No Kids and Three Money

To All The Girls I've Loved Before

2012-01-19T17:37:00.001-08:00

If you're anything like me, you're just not a very good boyfriend. Never have been.

I bring this up because it's mid-January and that means I'm working on putting to together Sonja's Valentine's Day Mixtape. Last year's tape, 12" Of Red Carpet, was my favorite in theory. It turned out to be my least favorite in practice. It took me a long while to figure out why. Ultimately, I came to realize it was because I didn't make it specifically for her. I intended to, but I made the cardinal mistake of asking for input from my friends. This usually ends badly for other reasons, but in this case I was literally overwhelmed by the number of great recommendations they had for what songs need to be on any good romantic mixtape. I wanted the finally mixdown to be under 80 minutes. If I recall correctly, they offered over 100 songs. As it turns out, there's an awful lot of ways to tell somebody you love them. But not all of those ways work in a way that makes sweet music together. The end result was underwhelming despite being not complete awful.

12" Of Red Carpet irked me so much that I'm actually doing it over again, this time the way I wanted to do it in the first place. While I normally would wait until February 14th to let her hear it, I broke a fledgling tradition and played the first five minutes of it for her the other day. Her smile told me all I needed to hear. It's going to be much better this time around.

The process of putting this mix together has had unintended consequences. I've found myself playing songs that are forever going to be associated with someone other than her, which has made me more reflective than I normally am. In August we'll be celebrating our 10th anniversary. Thinking back on the last 10 years and the woman I love lead me to think about the last 20 years and all the girls I loved before her. They may not still be in my black book or call log or in my heart anymore, but they are on my iPod. You can unfriend your Exes but you can't unfriend your memories.

Music is a funny thing. Once you associate a song with someone, you can never disassociate it. It's the Sharpie to Life's Great Yearbook. Sometimes the memories are happy, and they usually stay that way. Sometimes the memories are painful and they always stay that way. But if there's one thing I know for sure it's that memories without a soundtrack fade much faster than the ones that do.

Originally this was going to be the last paragraph. I was going to try to tie all this together in a succinct statement, something pithy and with a touch of wit. But that's not what's about to happen. What is about to happen is perhaps the worst idea I've ever had. It's dumb but honest and in a lot of ways I think that's really why I keep coming back to write new post from time to time: I enjoy the honesty behind everything I write. And this pretty honest stuff.

Shitty relationships are the fertilizer of future relationships. You have to have some in order to learn from but not too many so that you stop learning altogether. Not enough fertilizer means your next relationship will stop growing, too much fertilizer and your next relationship will just wither and die. And as with most things in life, timing is everything. Fertilize in the wrong season and what could have been a viable relationship will fail without fail. We've all had shitty relationships. This post is about why I'm grateful to the girls I've had them with, the songs I hear in my head when they cross my mind and the lyrics that will always belong to someone other than my favorite girl.

The list is simple: Names and certain details will be redacted to protect the innocent (no kissing and telling for the most part), one song per girl (even though some have many), not every girl makes the list (you had to have made a lasting impact of some kind which I'll acknowledge) and the songs are to listed in random order which may or may not follow chronological order. So without further adieu, let's meet the girls who made the soundtrack that made me who I am today.

Nirvana // Heart-Shaped Box

She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak

I've been locked inside your Heart Shaped Box for weeks

I've been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap

I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black

Ah, yes. Without a doubt my favorite Blonde of all-time. That is saying something substantial. While I've told Sonja from time to time I've always had a thing for Blondes, that's probably not true. It most likely started with you. Funny thing is it had nothing to do with the hair; it was your laugh. I could listen to you laugh all day long. In fact, I spent considerable time trying to make you do so. And succeeding might I add. We had fun when we hung out, which wasn't nearly as often as I would have liked. And despite the fact that I had a thing for you, I'm not sure you ever noticed because you had a thing for complete and total douchebags. Or at least I thought they were douchebags, anyway. I might have just been hating. But even if they were all really great guys I'll always believe that none of them could make you laugh as easily or as infectiously as I did. From you I learned the importance of being able to make a girl laugh, how to maintain eye contact in the presence of epic cleavage, and that in order to get the girl you had to be a complete and total douchebag. I also picked up an appreciation of Grunge in general and of Nirvana in particular. And a thing for Blondes too I suppose.

Def Leppard // Pour Some Sugar On Me

Take the bottle, shake it up...

Okay, no need to over-complicate this one. You sat next to me in Chem Something-Or-Another. You're a looker, no doubt. But the best thing about you is strictly from the waist down: you have legs to die for. I mean, serious fucking stems. Christ. And the day you walked in late to class wearing the mini-est skirt ever made as we were discussing alcohols and sugars set off a 80's high school "Here Comes The Love Interest" slo-mo walk in my mind that will live in infamy. Lesson learned: the girl for me will have to have great legs.

Dave Hollister // Baby Mama Drama

Yeah... Look, some relationships are doomed from the beginning. This was one of them. Everybody knew it. Everybody but us. Our realtionship gave new meaning to the phrase "black comedy". Except it wasn't really that funny at the time. It's not really that funny now. But if there is one thing I loved about our hellish time together, it was the caustic banter that came from the fact that we were polar opposites in just about every way. THAT was funny. Like, I wrote an entire screenplay about it funny. Then I deleted it because I didn't want to think about you anymore. Which I suppose is perfectly natural. I won't act like there wasn't a reason we made it as long as we did because there was. But the constant cycle of falling out just to make up never did anything for me. I know you thought that me yelling at you meant I cared, but that's only because you weren't listening to what I was saying. If you had been, you would have known that what I actually wanted was for you to shut the fuck up because I didn't care in the least about what we were fighting about. Bad times. From you I learned that sometimes when everyone you know is telling you the same thing it may be time to reconsider what you're doing, that make up sex is pretty much the same as regular sex, that your girlfriend can't hate your friends and you manage to keep both, why guys act a fool on Maury when they find out they're not the father... I learned a lot of shit, okay? The hardest way possible. But they were good lessons to learn and they stuck.

Boyz II Men // I'll Make Love To You

...Or at least I tried to. You were my first. Everybody's gotta start somewhere, and you and I started in the worst way possible. Given how badly our first real try at sex went I'm surprised I ever tried it again. It wasn't quite a disaster, but it was worthy of a scene in a teen comedy. Who knew they even made unlubricated condoms? And how are you supposed to get those things off after you realize it's not going on any further? They're like the fucking skinny balloons clowns use to make animals out of. How people fucked before they made Magnums I'll never know. I can still remember the look of total sympathy on your face as we tried to pry that thing off of me. That meant a lot to me, just not at the time. At the time I thought I was going to have to call the fire department to free my junk. Bad times. And boy, we had our share of bad times. But we also had our share of great times, and for that you'll always have my gratitude. We learned a lifetime of lessons together, the what to dos and the what never to do agains that make being young and in love the best thing you can possibly be at the time. You taught me I had a long way to go to be the man I really thought I could be, that I really don't like fighting or arguments and that you never, EVER skimp on the condoms.

Tony Bennett // The Way You Look Tonight

Oh, but you're lovely

With you cheeks so warm

And your lips so soft

There is nothing for me but to love you

And the way you look tonight.

Oh you wild and crazy girls of Menchville High School. You had a boyfriend. I was kicking it with your homegirl. Things were pretty clear cut. And then came the day you told me you had to tell me a secret while we were sitting in class. I leaned over, you cupped my ear with your hands and then proceeded to lick my brain stem, my frontal lobe and everything else you could reach in there with your tongue. When I asked you to repeat what you just said cause I wasn't quite sure I understood you, you leaned in and licked until I... got the message. Then there was the time we were standing in front of the entire school for something or another and you started... Dammit you know what you started doing to me. All while standing right next to your boyfriend. We never talked about any of that afterwards but I never forgot about it either. You taught me how to get over my dislike of public displays of affection pretty quickly. That, and broads are scandalous. Both lessons stuck.

The Notorious B.I.G. // Gimme The Loot

Mixed chicks are fucking nuts. Strippers are tons of fun. We all make mistakes. Moving on.

2Pac // I Get Around

Despite what you may have heard occasionally the Underground does stop for hoes. Especially ones with British accents. And as it turns out only having one night in town is still plenty on time to study a broad. I learned that not wanting to get fucked in the loo and not wanting to get fucked in the bum are not the same thing. I learned that bruises hurt a LOT more in the morning. But most of alI learned the lesson that changed my life for good: I can tell that cute girl from Ann Arbor anything. Before I left on the trip I told Sonja I'd call once I got back. Once I got back, she was the first person I called. I told her all about the trip, didn't leave out any of the details and for the first time ever didn't lie to a girl that I really liked. It felt great. It felt natural. I instantly knew I could trust her with my actual unfiltered thoughts. And I knew I'd just found what I was looking for. Best one night stand ever.

Most relationships fail. That's not a surprise. The fact that we don't know how they're going to end is part of the allure of starting them in the first place. Once they're over we never know how they're going to affect the ones that we will have in the future. That's part of the reason we hate ending them. I don't have any great wisdom about why I stopped being the boyfriend no one wanted. For all the lessons I learned before we met, in the end the past 10 years didn't come down to any of them. It came down to luck. I was one phone call away from never meeting her at all. I was one keystroke away from never hearing from Sonja again after she went home to Michigan. I lucked out, then I won out.

And when it comes to being a boyfriend, I'd rather be lucky than good. It makes for a much better soundtrack.

Let's Make Up

2011-10-15T06:40:00.000-07:00

If you're anything like me, you've never wanted to be yourself.

When I was a kid, I'd make believe I was a astronaut, or a ninja, or a game-winning QB. No kid goes outside to play the role of kid. We want to be someone else, and oppose someone else. Cowboys need Indians. Cops need Robbers. Game-winning QBs need ~~Greg Robinson~~ an opposing defense loaded with poor tacklers and safeties that will always bite on play-action. Or Greg Robinson.

The problem for most kids and especially only children like me was that there wasn't anyone there to oppose. I couldn't be a hero without a villain. So I made some up. Imaginary bad-asses who's sole purpose was doing some dastardly shit that I had no choice but to stop them from doing. Thus I learned the importance of completely made up things. They exist for no other reason than because we say they do, but we create them because we need them to exist even though they actually don't. There are a lot of people that don't understand that, but then again there are a lot of people that don't celebrate Sweetest Day either.

It's a great holiday. Who doesn't look forward to a chance to spend a moment, an evening or even an entire weekend showing the special somone (or someones... I see you, player!) in your life how much they mean to you? Why wouldn't you look forward to the third Saturday of October every year just like I do?

Because you're a jaded asshole, that's why. The number one reason people tell me they hate Sweetest Day is because it's a made up holiday. A Hallmark Holiday, as they like to call it. This is partially and completely false. Hallmark didn't create this Holiday at all. In fact, Sweetest Day actually originates from the modern cradle of national celebration at the time: Cleveland.

Back in 1921 a group of Candy Barrons in Cleveland needed a reason to sell more candy. They didn't have one. The Great War was still fresh in everyone's mind, banks were beginning to fail and Prohibition was in full swing, turning America's streets into the battlefields of a Not-So-Great War being fought on the doorsteps of people who had previously only seen that kind of violence in the headlines. The seeds of the Great Drepression were being sown. People were not happy. And unhappy people do not buy candy. They don't have a reason to.

So the Candy Barrons did what any enterprising American would have done: they completely made one up. Like most things that originate in Cleveland, it did not go as planned. Most cities failed to buy in to Sweetest Day, as chocolate is a poor substitute for the bootleg booze and Canadian whiskey most Americans wanted to get their hands on at the time. However through the efforts of Sanders Candy, one other city did catch Chocolate Fever: Detroit, which is where I learned how to celebrate Sweetest Day the proper way.

In my last post I talked about the growing sense of optimism here in Michigan and how in some ways that sense is directly tied to the success of the local sports teams. This week has only added to that success. The Lions, exiled for a decade for their last embarrassing perfromance on such a stage, put on a show for Monday Night Football during an electrifying win over Chicago. The Tigers, a banged up MASH unit of a team, is grinding their way through a tough series with a the defending American League Champion Texas Rangers with the sort of grit and resolve we all like to think the city embodies. The Michigan Wolverines are not only winning games, they have actually tackled people in the course of doing so.

Each of these teams have something to atone for in their own way. The Lions for being so pathetic for so long. The Tigers for having a history of not being able to finish the season as strongly as they started it. Michigan for not being The Program That Lived after the hiring of He Who Must Not Be Named. Those failures stung and left stains that we couldn't be sure would ever wash away. But the stains of those failures are being washed away, in wave after refreshing wave of progress. With every win the bitterness of the tortured fanbase here dissipates a little more, replaced by an enthusiasm tied to the realization that not only do we no longer suck, we're actually pretty good. How good? We don't know yet, but it's possible we are not only good, but the best of the best. Time will tell, but regardless of how things shake out this weekend is going to cap an epic yet exhausting 10-day run of sports the likes of which I've never seen.

This weekend also kicks off the beginning of the 60-day Occupy Detroit movement/demonstration happening downtown. I have no idea why these people feel as though Detroit needs to be occupied, but I'm all for anyone spending time in the city even if it's in tents. I hear that this whole Occupy Wherever movement is the left's answer to the Tea Party. I have no idea if this is true. I'm kinda numb to politics right now, mostly because I have a life I'd like to enjoy living until the next election in 2012. These Occu-Teas are clearly not anything like me.

If they were they'd be celebrating Sweetest Day instead of blaming one another for whatever it is they're blaming each other for, and they'd be a lot happier for it. A cursory look of Washington's approval ratings shows a lot of dissatisfaction with our leadership, and it's easy to see why. Bickering and childish antics make for wonderful ratings and terrible progress. And progress is the only way to improve what ails us as a nation. And if the Occu-Teas are both serious about what they want for our future, they're going to have to find a reason to start working together instead of against each other.

And if they can't, what better day than today to completely make one up. I think that'd be pretty sweet.

The 2 Minute Warning

2011-10-03T16:22:00.000-07:00

I'm a Detroiter.

Wasn't born here. Didn't go to school here. Ten years ago I still called pop soda, had never heard of a coney dog and was an hardcore Washington Redskins fan that had enjoyed multiple Super Bowl and playoff victories. I thought the party store must have sold balloons or something. I had no clue how to pronounce Ypsilanti, Meijer or Gratiot (which turns out is our answer to Norfolk, VA). I didn't put an "s" on the the end of Ford. My feelings on the state of Ohio were completely neutral. I had driven foreign cars my entire life. I was a Virginian.

But not just any Virginian. I was from Newport News. Grew up there. Went to school there. My life revolved around crab season, hurricane season and tourist season. We didn't have party stores on every corner, we had churches (the houses of worship, not the chicken place). It was a great place to raise a family and a terrible place to grow up.

That's not to say that Detroit was completely foreign to me when I got here. Back in Newport News, we built things for a living. Ships to be exact. Not pleasure crafts, but aircraft carriers. Submarines. The things that kept America strong. It was our only industry really. The Cold War kept demand for warships high so you didn't need a degree to earn an honest wage. Just a strong back and a lack of options. Generations had moved to the end Virginia's lower peninsula seeking that opportunity, and as a kid I had no doubt it would be that way for generations to come.

Then the Cold War came to an abrupt end. Watching the Berlin Wall fall in 1990 I had now idea how profound of an impact it would have on my hometown. It seemed like it was a good thing. The threat of Mutually Assured Destruction was ending. Talks of an enduring World Peace didn't seem so far-fetched. The future was so bright I wanted a pair of Blu Blockers. Then the base closures started. Soon the Navy funding dried up. Without warning came the announcements that America didn't need us to build ships anymore. The future became a very scary place. That was 15 years ago.

Fifteen years later, I've watched that same pattern play out here in Michigan, my new home and one of the few remaining places in this country that still makes things for a living. The story of Detroit's decline was eerily similar to the one back in Newport News. At the time, America wanted SUVs so we gave them SUVs. Then Climate Change happened. And suddenly our SUVs weren't needed. Plants were closing. Banks weren't lending. The Big Three, already suffering the indignity of being called The Detroit Three due to declining market share were on the ropes and on the brink of a once unthinkable collapse. The future was a scary place. That was three years ago.

But that wasn't the only thing that happened here three years ago. Not only did we elect some black guy President of the United States, you may have heard the urban legend that Detroit had an NFL football team at the time. I'm here to tell you it's not just a rumor, it's a fact. Another fact? The same year that the automotive industry imploded into massive bankruptcy and job losses just so happened to coincide with the single worst season in the 48 year of the National Football League. Watching football was something that became an escape to many other struggling American communities at that time. Watching the Detroit Lions clusterfuck their way to an 0-16 record just made everything even worse here. To call our collective mood somber would be a massive understatement. Suicidal would be an understatement. I quit blogging and logged off Facebook because it seemed mostly pointless. There was no future.

Until eight months ago. Ironically for Detroit, things began to turn around during the Super Bowl of all things; a game that the Lions had never even come close to playing in. Throughout the game I waited to see The Big Three run ads for various new models that they desperately needed to public to buy. The Ford spot was forgettable. The GM spot for the Chevy Volt was a little uninspired. Then came the Chrysler ad.

In the days and hours leading up to kickoff, it's become routine to see advertisers leak their spots on You Tube and morning shows with an eye towards creating some buzz. Chrysler raised eyebrows by taking the opposite tact: they kept their commercial completely under wraps. The rumors were that it was two minutes long, making it the longest spot in Super Bowl history if true. The word was that is had cost anywhere from $2M-$9M, making it the most expensive spot in Super Bowl history for a company fresh off of a taxpayer funded bailout. It seemed ill-conceived and doomed to failure. I was expecting the worst. What I got two minutes later was anything but.

I praised it instantly. It was genius. It was breathtaking. It was more than I could have ever imagined a commercial could be in terms of its impact and ability to definitively capture the soul of a city. Not everyone agreed. Some people who know better than me told me it didn't make sense. That it wouldn't sell cars. That it wasn't even an ad for a car, it was more like of an ad for what was certainly the worst city on on the planet. That Detroit was a hopeless shithole incapable of making a relevant automobile and would always be a hopeless shithole incapable of making a relevant automobile because people that know better than me said so.

One of these people was from Newport News just like me. He had gotten as far away from the impending doom of the collapsing local hometown economy as he could as soon as he could, just like me. He was glad that he did, just like me. But unlike me, when he left he went someplace that wasn't anything like where we were from. Someplace where the people don't make things for a living. Someplace that made it easy to forget where we were from. Someplace far from home.

The Chrysler ad hit close to home. I stayed up until 4AM after the game was over watching it, breaking it down, trying to figure out what about it moved me. I wasn't the only Detroiter doing so, and I eventually did find a blog post that summed it up well through an apt comparison to the works Ezra Pound: image, music and meaning. Three elements that fit us perfectly. What city is more synonymous with all three than Motown? What other city in America has a modern story to tell like we do? What more unlikely place to tell the story of where we're from than during a game we've never been to? What better time to tell the world where we're going than from place we couldn't possibly dream of going at that time, at that moment? It was more than an ad, it was a two-minute warning of the coming renaissance. It was inspired. And boy did it inspire.

In the days following the ad, I spent more time talking about Chrysler and Detroit with everyone I knew than I ever had. Every time anyone asked me about, I said the same thing: That two minutes gave us our swagger back. That had to sound stupid to my out-of-town buddies who were only seeing more of the same from afar. But truthfully, things had started to change months before that commercial ever aired. The University of Michigan broke a two year bowl drought and posted a winning season. Small thing. Kwame Kilpatrick, our disgraced Mayor, was released from jail and quietly left town mercifully ending a long drawn out scandal. Small thing. The Michigan State Spartans won their first Big Ten title since 1990. Small thing. But most importantly, the Detroit Lions won their last four games of the season, including back-to-back road wins and a victory over the eventual World Champion Green Bay Packers. No small thing.

In the months following the airing of the ad, things have gone more than reasonably well here. Housing prices are up. The Big Three are adding jobs and shifts and reopening plants. The Tigers are in the playoffs. The Lions are undefeated. I'm blogging again. The UAW is negotiating new contracts without a hint of acromony. Well, maybe a hint but nothing like what we're used to. Small things. The mood is cautiously optimistic, which is better than it is in most places. Everywhere else in America seems to be slumping. Things here in Detroit seems to be clicking. We're not perfect, and yes we have work to do. A shitload of work. More work than I will ever be able to see through in my lifetime. But it's work we're willing to do. It's work we want to do. It's work we are going to do and do better than anyone suspects we can do. Not because we have a chip on our shoulder or because we've got something to prove. It's nothing like that. It's because going to hell and back is only the halfway point on this journey. Because tall tasks are no match for a tough town. Because it's what we do, what we've always done. It's because we were born to do this, and we've been reborn to do it better than it's ever been done anywhere.

We're Detroiters. And if you're anything like us, you're back.

The Real Man's Guide to Romance, Part 2: Burnin' Love

2009-02-14T20:06:00.000-08:00

If you're anything like me, you care for your woman just as much as you care about the environment. Since you're still trying to figure out if that's a compliment or an insult, let me clear things up for you: yes, it is.

One thing that is not ambiguous is my love of pussy or my disdain for holidays that make me pay a price for my aforementioned love. But much like when Biggie went home with that broad that got dick from a player off the New York Knicks, I know how to make the best of a bad situation. I take lemons and make babies. Just not directly. So when the Holidays strike, I strike back like any Real Man would.

Such is the case with Styrofoam. It can't be easily recycled. It doesn't biodegrade. But it does make a very lovely fire. The same type of lovely fire that one might use to get some St. Valentine's Day ass. The type of fire that burns with passion, that burns white-hot, that burns with the aid of excellerants. That's right, Real Men. Nothing says "Bitch, take your clothes off NOW!!!" like a little homemade Napalm.

Now you may ask yourself "Why in the fuck would I want to make Napalm, especially for Valentine's Day?" If you have to ask, then this is not for you and you shouldn't read any further, Girlie Man. For the rest of you, it goes without saying that nothing sucks more than having to tend to a fire and a woman at the same time. Thus the genius in using a hot-burning long lasting firestarter like Napalm to kill one bird with an incendiary bomb is not only in it's Real Man Appeal, but it's practicality. You can save time and the planet all while getting laid. It's a can't miss proposition.

Unless you blow yourself up. Now, would a Real Man hesitate to post instructions on how to make Napalm out of styrofoam on his blog? No way. But a Real Man also would know how to make Napalm out of Styrofoam already, meaning if you don't know by now you're not a Real Man. If you're interesting in becoming a Real Man however, I am willing to do you a solid and point you in the right direction. Click here to take your first step in finding out how to make fire like a Real Man.

And that's will do it for Part II. If you're still alive for Part III, We'll take a look at how a Real Man pulls off a Romantic Dinner for two.

Bonfire Appetit!

The Real Man's Guide to Romance, Part 1: The Nameless Drink

2009-02-14T15:17:00.000-08:00

***WARNING!!!***

The following is for Real Men only. If you are less than a Real Man, read no further.

Liar.

But since you're clearly determined to read on, know that I will not be held accountable for what happens when your eyes set upon the Truth contained in this passage.

Don't Say You Weren't Warned.

*** END WARNING!!!***

If you're anything like me, you ain't no punk bitch. No my friend, you're a man's man. In the tradition of Eastwood (Unforgiven, not Bridges of Madison County), Swayze (Roadhouse, not Dirty Dancing and for damn sure not Ghost) and Batman (the one without a Robin, not the one who kicked it with teen boys in spandex), you kick ass and leave the name-taking for those far more pussy than you're even capable of pretending to be. Your man-stank makes women ovulate. The sound of your voice gets broads so hot you violate the Kyoto Protocol every time you bother to speak to these hos. Women want to be with you and men want to be women so they can be with you, too. You're a Gangsta of Love'em and Leave'em.

But all that doesn't mean your ass won't be sleeping on the sofa if you don't make with the romance when your woman expects it. If you think the way Russia cut off gas to the Ukraine was fucked up, try skipping out on doing right by your lady friend on Valentine's Day. The pussy will freeze up faster than the credit market.

But just because you're more Rick Ross than Ross and Rachel doesn't mean you can't moisturize her situation and maintain your manly. You just have to know how to go about pulling that shit off.

That's where I come in. As the guy your girl most often thinks about while she's with you, I'm here you give you the upper hand you need to get her mind back to where it belongs: bouncing uncomfortably off of your headboard. Or your belly button. Or, if you're anything like me, her younger sister. So grab your composition books and sharpen your Sharpie, because if you follow my advice I promise you your relationship will be the same again. Ever.

The first step in improving your love life in getting her drunk. This is an Absolut must and can never under any circumstances be considered optional. To this end I am breaking my silence and offering you, noble reader a recipe that has been kept secret for thousands of days. But no longer. You make thank me properly when no one is looking.

The Nameless Drink

one part Vodka
one part Peach Schnapps
one part Blue Raspberry Martini Mix
one part Wildberry Pucker
Cranberry Juice

Shake first four ingredients over ice, pour into chilled glass and fill with cranberry juice.

Now let be clear about two things:

The quality of the vodka in question will have a direct bearing on the panty peeling effects of this soft drink. If you're serving this to get served, don't pinch pennies.
I've never actually tasted this concoction before, so I have now idea what it taste like. From what I've been (frequently) told, it taste like Kool-Aid. Take that for what it's worth.

So there you have it, Part I of the Real Man's Guide to Romance. What's Part II? I don't want to give anything away, but Here's a Hint: it involves Napalm. Seriously.

Spinal Crap

2009-02-13T07:51:00.000-08:00

If you're anything like me, you were really looking forward to me being able to Twitter a running diary during the birth of my third and final daughter. I was ready. I had my iPod blasting the Launch theme from Armageddeon, my UMA BlackBerry was connected to the Hospital Wi-Fi, and I was still not completely sober from the wine pairings I enjoyed with my seven course meal the night before. It was on.

Unfortunately for all of us I was denied that opportunity when Pregatron proved to be impervious to painkillers. No amount of spinal blocks, anesthetic or Bullfrogs (which is a Raspberry Stoli and Lemonade for the uninitiated) could numb her up. So she had to be put under, which meant I couldn't watch the blessed event in the OR. The whole thing really upset Pregatron, which was made worse by the fact that I couldn't talk to her to calm her down. Stupid Modern Medicine.

But in it's own way it was cool. It was kinda old school. I was left to pace back and forth and wonder what was going on. It would have been nice if I could have had a pack of cigarettes and some scotch, too. And then just like in the movies I hear a baby cry and out the nurse comes with my little bundle of outrageous tuition and expensive ass wedding. It was cool. I might head across the river into Canada and bring back some Cubans for complete the deal.

I wonder if Pregatron's Doctor smokes?

Here We Go Again

2009-02-13T02:26:00.000-08:00

Some of you may have wondered I haven't been posting anything to the blog lately, and for those curious few I have an answer: I've been busy. You see, today is Pregatron's big day. The Daughters of Destruction will be adding a third and final member to their ranks today, in about two hours or so. So for the past two weeks I've been preoccupied with putting the finishing touches on everything around the house in order to make room for one more reason I'll never be able to get out of debt.

Nonetheless, I'm here in the D getting ready for Episode III and I'll be making up for lost time and blog post all weekend.

Don't say you haven't been warned.

Broke Like Me

2009-01-26T10:18:00.000-08:00

If you're anything like me, you've got your money spread out between several financial institutions. Among my current banks are Piggy, Almost-A-, and Bank of America. It should go without saying which one of these banks I'm least happy with, but I'll say it anyway. But not without some prologue.

If you've spent any time in Virginia in the past year, I'm sure you've heard about the legislative push to ban what must be Hampton Roads largest financial institution, the check cashing place. This is not hyperbole. Were the check cashing place an actual bank, Jefferson Ave would be Wall Street. And like Wall Street, Jefferson Ave is facing backlash and tough new oversight after years of little oversight and deregulation.

The idea behind the new laws are simple: people who need money in a pinch shouldn't have to pay insane amounts of interest to get it. And like most simple ideas, it was conceived by simple minds. Being a Virginia Legislator is a part-time job. When you're not writing laws, you're back to your regular job. So given the pay of the average Delegate and Senator, these people may have some familiarity with needing a little extra scratch between direct deposits. Legislating check-to-check is no doubt embarrassing enough without having to deal with paying up to 400% in annualized interest on top of everything else.

I have a problem with the logic being used to argue the merits of this law. The triple digit interest is a arithmetic reality manipulated into a fuzzy math fantasy. For every $100 you borrow from on of these establishments, you pay $15, with a maximum borrowable amount of $500. So the most you can pay for a loan is $75. The loan and interest is due the next time you get paid. So the actual interest for the duration of the loan is 15%. That's not inconsequential, but it's certainly not 400% .In fact, it's in line with credit card interest rates and actually less than getting a cash advance on your credit card. But more importantly than that, no real bank is going to lend you money until payday. Just try calling up your current bank and asking for a loan for $500. *Spoiler Alert* You're not getting one.

Especially if you're with Bank of America, which is for all intents and purposes is bankrupt and is only still able to open it's doors due to a huge backstop of taxpayer money. Most people will make a big deal out of the TARP funds that will ultimately dilute shareholders if the bank recovers and be a complete waste of money if the bank fails regard of either outcome. But I'm more concerned about the $118 in loan guarantees our heroes in Congress bravely made possible by Creating this TARP mess in the first place. Keeping in mind that the enitre company could be bought outright for less than $40B and that the Treasury has given BoA $45B in straight cash over the past four months and they still managed to post a 4Q loss, a reasonable person might think it's time to pull the plug of this nonsense. But then again, reasonable people don't make it to Washington, now do they? On top of the $45 billion that has already been given to BoA, the taxpayer is on the hook another $10 billion in writedowns and then 90% of their mortgage loan losses after that.

So from here on at 0K+3$ Bank of America will be known as Bank Owes America. Big Time.

VTF?

2009-01-22T16:44:00.000-08:00

If you're anything like me, you keep a running list of schools you will not pay for your daughters to go to and institutions that are just completely off limits from any consideration. My list used to look like this.

Spelman

That was a simple enough list to maintain. I moved to Detroit in 2001 and had to adjust that list slightly. The revised list looked pretty much like this:

Spelman
Detroit Public Schools

Now that I live in Ann Arbor, not only did I have to tweak that list yet again but I also needed to add explanations for each item. That wound up looking like this when it was all said and done.

Spelman- As if.
Detroit Public Schools- Detroit schools frequently serve as polls on election day. I used to vote at Murray-Wright High, which the students lovingly referred to as Murder-Whites. One day as I was walking into the school to vote on amongst other issues Prop E, which was asking voters whether or not to allow then-Mayor Kwame Killpatrick to take over control of the city's public school system. This was like asking me if I wanted a give millions of tax dollars to a crackhead to do something about all those unsightly crackhouses in the neighborhood. As I was entering the building I saw that the doors and windows were covered with flyers. Not political flyers mind you, because that's illegal. No, these flyers were inviting the students to participate in a "Shake What Yo Mama Gave Ya" contest after school. There was a prize involved, but I've blocked the rest of that memory out. I do recall voting no for what it's worth.
The Ohio State University- I actually don't have anything against the school, but the more I live in Michigan the less I like Ohio. The turnpike is nice. The State Troopers are dicks. But the real issue is that I just don't like the people. They have no lives and nothing to live for outside of OSU football and LeBron. As much as people love to diss Detroit, can you honestly tell me you'd rather go anywhere in Ohio? Cleveland? Cincinnati? Dayton? Columbus? At least in the D you get better clubs, bars and women who are ready to get down without a bunch of jibber-jabber.
Harvard University- I can't afford that shit.

That was the list until today, when I made the following changes.

Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University
Spelman
Ohio State University
Detroit Public Schools
Harvard

If you have to ask why Virginia Tech made the list at #1, then you clearly haven't seen the reports coming out of Blacksburg about the latest tragedy to hit campus. This is crazy for a few reasons. The biggest one is that 20 months after 32 students were killed in a crazed shooting spree another student is killed in a way that ups the ante on crazy on-campus murders. Now I am in no way making light of the fact that a young woman lost her life, but seriously? Getting stabbed to death is bad enough, but to then be decapitated all while sitting in Au Bon Pain in plain sight of witnesses? Over coffee and without any apparent provocation?

At this rate, Blacksburg might as well be Camp Crystal Lake. How could any parent feel good about sending their kid there given the recent history? First the Vick Brothers and now not one but two homicidal maniacs were enrolled at this school? Who's the Dean of Admissions, O.J.? It's as mind boggling as it is sad. It's the sort of thing that make you just shake your head and say WTF?

Sadder still is that this student and her family back in China probably won't get the same degree of public sympathy as the shooting victims because it was just her and we're a long way from football season. So effective immediately, in memory of Xin Yang and in honor of the shitty campus security at VT, the phrase WTF? here at 0K+3$ will officially be changed to VTF? until further notice. And as for Gumball and Lunchbox, well they'lll just have to be satisfied with UVA.

Just Kidding. That school's on the list too.

The Inauguration Proclamation

2009-01-19T12:55:00.000-08:00

I have mixed feelings about tomorrow's Inauguration of America's 44th President. While most of you will be watching either on TV, them internets or even in person, I'll be sitting in a training class in Detroit pretty much all day. I'm going to miss the whole thing. This is not all bad to me, as it gives me a legitimate reason to not actually be in attendance on the day everything changed forever. More accurately it gives me another reason to not be there. It's not that I don't want to be there, it's just that I'm afraid of what going to happen to some of the people who are making the trip. Why am I afraid? Oh, I have my reasons. And this being a blog and all, my reasons just so happen to fit onto a neatly reverse-ordered list:

5. It's going to be cold as fuck.

It's Common Knowledge that a gathering of more than six Black Folks at a time is a leading cause of Global Warming. Conventional Wisdom would dictate that Black Folks don't go outside if the temperature's under 50. That would be if Common Knowledge and Conventional Wisdom hadn't been murdered in their sleep by that dastardly cabal of Hope, Yes We Can, Change and of course Oprah. We flipped everything on its head, and that's not a good thing when you'd like for things to work the way they used to. So now a million black folks, many of whom are from parts of the country where it doesn't even snow, are going to gather in sub-freezing temperatures and stand for hours on end and all of this will not keep a single one of them warm. Pity.

4. It's going to be like a funeral.

If you've ever been to a black funeral, you know exactly what I mean. There with be tears, crying, sobbing and all kinds of bawling. In fact, this will be the cryingest group of happy folk you've ever laid eyes on. Do you blame them. How could you not cry one last good time? After Slavery, Jim Crow, Selma, Malcolm and Martin and even OJ and Katrina our Trail of Tears will come to an end. Ironically in the shadows of the monument built to honor our first president, a slave owner himself, and a halls of democracy built with slave labor we will turn our country, our future and all of our hopes over to a Black man. It will be emotional for just about everyone. Except me. I'm not big on crying while others look on. Look, I haven't cried in a public setting since Optimus Prime died and even I would probably get misty if I were watching on TV. So I'll gladly bottle up all that touchy-feeliness and wait until I get home to watch. Manliness is next to Godliness after all.

3. There's No Easy Way Out

It's easy to forget that we live in an age of information when you look at how many people don't know jack. For instance, did you know that they've closed both bridges coming from Virginia to cars? Yup, hope you're on a bus if you're heading to DC and all points North or you're fucked. This will cause a riot on 95, I promise you. And if you've made it into town, I hope you're comfy, because you're not going to be able to leave easily. Cell phones might not work. Streets will be blocked and parking will be scarce. They're calling for Crush conditions on the Metro. I'm not sure what "Crush" conditions are, but I've been on the Metro after a game at RFK, and if it's anything worse than that, I'll pass. This will cause an underground riot, I promise you. And for the people who do make it to the Mall, watch your step. There will be tons of people there dressing in something they can't really afford and really isn't that comfortable. Don't step on anybody's Obama Outfit. This will cause a riot to break out, I promise you. Yes, I'm predicting violence at the Inauguration. Well, not at so much as around. I'm putting the over/under on Inaugural Shootings at five. Let's pray for the under.

2. The Power of Christ Compels Me.

More than a few people have made jokes about the Obama Shuffle, the Electric Slide and all manner of dances that could breakout at the Inauguration (I'm hoping for Thriller myself). But I think that no one has mentioned the most obvious: The Holy Ghost. To tell a family Secret, I'm scared of the Holy Ghost. You have to be careful who you sit next to in church, you could be putting yourself in harms way. I mean, it just pops up and people wig out. Well, some people. The odds of BHO catching the Holy Spirit in the middle of his speech is roughly 450-1. The odds of someone in the audience? 100%. This will happen. And it will spread like wildfire. My only hope is that the Department of Homeland Security has brought in enough Candy Stripers and Church Fans to contain the situation.

1. I have a job to do.

I cannot stress this enough. I work for a living. A living that would not have been possible without the sacrifices of a lot of people who came before me, many of whom I'll never know by name or face. It's fitting in a way that the day after we take time off to remember the dream, we'll actually get to realize it. It's fitting that some of the same people who were in that same place to hear Dr. King's vision of our future will be there to see that future arrive in it's most obvious way. Of course, we've been building towards this moment for a while now, and now that the moment is here I don't have much else to say about it that hasn't been said already by someone else. Except maybe this: Today's events make the score White Presidents 43, Black Presidents 1. There's been a little too much endzone dancing going, and some folks are acting like it's over and we won. Well, we didn't. I'm going to Detroit today and trust me, there's still plenty of work to be done. BHO isn't the first Black President, he's the only Black President. I'd like to see another someday. But until then, I'm ready to do what I have do for this one and I can't be alone in that effort. It took a shitload of money, effort and dialogue to make this day possible and we can't effort to let up. Otherwise the only thing we really accomplished was breaking up a shutout.

Good reasons, all. But perhaps the best one is that Pregatron is due in three weeks, and I've got my priorities. Top amongst them will be bringing my daughter home from the hospital, turning on the TV and telling her that the President of the United State is Black, and it's been that way her whole Life. If all goes according to plan, she'll smile. We both will.

That's what happens to a dream no longer deferred.

Sign On, Cash In, Sellout.

2009-01-16T17:53:00.000-08:00

If you're anything like me or Barack Obama, you've given your package a name. In PEBHO's case his is called the American Recovery and Reinvestment Plan. Mine has a much shorter name, but don't read anything into that. Names aside our packages are very much alike. They both lead to a lot of stimulus. Millions of Americans are desperate to get they're hands on them. Liberals love its size but can't all agree on the best place to put it, while conservatives are terrified of its size but firmly believe there's only one logical place it can go. I could go on.

But I won't. There's no need for me to go on, as it seems as though the rest of you are perfectly capable of carrying on about PEBHO ad nausium without my help. Which is fortunate, because my help won't be forthcoming. I'm already tired of hearing about the 44th POTUS, and the 43rd POTUS is still in office. I am feeling the effects of Obama fatigue before the man has even been sworn in, but I'm sure most of you would agree with Pregatron when she told me "Tough titties, hater."

And the titties have indeed been tough these past few weeks. Everybody is excited about the idea of a black President, and I'm certainly no exception. Nov. 4 was a night that none of us will forget. This entire election cycle has been especially wonderful for me, a true fan of the political arena. I've been able to discuss politics every day for two straight years and not get ignored, tuned out or punched. It's been awesome. What hasn't been awesome is all the stuff that has gone down since. And what has gone down since then has been nothing short of some fucking bullshit.

The amount of attention the Obamas have received since the election has been a little much but understandable. The rhetoric around the attention the Obamas have received since the election has been way too much and beyond all comprehension. Blackest President Ever? Bet. Let's talk about that shit. What is Michelle wearing to the Inauguration? Why is it a secret? Who gives a shit? Not me (but if I did give a shit I hope she didn't go with that hideous Betsy Johnson gown. She is the First Lady, not a Bomb Pop for goodness sake. Betsy Johnson? That rag looks like it was designed by Betsy Ross. No homo). He collects Comics? Awesome. Me too, until I got the urge to get laid. Is Obama a shitty golfer? Looks like. Bringing on a Golf Pro to analyze his swing? Why don't you bring on a Pro TV watcher to analyze why I'm changing the channel instead. And the opinion polls about the shots of dude with his shirt off shirt cross the line seperating just curious and bi-curious. The Inauguration of course is Tuesday, which is unfortunate because CNN's Inauguration Coverage starts Monday. This completely shits all over the Super Bowl pre-game, which only starts a mere six-hours before kickoff. But do I blame the media, really? No. It's their job to peddle what we're willing to buy. And man oh man are we buying.

It's a pity that what is the single most historic event of my lifetime has been completely taken over by every asshole in the country with something to say, something to sell and nothing better to do. And when I say every asshole, I mean every asshole. Take today's historic (or at least I'm willing to describe it as historic since that's the only way that anybody on TV would describe a day that I otherwise would have just called "fucking cold as shit") Obama Express train ride from Phiadelphia to Baltimore. And while I don't fault PEBHO for making the absolute most of this moment because God knows I'd do the same, I've got to get this off my chest before we go on:

I get it, Barack. You like Lincoln. You're the next Lincoln. You're Lincolnesque. Enough already with the allusions to Lincoln, Grant, Eisenhower, FDR, MLK, JFK and every other famous American you've been modeling your public persona after. Come Jan. 20, you're going to need to be your own fucking man. This saying or doing something because somebody else did the exact same shit already is not exactly the hallmark of true leadership. I'm not saying that I've already lost Hope, but I'm getting concerned that this could be a sign that you don't have an original thought in your head. C'mon SpongeBob, BE A MAN!
While I love a train as much as the next guys, who the fuck thought that calling this cavalcade of bullshit the Obama Express was a winner? Express? Really? Flight 1549 had fewer unnecessary stops than this thing. At least PEBHO had the good sense not to wear that gay ass shawl that Lincoln wore on his train ride.

Okay, that's better. Now where was I? Oh, right. Bullshit. I was about to say that while I truly do admire the millions of people who want to be a part of history so badly they are willing to brave some really, really cold weather to do so, I'm pissed at the millions more of free market capitalist pigs who want to make a quick buck off of of those poor saps. My In-Laws have a 2009 black history calendar with You-Know-Hussein as Mr. January. You can buy a colorized and thoroughly unspendable Obama State Quarter for $9.95 (However it should be noted if you're actually willing trade 40 real quarters for a fake quarter and a nickel, you've probably got a what it takes to run a Wall Street bank someday. Post your resume now while supplies last). Dunkin' Donuts, Pepsi, TGI Friday's, Lego and every t-shirt bootlegger in the country are turning Change into dollars. The Inauguration is even being covered on location by QVC for fucksake. QVC!!! At this rate Billy Mays could sell a Commemerative Obama Crackpipe with not one, not two but three jumbo rocks made from the same cocaine that PEBHO himself once snorted as a young man and I wouldn't think twice about it. (and I wouldn't think once before ordering it. All I need is my American flag shirt and a copy of New Jack City and it's on).

But swag aside, this should be a moment in time that none of us forget, a moment that we share with our children for years to come. And what better way to share that moment than with a mint condition first edition Amazing Spider-Man #583 with Obama on the cover? As tasteful as it is timeless, this is one web-slinging adventure that's sure to make that day one you'll never forget. I know I won't.

The Internet Adds Ten Pounds

2009-01-10T12:56:00.000-08:00

Children are a lot like Herpes. Just because you never wanted them when you were younger doesn't mean you won't end up with them once you get older. People without them tend to look at people with them with utter disdain. People with them will ultimately find themselves in a position where they will be embarrassed by them. And the people who hope to one day have them are just fucking nuts. I could go on, but I think you get my point. Children are so similar to STDs they should be referred to as KIDs. In fact, between now and February 13 I will no longer say that Pregatron (who you may know as my lovely wife) is pregnant. She's KID positive.

That is not to say I do not love my KIDs. I do. Tons. However I bring up the striking similarities between Children and Disease because right now as we speak (or rather as I type and you read some time well after) I'm sitting inside my local Jungle Java. If you live outside of Metro Detroit (but of course not actually in Detroit) or oddly enough Austin, TX then you most likely have never heard of a Jungle Java. Until now, that is. Which is great, because if you had you might think you know where I'm going with this, and you'd be wrong. So hear me out. Or read me out. Whatever.

Jungle Java is a poorly heated warehouse that is half Indoor Playscape and half Coffee House. It's as if someone was sitting in a Starbucks some day and said "You know what would go great with this tall Skinny Latte? Three dozen screaming kids running around!". Only in Metro Detroit (but of course not actually in Detroit) or oddly enough Austin, TX could this idea thrive long enough to become an actual plan which would then garner enough support to become an actual Business Plan which some undoubtedly local bank decided was sound enough to fund which actual dollars instead of play-play dollars or even worse Canadian dollars. Like the Michigan Left, Killing the Electric Car, The People Mover, hiring Matt Millen and re-electing Kwame Kilpatrick, Jungle Java fits perfectly with our finest tradition: doing something that history will never be able to explain and can only be excused by saying it seemed like a good idea at the time. And when you think about it, it must have seemed like a good idea at the time.

The appeal of a Jungle Java is simple. It's a place you can take your KIDs and let them run around year round while you rest comfortably in a lounge-like setting. Sounds like a winner until you actually break down what that entails. Let's go to the tape:

Being indoors is a plus on a day like today when there's 8 inches of snow on the ground. But that's not the case every day. What is the case every day is that you're indoors, which means the sounds of dozens of screaming kids is now trapped indoors. If you've ever had a screaming baby on a flight, you can imagine what that flight would sound like if you jacked up the numbers of screaming babies by about 40. You'd definitely be asking for a ticket refund when you got off the plane. Which leads me to the next item.

I wasn't surprised to find out that there was a charge to get into this place, but I was completed floored that my admission fee didn't cover anything. The kids mostly get in free. Mostly. Parents never do. I would have no problem with this if I got a never-ending pot of Coffee with my $17 admission, but I don't. In fact, if I want any of the subtacular fare on their limited menu I'm going to have to pay spectacular prices to get them. This will not stand, this aggression against my wallet. It's a blatant attempt to siphon off money from the wealthy families living in the surrounding neighborhood who wouldn't be caught dead being the only family who complained about the markup on the stale White Chocolate Raspberry Scones or Guatemalan Coffee when all the other families bought one. Well I've got news for you, Jungle Java. This is America, Jack. Just because I live here doesn't mean I can afford to. So keep your shitty Scones, I'm sneaking in my food from here on out.

Then there's the slight issue of safety. This place is at best a deathtrap and at worst a muthafuckin sure-as-shit deathtrap.Now I know what you're thinking: what could possibly go wrong in a confined three-story jungle gym full of an unlimited number of kids ranging from ages "fetus" to "Yo money, when was the last time you shaved"? Not much, I guess.

The fact that the visibility in said deathtrap is so poor that Bin Laden could be in there and nobody would know is also something that causes a degree of concern. Today I lost track of my KIDs before I could finish hanging up their coats. Seriously. Turned around and they were gone. This factor is particularly annoying as it leads to a back and forth between crying KIDs and suddenly horrified parents that I can only describe as part Marco Polo and part Amber Alert.

Then there's the parents. They're a superstitious and cowardly lot. Some of them feel as though their house rules should be the rules everywhere, like the one who questioned Pregatron as to why our KIDs weren't wearing shoes in the bathroom since her KIDs were. Some of them are Mother Hens, much like the one who just picked up my crying daughter and carried her over to me despite the fact that by my count Lunchbox (who some of you know as my middle child) had come over to me while crying under her own power no fewer than seven times today. She was getting sleepy, she was in no way injured. But I guess the sight of me not going to get Lunchbox myself was too much for her to bear and she had to take action. Some of them are just well meaning idiots. There's padding around the support poles of this deathtrap, and my daughters discovered this padding spins around the pole. This lead to them grabbing onto the pole and spinning around in circles until they fell. Then they got up and did it all over again. This lead to one of the parents telling me that she really enjoyed watching my daughters spin around on the pole, and that maybe I should have a pole installed in my home for them. Let me address the second part of that statement first. If and when I install a pole in my home, it will most certainly not be for my daughters. And as for that first bit, while perhaps an innocent observation, no father ever wants to be informed about how much you thoroughly enjoyed his daughter's pole dancing. Ever.

So that's the list. Ironically enough, this post isn't about Jungle Java or even why I feel the way I do about Jungle Java. It's about the one thing that I love about Jungle Java: the free Wi-fi. The sole reason I look forward to my increasingly regular outings to this place is the fact that I can sit with my laptop and do whatever I need to without having to do much parenting. I'm pretty sure that's what the other parents see in it, too. For me, the chance to research equities without having to break-up any Ultimate Fights or attend any of Gumball's (who some of you may know as my oldest daughter) fake-ass tea parties is all good. It's time I rarely get at home and really can't afford to squander. So why am I blogging right now? Because I just did something so awful, so inexcusable that I had to let it be known.

I was sitting here curious to know what time this placed closed today. I was about to get up and ask when I decided it would be easier to just Google it. So I did. And I found out. Around the same time this was happening, I saw someone get their food delivered to them and I wished that I could order food through the website since I was already there. That way they could just bring me what I want and I could pay for it online so I wouldn't have to bother pulling out my wallet. It was right around there that I realized I have become a Lazy Fuck. Scratch that, I've become a Super Lazy Fuck. Then I realized there were children around so I toned it down to just being Super Lazy.

I was stunned. Floored. How did this happen? I love doing stuff. New stuff, habitual stuff, stuff I can't blog about, whatever. How could this have happened? Hemingway wrote that Mike Campbell went bankrupt "Gradually, then suddenly." I'm sure he'd feel the same way about my sloth. But what would cause I guy who loves doing stuff into a guy who loves doing as little as possible? I searched my mind for an answer and as I have so many times before, I found what I was looking for sitting in my lap. The Internet.

I don't actually do anything if I don't virtually do it first. I shop online before I buy. I house hunt online before I even set foot in a neighborhood. I order my pizza online. I order takeout online from restaurants I've never been to but read good things about online. I talk to My Fave 5 online more than I do on my BlackBerry, and that's even counting text. And of course I buy my music online. I base most of my life on Google Search Results. My kids names, my job, my house, my car pretty much everything but my wife I found online without having to leave the sofa, much less the house. That's just sad.

So I had an epiphany. But what to do about it? That's another post, altogether ("That's another post...".). But for now I'm going to get off my duff and find my kids. They must be around here somewhere. Maybe if I Google Earth them...

SL