It's time for a cowboy hat.

I think it's time for me to start wearing a cowboy hat.
I also think it's time for me to tell you that you should wear one too.
Just, please, don't get one like me.

I don't want people thinking that we are doing it to start some sort of trend.
It just so happens that you and I are both at a point in our lives when it has become time for us to wear cowboy hats.
It is kinda weird that we have arrived at this juncture at the same time, but hey, you know when its time to don a hat, that is just the way it goes. If your buddy happens to be sporting a hat too, well that is that. deal with it.

I do have an idea though, I think that maybe we should get different kinds of cowboy hats, just to give ourselves some separation, or at the very least so our friends can find us easier in crowds.

How about this? You get one of those old western hats like Clint Eastwood would wear, with the straight brim, and I will get one with all the feathers on it like Richard Petty would wear. They would be different enough and we will still be able to quench our need to wear cowboy hats. what do you think?

I also think it is time for me to have a fast and easy sexual realationship with a woman named Phyliss. Do you know anyone named Phyliss?

Also, do you know wear we could get these cowboy hats?

Where East meets West.

I've been there. Once. They dress like fancy airline pilots and serve booze in a glass. Piano reigns supreme. Where East meets West.


Bow Wow

Inspired by my young daughters I got my first pair of Flip Flops.

Huh? What? Do I live in a ditch?

These are likely the questions you are hurling at your computer screen. Indeed. I have never, prior to this moment in time, owned a set of Flip Flops. I realize now the error of my ways.

There was a time when the thought of wedging a strap of cloth, let alone anything, between Big Toe and Little Piggy Stayed Home would have caused me to throw up in my mouth, but like peanut butter and pickle sandwiches you don't know what you're missing until you try it.

As I sit here now smiling, my feet practically nude, I revel in the thought that if my dogs were to bark there is nothing to prevent them from being heard clear across the room.


are we still on for dinner?

I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
No strings attached.
Order the halibut – I hear it’s a coldwater delight. And at $8.50, it’s a bargain, to boot.

I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
No, I won’t try to railroad you into 5 minutes in the men’s room. Please. A little credit?
Oh, and look there. Under vegetarian delights…cucumber and port wine stirfry. It sounds terribly tempting, doesn’t it? Yes, and frugally priced. You could order two servings and still be able to the feed the meter afterwards.

I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.
No. Not the lobster. At $19.95 a tail, I’m afraid it’s a little too rich for our blood. And pre-emptively, I’ll point out that it’s probably safe to assume that “market price” for the king crab is out of our league as well.
Yes - our league…it’s out of it.
I’m sorry. Perhaps I wasn’t clear. You’ve got a ten dollar dinner coming your way. What part of ten dollars are you failing to grasp? Shall I write it down for you? Perhaps we could call the young man over and ask him to point out each menu item that is priced to our means?
Very well then.
Where was I then?
Oh yes.

I’d like to take you out for a $10 dinner.


A little off the top

I've just started shaping my mustache. Nothing crazy. It's not like I sculpt it or anything. Just begun to clean up the top edges.

Since doing this though I've noticed that the sky is bluer, the bird's song more true, and the fish styx more crisp. What a change it has made. I suggest you too examine your body-hair and look for a crop that could use a trim. You'll thank me.


the day the earth stood still:MGD renounces meat

There is a quiet little porch attached to a quiet little house, on a quiet little street corner in Ferndale, Michigan. And on this quiet little porch sits a black charcoal grill, lovingly manufactured by the fine Weber folks in Palatine and Huntley, Illinois. Much like the porch, the house, and the street corner, this little black beauty is also quiet. Its dark porcelain bowl radiates no warmth. Its ash can is empty, with only traces of expired charcoal from days gone by. The small circular top vents have ceased to emanate their beguiling aroma – an aroma that called to the belly, that beckoned the nostrils, and that harkened back to a time when primitive peoples broiled their meat long and loudly through fire-lit nights. No longer, though. Not on this porch. Not on this street corner.

But it was not always this way. Time was, this porcelain chamber burned hot to the touch. Time was, this culinary furnace belched forth heat and steam so succulent, it could only be the result of briquette-inspired fire playfully and eagerly massaging a choice cut of beef. A stampede of cattle-inspired products paraded their way across its iron grilling surface on a nightly basis: ribeye, brautwurst, T-bone, ground round, sirloin, and chuck. Porterhouse, sausage, ribs, filet, and of course the New York strip. And MGD presided over this procession as its master of ceremonies.

Like the surgeon who carefully wields a scalpel, MGD was equally adept with grill tongs, meat forks, and basting brushes. Like the mother who gently and lovingly cares for and watches over her children, MGD stood at a constant attention, a watchful eye trained on his sizzling packets of animal flesh. And like the mighty Vulcan, MGD lorded over his fire pit as master and commander of all he surveyed.

But, I digress. That was then.

The utensils of his craft have now been relegated to some interior room of that quiet little house. Meat no longer makes the journey from cold carcass to hot delicious dinner on that porch. And much like Prometheus who snatched fire from the gods, so too has fate snatched the burning coals from this quiet Ferndale street corner.

Now then…think back if you would. Think back to a few weeks ago. Think back to what you were doing when you had that feeling of uneasiness. That feeling where it seemed that for a moment, just that one brief moment, that the world had come to a halt. Not a screeching halt; not a blatantly obvious, life-changing, mind-jarring halt. Rather, just that feeling that everything had slowed to an imperceptible pace. That feeling of living someone else’s life, when you’re quietly aware of how freaking strange anyone’s life can be. And then just as quickly as it came, that feeling is gone. I shared that moment with all of you. When you were watching the faucet pour water, or talking to your sister, or walking up your basement steps, I was watching waves of High Life slowly roll back and forth between my lips and the bottom of a glass bottle. In that moment we shared, I ceased to be able to swallow. A rolling wave of High Life stopped midway in its trans-container journey. Right around where the girl’s boot-clad leg hangs down over the edge of the moon. It was in that instant that MGD turned our worlds into chaotic mind-fuckery for the briefest of moments.

“I’m not really eating meat anymore” he says.

“I haven’t eaten any meat in a couple months actually” he says.

You notice a single solitary drop of water among the deluge. Your conversation becomes so quiet, it’s deafening. You almost lose your balance on the basement stairs because of that feeling. The sloshing inertia of my High Life quietly acquiesces to Newton’s First Law.


As I was driving down the highway last night, my mind drifted to the subject of cats. I am not really sure why but this is some stuff that I thought about while zooming...

...They say curiosity killed the cat. It is kind of amazing to me that you don't see more dead cats on the side of the expressway. I mean, the expressway is a pretty curious thing to me... and I understand what it is all about. I can only imagine what it must seem to be to a cat... and it just seems to me that curiosity would get the better of them and they would want a closer look... that is all I am saying.

also, with this whole "curiosity killed the cat" thing...
It is said that cats have 9 lives. If you subscribe to this theory then I wish to argue the fact that "curiosity killed the cat" and present the possibility that "stupidity" killed the cat.

My thinking is this:
I will admit that cats are indeed curious creatures, no one is disputing this. However there is a fine line between curious and stupid. Let's use a frayed electrical chord as an example. The cat, we will call him Sammy Sosa, with all his innate feline exploration tendencies really must check this out, and subsequently will receive a mild to moderate shock. Depending on how curious Sammy Sosa is about this particular wire he may "use up one of his 9 lives"... this is where the thin line between curiosity and stupidity comes in. Perhaps I can help you here. If Sammy Sosa keeps going back to the wire, it is no longer curiosity, it is stupidity. Curiosity ends after lets say the third time, when Sammy Sosa should have said, "damn, I hate that wire"... any more wire messin' crosses the line into stupidville. Keep messing with the wire, you will die. And when you die, I will be sure that people know that stupidity killed the cat, not curiosity.


independent from suction

Today all the suction cups in my home failed. I thought that odd.

Then I realized that it must not only be independence day in America, but in the Suctionville too.

To celebrate I shot off a roman candle in my bathtub and gave the suction cups the day off.

I thought that having a holiday in the middle of the week was going to suck, turns out just the opposite.


The homeless man

The homeless man walked into the bar
with no intentions of making a purchase.
He was looking for a shower in the bathroom
as the soap doubled as body wash.
He also requested a sandwich, a cup of water,
and some change.
He was politely asked to leave
once and then again.
As he was walking towards the door
he said, "hey, do me a favor."
"Kiss my ass."
Society had taken many things from this man,
his wit was not one of them.
So it goes.



I don't care how old you are...hanging your arm out the window of a moving car on a warm summer day like an airplane wing is one of the best things ever.