Castaway and how it probably improved his virility because she learned that weight gain in men causes erectile dysfunction. “Weight gain in women also causes erectile dysfunction,” my son said, risking his future marital status. Hey, HE said it not me.

The birthday party went well. I had my first-ever Klondike bar and it was a spiritual experience. The evening ended with my brother contemplating putting his phone in the oven at 450 degrees to complete the wash and dry cycle he’d started earlier by accidentally leaving it in his pants when they went in the washer. Apparently someone (obviously not a friend) told him this works wonders to dry out a saturated phone. Sounds brilliant to me, but once the phone melts and becomes fused to the oven rack it’s going to be very hard to stick it in his pocket and a little awkward to hold to his ear, though his reception should improve.

Anyway, that was my day. Sorry, this is what you get when I can’t think of anything else to write about. Think I'll have some coffee now....before checking my e-mail. My inspirational thought for the day: On this day 99 years ago, the Titanic hit an iceberg, saving Jack and Rose from the inevitable lifetime of nagging and erectile dysfunction frustration that loomed after the vacation cruise was over and the years piled up. Watch for bergs and be careful out there.





 

I just learned that you don’t want to piss off a crow because they hold grudges AND they tell their friends about you. The next time you shoo away a crow or fire off a few rounds at its head, you’d better make sure you finish the job or at least wear a panty over your head. Crows never forget a face, apparently, and could come back to crap on your head or sever your brake line or worse. Best not to make eye contact and just walk away quietly.

It’s Easter season again. My favorite time of year, when God sent His son to earth and Reese’s sends their peanut butter eggs to local groceries. I try not to eat candy, but I have a real weakness for those eggs. Reese’s Easter eggs are better than their Halloween pumpkin and Christmas tree versions. More peanut butter per cubic inch, and the egg shape is ergonomically easier to grasp and consume than a pumpkin or a tree. I wish I had 5 of them right now.

They don’t make bananas like they used to. I long for the days of my youth when I could snap open the stem of a banana and peel it in three easy sections. Today’s bananas don’t snap. They bend, they smush, but they don’t break open. I briefly considered the possibility that I’ve simply become too old and frail for the average banana, but my kids have the same problem so it’s not that. Unless the banana people stop injecting their plants with banana steroids, I may be forced to cut off the end and squeeze out the banana like toothpaste. At least inject some fluoride, why don’t you.

It is Masters week down in Augusta, Georgia. Some may remember my blog after last year’s Masters, and how I would love to attend someday before I perish. I mentioned in that entry that it would cost $5,125 to attend and that if I saved $14.32 every single day between then and this week, I could make it work. Well, I just checked and with one day to go I’m only $5,125 away! Wish me luck.

It’s Championship Monday. Go Butler Bulldogs! Enjoy the game and keep an eye out for any crows that seem to be stalking you for no apparent reason. Keep a panty in your pocket if you don’t already.



 

Paypal doesn’t believe my best childhood friend was Matt. All I wanted to do was renew my membership here, but that was the security question I had to answer because they also did not believe my first password attempt. Matt will be crushed if he hears about this.

Anyway, no, it’s not the holiday season yet nor is it even Friday, and I’m sure I’m not the first person to use that subject line up there for this topic, but I’m too lazy to be original. I’m sure some of you have heard the story of Rebecca Black, the 13-year-old girl from California who has become a youtube sensation in the past week or so, and not in a flattering way. My daughter told me about it a few days ago so I had to check it out, and I have to say it bothers me.

From what I gathered by doing some quick research, Rebecca is an aspiring singer who has performed publicly here and there, and whose mother put up a couple grand for two pre-written songs and a cheap video production for her daughter. Of the two, Rebecca chose a song called ‘Friday’, a simple little tune about kids making their way through their school week to get to the fun of the weekend. A very cheap video was made and the song was put on youtube in the hopes that, according to Rebecca, family and friends could watch and maybe it could be the start of something bigger down the road. And that’s exactly what happened – the video received a modest 4,000 views and she was happy.

That is until a popular website caught wind of the video and wrote a piece about how bad it was, and from there the views skyrocketed, as did the negative comments. The video has now received around 70 million views, and, if I’m not mistaken, has set a record for most dislike votes in youtube’s history. I watched it and, yeah, it’s not that good. Kind of a catchy tune, but the lyrics and vocals aren’t that great. But it’s not THAT bad, yet you know how these negative firestorms pick up energy and take on a life of their own. Some of the comments are horrible! Nasty nasty personal attacks. Why does everyone have to be so mean??? The poor girl is 13! I don’t care how thick-skinned you think you are or how much you keep brushing off the negative tidal wave, as Rebecca has bravely done, it has to bother you. It would break my heart if it was my own daughter. The poor girl is just trying to pursue her dream.

This is definitely one of the dark sides of the internet. It’s much too easy to hide behind a screen and criticize in a way you never would face to face. I’m very active on online political and sports message boards and forums and I see vicious personal attacks every single day, for no real reason. People trying to have a civil debate get assaulted constantly. And often by people who are on their own side! I can’t tell you the number of times I’m on ESPN’s boards and someone will leave a comment like, “The Celtics sure are struggling lately. I don’t see how they can win this game tonight against such a tough opponent,” that will then get a snotty reply, complete with really good grammar and spelling. “haha….what a maroon you are you looser. rofl. some fan you are idiot…lol….know won can beet us…haha…celtics will rain on there thrown forever stupid….haha…i hope you die soon crybaby….lolroflaodmsoi…haha”.

(The ‘lose/loose’ mixup is my personal favorite on message boards, with the renegade apostrophes coming in a close second.)

I realize that in most of these cases, the ones throwing the insults around so easily are probably no older than Rebecca herself, but it’s still no excuse. I’d like to drag them by their dirty ears out back of the woodshed and……do whatever it is that people do back there! I was never quite clear on that. Maybe gramps just shared some of his medical weed with his grandkid, but I think it was more likely something bad. First I’d ask gramps what happens behind the woodshed, then I’d drag them back there! No, wait….first I’d build a woodshed, then ask gramps, THEN start dragging! "Just sit yourself down till I finish building this woodshed, you little brat, then I'm gonna drag your worthless butt behind it!"

I’m just really really tired of mean angry rude people lately.

And then to top off my day yesterday, I was coming off the mountain and came across a young mom and her two small boys on the trail near the bottom. The kids were great and gave me an enthusiastic greeting, but when I passed the mom I smiled and said hello and all I got back was a cold, blank stare. Is it really that hard to crack a smile??? Would it really kill you to say a simple hello??? Why do people have to be so rude?!? Where’s the love, man? Anyone who doesn’t agree with me is a maroonic looser!!! Haha…rofl….lmao…lolsflolsoflaohlo….