Oil=Death .... Ideas are more powerful than guns .... Benjamin Franklin was a bon vivant

Things I like to do:

– Watch movies on my laptop in my bed covered up. The key is getting the laptop to balance on a pillow (For my neck and theater-esque perspective) while a glass of water balances on the windowsill on the other side of me.
I've sent my resume to Barnum & Bailey, but I've received no word.

– Play my latest accompaniment, a small piano the size of a backpack. Setting a candle on its top with wax drooling down its backside, I tap the keys for a sinister tone, yet it’s uplifting as it reminds me of the kid from Charlie Brown. I have no blanket, but I have taken to treating the piano as a pet. It’s cheaper than the pet deposit I’d have to lay down and the look on my friend’s faces when I say, “Piano, play nice with guitar.” Or “PIANO, I bet you haven’t moved from that spot all day! Why don’t you clean something or get some fresh air, you look like crap.”

– Burn mix cd’s for any and every occasion. Concerts call for a personal greatest hits mix from that particular artist, road trips call for various up beat stuff, a solo ride back home always deserves some beat your center console songs, as well as a few to think on.
Good beats to beat to, and not in a dirty way. I'll gonna stop writing beat now.

– Listen to This American Life. I’ve found that in any conversation I can call on a TAL episode that relates with the topic, which usually changes the subject to rabid raccoons or how carbon monoxide poisoning is the root of most ghosts stories, but are always well received.

– Wake up early on weekends. To some this is time to sleep in, but for me, it’s my time –not work time – and I vowed long ago to use my time awake and active and productive.
And by active and productive I mean go to garage sales, if weather permits, and try to keep movies watched to alcoholic beverages consumed at an equal number.

Honk if you’re horrendously swell at ignoring road signs

I don’t know about anyone else, but I get pissed when I’m driving and someone honks at me.
This has been a reoccurring situation a lot lately and I’m trying to pull the pieces of this mystery together and solve some shit.
My driving hasn’t altered. I still drive like my dad. I fly when I have nowhere to go and casually drive the speed limit when I’m late.
So what is the difference, why is everyone honking at me when I’m driving home after work?
It usually happens on a certain corner with a certain light. I’m turning left, traffic backs up, and all hell breaks loose.
“I’M TURNING LEFT … THERE IS NO TURNING LANE … WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO, PULL INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC!??!” I always yell into my rear view mirror at the truck grill behind me, while I have my arms up like the Y guy in the YMCA dance.
I vent to friends and they change the subject cause, come on, someone honked at you, flip them off and move on. But that’s the deal. I can’t flip someone off cause I always think it is an old man or lady that is a grandmother or grandfather to someone. I wouldn’t want someone making the universal jerking off sign to my granny, and I don’t want to be that guy that did it to someone else’s granny. Or be there when they ask they grand kids, “what does this mean when someone gestures at you like they are stroking a cats tail? Or peeling a banana with one hand?”
Awkward.
But recently I returned to the scene of the honk. Maybe I missed a sign that says, ‘honk if you love garage sales’, in which case I would have, or ‘honk if you like the guys Honda in front of you’, which I would totally get.
Instead I found a modest sign at the top of the light pole that read ‘No Left Turns’.
I’ve been turning left after work for about six months, why haven’t I noticed this? And why has everyone else noticed it BUT me?
Next time I’m honking at who ever it is holding up traffic by turning left at 36th and Walker, granny or not!

I hate this box

There are no rules here. Well, besides those pesky libel suits that may buzz around from time to time, but that’s all, but besides that I can do anything, write anything, and post any pictures I want. Hum, just in case, let me rephrase that…I can do almost anything, write almost anything, and post almost any picture I could ever scrounge up. So now that the three-day rainstorm has finally cleared away, leaving my vintage apartment windows to leak, and practically not stop any water from entering my place, I’ve decided to post a few racy pictures. So racy they have to be black-and-white!
The first, since I'm such a rough brute, with no regard for other's I'll put a nasty pic of my nephew, Jett, running around at the splash pad. This day was so crazy. We covered the water holes and it made the water hoses in the middle spray water harder and swing around really fast like a firehose. Really intense stuff.

The next is Ami’s shoulder, and Matt’s chin. They were dancing here, but their eyes wanted to do something else. That’s when I zoomed in to catch every desire, every whisper, and every whimper of seduction. Then it turned ten o’clock and they went to bed and fell asleep.

The next pic is of two crazy guys looking at a small island covered in birds. They named the island “Bird Flu Isle”.

Wannabe VP's are weird

Biden: Palin, for such a good debate I'm going to reward you with five minutes of uninterrupted eye contact!
Palin: ok!?!

Choctaw will never be the same

This first face describes the whole night. Sheesh!

This is my neighborhood. I'm not Hollywood, as Paul Mooney calls it – I'm neighborhood. And as someone told me, "You don't live in Paseo, so stop saying that you do." Actually, they told me I live in Jefferson Park.
And as you can see on the sign, there is a green map of the blocks in Jefferson Park. If this is true, or it could just be a picture of little boxes made of ticky tacky from on high. If so, then I reside in the center of the triangle on the second word.
I think it says SPORE.
Yeah, definitely BURP SPORE.

My tummy is rumbling

I liked her tattoo - Tyler did not.

We had heard there were belly dancers at the Indian buffet on 23rd so we decided to check it out. The food was ok, the dancers were interesting and weren't afraid to get in your bubble and make you feel uncomfortable. There were two, one looked like Viggo from the Ghostbuster painting, and the other was tastefully curvy with a tattoo. We couldn't figure out what it was. We still don't know.