Solar power and sex: can the two ever get along?

A couple of posts ago, I might have mentioned how much I like my job. Nothing has changed since then, I still enjoy the work I do. But being in the neighborhood of the construction industry, I get to run up against an array of different ego's and personalities, some only slightly more annoying than the one before. Oh there are a few friendly faces as we plod along our little solar journey, mostly other guys just doing their job. Like Pat the roofer. Nice, affable guy, good sense of humor, easy to get along with. And Al, the guy that helps us hoist the windspires. He could just show up, do his job, take his money, and go home. But he helps out a lot, above and beyond the call. These are the guys that make my job a little less stressful. And then there's the dark side of the force. Those job supervisors who feel it is there place on earth to let you know who holds the real power.

Case in point, let's take a look at "George". (I may have changed his name to protect the innocent, then again, maybe I didn't.) From day one, it was apparent that this guys shorts were on just a little too tight. If it wasn't on the plans, it wasn't going to wash with this guy. The final straw was when, at the very end of the job as we are loading 50lb. bricks into their final resting place, breaking our backs with every step, I get a call stating that we are being too loud. On the roof. It seems a meeting was taking place under our feet, and the suits couldn't concentrate with all that stomping about going on. Maybe it doesn't seem a big deal to you, but after being hen-pecked every day on this project about what we weren't doing correctly, it was like the final straw.

Now my boss is a very interesting guy. He is smart, and all business at work. Like you should be. Outside the office, he is always smiling and happy. So it was a slight shock when after I told him all of the BS that "George" was giving me on the job site, and how truly uptight he was, he remarked, "Can you imagine what sex with his wife is like?" Aside from laughing my ass off at the unexpected relaxation in the bosses usual business like demeanor, imagine I did. And it probably went something like this:

George: Ummm, honey, what are you doing?
Wife: I, uh, wait a sec. What do you mean?
George: I mean, what are you doing on your knees?
Wife: I'm getting ready for sex, like we planned.
George: But that's NOT how we planned it. That is not the agreed upon position.
Wife: Well, I guess I was just trying to be spontaneous. The old position is so, well, old.
George: But that's not what it says here on the proposal.
Wife: Does it always have to be the way of the proposal? Can't we just... she trails off, her hand sliding into his PJ bottoms.
George: Stop that! What do you think you're doing? Now you're getting me all confused.
Wife: Well I'm not trying to confuse you, I'm just trying to... hand sliding further.
George: I said STOP! I'm not prepared for that.
Wife: Well what if I just gave it a little, you know, stimulation?
George: Stimulation? I 'm not sure. I mean... I, I...I've got to make a couple of phone calls, he replies, getting out of bed and heading downstairs.
Wife: Where are you going George? Honey? And with that, she reaches into the night stand, the eventual soft buzzing of the power tool giving way to the pleading sobs of her husband on the phone in the kitchen.
George: ...yes, on her KNEES. I don't know if I have clearance for that. Besides, I could see her, well, you know. The hole that the poop comes out? I could SEE it.

Well maybe it didn't go exactly like that. But I am willing to bet somewhere up in the cold reaches of Wisconsin, a housewife is slightly less than satisfied. And a husband is furiously working on a re-draft.

A Guitarman's Christmas

Happy Holidays all! Oh wait, I vowed never to lower myself to the bastions of de-Christmasing Christmas. You know what I mean, in an effort to try and avoid offending someone who is a non-Christian, as if uttering the phrase "Merry Christmas" is some affront to your very well being, society has given in to the PC notion that we must make everything generic, including our holiday greetings. Bah, humbug I say! So with no apologies, I want to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas.

And with that being said, I will now give you some of my very favorite Christmas songs of all time, only slightly altered for my amusement:

Cheap Vodka (to the tune of White Christmas, inspired by the ramblings of an old friend from school)

I'm drinking up some cheap vodka,
just like some wino on skid row.
Where the drunks are drinking,
and beer bottles clinking,
and I am passed out in the snow.

I'm drinking up some cheap vodka,
straight from some Russian homemade still.
May your drinks be many and strong,
and may all your hangovers be long.

The Rastaman's Song (to the tune of The Christmas Song, you know, Chestnuts roasting etc...)

Marijuana on an open fire,
Bob Marley on the radio.
Reggae songs being sung while on ganj
from Negril, up to Montego.

Everybody knows the Rasta man is getting high,
from birth until he's 92.
Although it's been smoked many times many ways,
marijuana's for you.


And lastly, straight from the memories of my childhood (my bro and I wrote this when we were just wee little tykes), I still can't believe I can remember these lyrics,...

Randolph the Green Nosed Tuna (to the tune of, oh heck, you should be able to figure it out...)

Randolph the green nosed tuna, had a very sea green nose.
And if you ever saw it, you would even say it grows.
All of the other tuna, used to laugh and call him names, (yea, we weren't so creative back then)
they wouldn't let poor Randolph, play in any Neptune's games.

Then one foggy fishing day, Neptune came to say,
"Randolph with your nose so green, won't you guide my submarine?"
Then all the tuna loved him, and they shouted out with glee,
Randolph the green nosed tuna, he'll go to the bottom of the sea.


So my kids actually know that one. Taught it to them years ago before they morphed into the brooding young teens that now stand before me. Something tells me that before I teach them the first two, I should wait a few years. Or more. I'm leaning toward more.

Do as I say, not as I do.

Ooohhh! The Guitarman is mad. Mad I tell you!! It's 7:37 and my paper is still not here yet. Sure its a blizzard outside, and yes the roads may be a tad bit yucky, but still. It's this guys job, he needs to be on time. You see, I am always on time when it comes to my job. Only, substitute the word occasionally for the word always, and you have a truthful sentence. You see, what I am actually saying is, I guess I am admitting to be somewhat of a hypocrite on this topic. Which segue's nicely into the moral of the day kiddies: do as I say, not as I do.

Case in point, the Chicago Mayoral race. Poppycock you say! Politicians are honest, hard working, upstanding, truthful, AACK! Sorry bout that, just choked on my coffee. But seriously folks, lets take a look at the Rev. James Meeks and his week. Outspoken homophobe that he is, it was no surprise when, as a state senator, he voted NO on the soon to be signed bill that allows civil unions in Illinois. His prerogative to do whatever he feels is right, no matter how wrong the rest of us feel it is. But then, with cohones the size of a beach ball, he strolls into Anne Sathers (owned by gay alderman Tom Tunney) for a tete-a-tete with some of Chicago's gay community. To reach out to them. To feel their pain. To pander for their vote. Here's a little hint for the Rev: go play on the highway. Really, how stupid does he think the unwashed masses are? Well, stupid enough to elect him to the state senate I guess, and stupid enough to elect him Mayor, he hopes. But there you have it, a true hypocrite at his shining best. You see, do as I say, not as I do.

Another story this week, this one a little sad, revolves around a set of parents that have witnessed tragedy. The watched their son, pitching in a game for his little league team, get beaned in the head from a line drive off of one of those big barrel aluminum bats. Poor little tyke lost his hearing in one ear. But the parents reaction, as might have been mine or yours, was to sue bat maker Easton for putting a dangerous product on the market. Apparently, the kid who hit the line drive was as big as the kids dad. So don't you think it makes more sense to try and separate players by size, a la pee wee football, rather than age? And maybe, it's not the bat makers fault? And maybe, the big kid would have delivered a similar smash if he was using a wooden bat instead due to his genetically matured body? And what the hell does this have to do with today's moral you dare say? Seems our little guy, when he goes up to bat, after the tragedy took place, uses one of those same big barrel aluminum bats. Do as I say, not as I do.

I got that line from an old job. The boss would constantly be on us for one thing or another, and then turn around and do the exact opposite of what he just said. We would all look at each other on the desk and go, really? Lead by example? Lets hope that Meeks and the parents of the boy hear those three little word some day. But I guess it's a lot easier preach and sue, than it is to reach and do. After all, actions speak louder than words.

No Soup For You!!

Morality. The Guitarman likes to think he has decent morals. On occasion. When the mood strikes him. But my morals are different from yours. And different from the guy sitting next to you on the train. Or the guy ringing the bell for the Salvation Army at the Jewel. Also different from from Bishop Thomas John Paproki, head of the Springfield Archdiocese, as well as Peter Bensinger, former DEA administrator. Both of them also hold the dubious title of fearmongerer.

The Catholic church, as everyone with a brain stem knows, is big on morality. As well they should be, you know. Church. God. The bible. That sort of stuff. Telling it's flock the proper ways to run their lives. And others. Thou shalt not sin, yada, yada, yada. Heard it all before. But reading the paper today, the line, "we are all equal in God's eyes" comes to mind. But apparently, we are not. Not if your significant other happens to be the same sex as you. That's when God, according to the Catholics, draws a line in the sand. "No soup for you!" Soup, in this case, being eternal salvation. The skinny? Illinois has finally come around and is about to give legal recognition and rights to those whose morality differs from those consider themselves the mouthpiece of The Almighty. And how do they do it? With fear. We are all going to hell in a hand-basket if we stray from the white line they painted under our feet. Telling the masses, and in particular Gov. Quinn, that their law is the real law, not some stack of papers that makes up the constitution. That if he wishes to, "speak as a Catholic, then he is accountable to the Catholic authority..." News flash there Bishop: he is accountable to the people of Illinois and their rights. And the people want to live their lives on their own terms.

But flipping the page, who the heck is Peter Bensinger, and why does The Guitarman lump him into the category of fearmongering morality police? I am sure he believes in his morals. But like any person in a position of power, he feels the need to tell the rest of us how to run our lives. How our morals are not up to par with his. How any person suffering from one of the over 140 (GOOD GOD THAT MANY?) approved conditions for medical marijuana must put aside common sense and their own judgement for his and his ilk. And he does it with fear. His letter in the Sun Times warns us that if Illinois were to approve medical marijuana, we would all die from cancer and become drug dealers, coffee breaks in the workplace would be replaced with pot breaks, our highways would "become deathtraps", schools would close because all the kids would drop out, the sky would fall, and a cloud of locusts would engulf the world blotting out the sun for a thousand years. In that order. I love one of the statistic he cites: 33% of positive drug test results from fatalities on the roads in 2009 were for drugs other than alcohol. That means 67% were for alcohol. Maybe, dude, your focus should be on drunks, not pot-heads. And that 33%? What little sliver is marijuana? And what sliver of a sliver is from people seeking real relief from their maladies with a joint?

It all boils down to one thing. People in power have let it go to their heads. And their morality drives them to tell the world how it should be run. When they do it with fear, when they try to scare the rest of us straight, they are letting their own true fears be shown. The fear that the rest of us will one day rise up from the ashes of our own destruction and take over the world. That actually sounds like a good idea to me. But hey, who the heck am I? I'm just some dude who likes to play guitar. Now back to those 140 approved maladies. I just know I've got to have one of them.

Do I have to go?

Did the unthinkable yesterday. I worked on a Saturday. Now I know what some of you are already thinking. It's either, I work every Saturday asshole, what's the big effin deal? Or it's But you just told us you love your job, so again, what's the big effin deal? But I wasn't working my for my new boss, I was moonlighting. Only the moon wasn't out. I spent a day painting for a friend. Yea, he paid me, that's why I did it, mostly, I needed the money. But then, on a day filled with the unimaginable, horror struck twice. Tired after a long work week, denied the Saturday morning pleasures of being a complete loaf with remote in one hand and scratching with the other, I went out that night.

Oh the utter horror! Well, why didn't I just stay at home then? The thought had crossed my mind several times. But in the end it was one of those times. You know, those times when you know what you want to do and what you have to do are two completely different things. You see, it was my sister-in-laws birthday, and the wife didn't want to go alone. Now I love all my sister-in-laws equally and without bias, but really? The couch looked so darned good yesterday. It was calling to me, not unlike a wanting mermaid on a rocky outcrop at sea calling to the lonely sailor. Usually I am content to let the girls be girls and have a drunken night of bar hopping all to their own, the wife sleeping over as I am too senile now to drag around behind her shouting "Can we go yet?" over and over like some parrot with a set of car keys. But last night, she really wanted me to go with her, and promised me she would be tucking me in by 11:00. And I knew the SIL would like me their too. So I did what I had to do. I went.

We had fun, don't get me wrong. Nice dinner and a few yucks. (Although I did manage to play the wet blanket when the group tried in vain to drag me past my bed time to a Karaoke bar. I am not against going to a Karaoke bar. I like to sing. I sing a lot. In the car, on the job, with the band, sing, sing, sing, that's me. But it wasn't me last night. Moral obligations do have their limits. It's not like they wouldn't have any fun without me.) But really, I went because it was one of those family obligations that bind us together like duct tape. You have to suck it up, and do something for someone else. Why? Why must we put aside our selfishness for the sake of someone else? Because it lets that person know that you care. That you care about something else other than yourself. That you would sacrifice one night of your life to make them happy. It's not about you. It's about them.

So, young kiddies, lies the moral of today's epitaph. If you want people to do something for you, because you are so special, than show them you are so special by doing something for them, even if you don't want to. Even if you are tired and just want to lie on the couch and watch the Northwestern/Illini game at Wrigley Field that you taped going all day without hearing the score. Even if you have to drive all night through a blizzard with no gas and a broken arm fending off crazed wildebeests knowing all the while you have to work the next morning. Just do it. Take that Nike.

Take this job and love it.

So how do you like your job? Do you really like it at all? Do you actually hate it? Would you rather be doing something else? Would you rather stick red hot knitting needles into your nostrils than get out of bed most mornings? Me? I don't. I think I really like my job.

At first, I am sure, it was the fascination of actually working again for a steady paycheck. But now? Last week I worked 51 hours. Fifty-one. That might not seem a lot to you, or it might be a normal week for you. But for me, I just worked one of the longest work weeks of my life, and when I was done, I didn't hate my job.

For 21 years I was spoiled working 35 hour weeks (getting paid for 40), standing at a desk on the phone. This week, I was on an elevated steel platform putting solar panels on a car charging station, I put a wind turbine on the side of a school in Wheaton, 65 feet in the air in a boom, and spent the remaining 3 days putting up 9 more said turbines at Cermak Mall in Berwyn (ow, Ow, OW!), previous home to the famous "Spindle" (a stack of junked cars that looked like an auto shish kabob). Oh, and each one weighs 624 lbs, not including the 5 foot extension that adds at least another hundred lbs or so. And all the wiring. My fingers feel like the devil took sandpaper to them. This is the life of a Solar and Wind energy installer.

But. I like it. I like the fact that I am somewhere else every day. Doing something a little different than the day before. I like spending hours in the shop cutting metal, drilling metal, bolting metal. It's like I am playing with giant erector sets. Except when I'm done, I go put them on somebody's roof. And my toy on the roof harnesses natures energy and gives them a break on their electric bill. It is almost like, now what's the word...job satisfaction. At the end of the day, you've made your little mark on the world. A far cry from my old career. You try working the trading floors of Chicago half your life, coming home at the end of the day and actually feeling like you've accomplished something. Now I get it. Now I know that feeling I had all those years. All the work I did. All the commuting to that hell in the city. All the yelling and screaming. It meant nothing. There is nothing at all that I can look at and say, "that meant something." But now, when I go home, I really feel like I made a small difference. And you know what? It's a good feeling.

Maybe you are a doctor. Must be a lot of feelings of accomplishment in that. Unless you spend your days lancing boils of the asses of 85 year old men. Or maybe you are a painter. I was for a while. I always felt good leaving someones house knowing that they were happy, the walls looked great, and that scratch you made on the floor was hidden under a rug. Or maybe you are a drug dealer. Your twisted mind tells you when you go to bed at night that you changed a few lives that day. Ahhh, that's a good feeling. But if your job sucks, I mean really, deep down, soul searching, God fearing, I would rather shove red hot knitting needles into my nostrils sucks, then get out before it is too late. Do something to make you feel better. It will change your life for the better. It did for me. Unless, that is, you make like massive six figures or more, then, well, never mind.

The Guitarman's Guide to Voting in Illinois.

Let me start off by saying that The Guitarman is NOT a Democrat. Nor is he a Republican. I am working in the Green Energy field now, but I am not a Green Party supporter. Nor am I adverse to hanging tea-bags from my hat and spewing such nonsensical ramblings like, "I am not a witch." So what does that make me? A moderate? Where is my party then? Who do I vote for? Well I'll tell you, in the first ever Guitarman's Guide to Voting in Illinois. I know what you are saying, ugh. I'll try not to throw stones, but here goes:

Lake County Sheriff No brainer, it's Doug Roberts. Why? I played a fund raiser for his campaign where I found out that Mark Curran was taking down Doug's campaign signs and replacing them with his own. Scumbag.

Treasurer Easy. Judy Baar Topinka. Judy has...wait a moment, she gave up that post to run against Blago. My bad. I guess I will go with Robert Skidmore. Partly because he is an upstanding guy, but mostly because he is running unopposed.

Comptroller Not even sure what the comptroller does, but I'll go with, HEY, there she is! My old favorite, Judy Baar Topinka. Seriously, she is one of two career Illinois politicians that has actually done a good, scandal-free job.

Secretary of State Jesse White. Why? Easy. The state is broke and it would cost too much to change all of those letterheads and DMV signs already with his name on it. Gee, this stuff ain't so hard. And I was worried about this election.

State Senator and State Representative Umm, that's two different offices right? There are so many of these little buggers running around our state that I don't believe one vote is going to change anything, so flip a coin. Really. It doesn't matter. It's just a resume builder anyway. Just ask Obama.

Representative to Congress Joe Walsh. Two reasons: 1. Melissa Bean ran unopposed in the primary yet still felt the need to pepper my mailbox and answering machine with her campaign BS. What a true waste of money. 2. He's an amazing guitar player and song writer. My Maserati does 185... We're talking about THAT Joe Walsh, aren't we?

Treasurer Dan Rutherford. I have absolutely no idea why. None.

Attorney General Lisa Madigan. I know what you're thinking. Madigan? Really? But her dad...I know, I know. He is a piece of dog excriment. But, seriously, she doesn't play favorites, she doesn't take sides, she just ruthlessly goes after the bad guys (Blago) and isn't that what you want your Attorney General to do?

And now comes the conundrum. The two races that will actually make a difference. Senator and Governor. Do I have to pick?

Senator Undecided. No way I can vote for career democrat, mobster loaning, party-line towing, Obama buddying Alexi Giannoulis. Not to mention that he lost $70 million of Illinoisans' money that they had entrusted him to save for their kids college education. And Mark Kirk? Way, way , WAY too far to the right. Again, voting the party line rather than his conscience, but specifically his stance AGAINST stem cell research. Really? The most important medical advance in decades and your reason is religion? Go back to the stone age dude.

Governor Well it ain't gonna be Quinn. Too many democrats have ruined our state, we need some Yin for our Yang. Brady? He was my early favorite, BUT...He is against raising our nearly lowest in the nation state taxes 1%. One flippin' percent to help our state get out of this fiscal crisis isn't gonna hurt anybody. I am willing to fork over my share so our schools can stop laying off teachers and cutting programs. And he is way too smamry for my liking. Wipe that condescending grin off your face already! Cohen? Riiight. And in a year or two, Lisa Madigan will lead State troopers into his hotel room and bust him for doing lines off of a hookers breasts with a rolled up thousand dollar bill. That leaves me with no choice to do what I have never done. Waste my vote on The Green Party candidate, Rich Whitney. I like his character. Shouldn't that be enough?

A modern fairy tale: Aesop I am not.

Once upon a time, there was a colony of rabbits. It was a very large colony, so big, in fact, that it was decided that one leader couldn't possibly represent the entire group. So boundries were drawn, and local leaders were elected to rule their local groups. Each new, smaller colony was responsible for making it's own laws, to be enforced by it's own police. One of those laws was the making of Carrot Juice. Although some bunnies thought in immoral, others enjoyed its sweet intoxication. Freedom of choice, right?

But, with all this local power, it was agreed that there needed to be one, All Powerful Leader who sort of ruled the rulers. To bring together all the new, smaller colonies, and have them work as one unit for a common good: freedom of oppression from their enemies. After all, cute as they may be, rabbits are pretty low on the food chain. Pretty good in a stew. Fast forward 150 years.

The numbers of colonies grew 4 fold (after all, they were rabbits), and there were so many of them, with so many different laws, it was becoming difficult for the All Powerful Leader to keep it all together. So he did what he had to do, he started enforcing his own set of rules, to be obeyed by all the colonies, no matter if their own local laws said the opposite. Carrot Juice was banned. To those who didn't partake, it was a joyous moment in their history. To others, it was an infringement on their local rights. So they continued to make the Carrot Juice, grand poo-bah be damned. They drank in the shadows and fought with the All Powerful Leader. After 10 years of futility, he realized he couldn't win this fight, so, against his own beliefs, he made Carrot Juice legal again. The colonies rejoiced. Fast forward another 75 years.

At some point in the ensuing years, a couple of rabbits accidentally dropped a few carrots in a fire one night, and breathed in its' aroma. It was an amazing feeling. Different from the intoxication of the juice, but pleasant all the same. Soon they started drying out the carrots, and made Carrot Sticks, which they smoked. It was all the rage. Everyone was trying it. Everyone, that is, except the All Powerful Leader. He wasn't about to let a bunch of burn-outs dictate colony law, so he did what he had to do. He banned the Carrot Sticks. Again to the delight of the non-partakers, it was a righteous decision. But to others, it was another in a growing pattern of intrusion by the All Powerful Leader. So one rather large colony way, way off on the farthest reaches of their land, decided enough was enough. They found that the smoke from the Carrot Sticks was actually beneficial to the health of some of the older, and sicker rabbits. They would let the common rabbits decide with a vote. And vote they did. Against the will of the All Powerful Leader, they made it legal to make your own Carrot Sticks.

But some of the younger, healthier rabbits didn't like the fact that it was OK for a sick bunny to legally enjoy the benefits of the Carrot Sticks, while they could not. If it was actually GOOD for some rabbits, how could it be BAD for others? And who was this All Powerful Leader that he could tell us what is or isn't good for us? After all, it was the All Powerful Leader that was supposed to serve to our will, to save us from oppression from the colonies of the world that would come in and do us harm, not the other way around. So who's law rules the land? The will of the rabbits, or the will of the All Powerful Leader? On Nov. 2 we will find out.

A tale of two shitties. Or three.

He's back. Right when I was not in the mood for him, there he was. I looked into his beady little eyes and I could see the wheels spinning, both of us frozen in the moment. I stared at him, and he stared right back. Of course, I am talking about the squirrel.

Two minutes, three? Five? Finally I blinked.

"Ha!" he shrieked triumphantly. "You humans, with your big brains and opposable thumbs. And what have they gotten you? Nothing!!"

I was taken aback. I had a really horrible day today, and this was all I needed. It started at work with a bang. Being talked down to at age 47 like I am some moronic simpleton by somebody that doesn't sign my paychecks or shares my bed is high on my list of things I tend not to tolerate. Never mind that his nasty halitosis was enhanced by the onions on his hot dog. But mostly a nice guy who admittedly was having an off moment. Never mind, it was quitting time and the day was almost over. Almost.

F*@king duech bag, road raging, asshole screeches to a halt in front of me in the on-ramp 'cuz he thought I was yelling at him. Now, I am no angel, but I did nothing! He gets out of his car, again, in the on-ramp of a friggin' highway, and comes at me. Umm, two words immediately came to mind. Lunatic, and RUN AWAY!!! Okay, it's really three words, but ran away I did. But not before he passed me by and threw (and again, I did nothing!) a tape measure at me. At least it looked like a tape measure, as it missed me by a mile, and it sounded like a tape measure would when it hits the road doing 65. Well, I can only hope that the Illinois State Police will take the license number I gave them and stop by for a little chat with the guy. Day still ain't over.

After a fruitless 15 minutes at the shop, I returned home to be rudely and disrespectfully talked to by brooding young teen #2. Lesson for the day: never try and do homework with her when one or both of us are in a bad mood. And she still wants those $140 boots. HAH! So for my solace, I was left to grab the rake, and attack the back yard. Thus there I was, at the door to my shed, being talked down to yet again. I had had enough.

"You know what? That corn you been munchin' on? You know where it comes from? The corn fairy perhaps? NO! I'll tell you where it comes from you twitchy, buck-toothed vermin from hell! I put it there. Me and my opposable thumbs. Maybe I don't put it out anymore. Maybe I do put out, but dip it in a little anti-freeze, or rat poison first? What do ya think? So next time you decide you want to run out of the old hole for a little snack, just ask yourself. Is today the day? Is today, Jimmy Shaker day?"

And he stared back at me. He looked down at the kernel in his hand, looked back at me, and said, "I'm sorry." It wasn't much, but one out of four ain't bad, I guess.

My day in Paradise.

At 47 years old, I am a roller coaster junkie. Sort of. I don't generally travel the globe in search of the biggest, baddest, steel behemoth that man could churn out. I have been content, up until now, to live down the street from Six Flags, or Great America as it is more fondly known, escorting my younguns around the park with our season passes, getting my fix on Batman, Viper, Vertical Velocity, and the Raging Bull. I went in one time by myself, on a "day off", at 9:45am, so I could be on the first ride of the day on the Bull. I rode it 3 times, and left the park, waving to the stunned worker at the exit when I didn't want my hand stamped at 10:20 in the morning. Now Raging Bull is as good a coaster as it gets in the Midwest. So I thought. That is, until I finally realized a lifelong dream and made the reservations to take the kids to Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio.

Driving up to the park, built on and Island on the shores of Lake Erie, it is a sight to behold. The Millennium Force is so tall, you can't believe that it just doesn't tip over into Sandusky Bay. And it's not even the tallest one. And there are so many coasters that you couldn't possibly ride them all in a single day with the lines we saw, (max wait on the first Saturday of the Fall season 1 hour 20 minutes). And although I soaked up every nanosecond of the plunge down Millennium Force, heart rising into my throat the whole way down, that was not the reason I was there. I had to ride this beast. The tallest roller coaster in the world.

The Top Fuel Dragster
Height------420 feet
Length------2,800'
Ride Time---0 min., 17 sec.
Speed-------0-120 mph in less than four seconds.

And it was AWESOME! You are so high, its un-be-freakin-liev-able. Without a line, I could've ridden it 10 times easy. It was the Crown Jewel of the day, the moment I had actually been thinking about literally for years, wondering what it was like to be that high up on a coaster. And the brooding teens stopped brooding for a day, and actually had fun. The were duly impressed with the rides, and that's not an easy thing to do, impress a teenager. But exhilaration has it's price, and after about 6 coasters we were all in. The tedium of the hour wait every time began to seep in, and before we knew it, we had been there for 7 hours.

But I can't end my tale of adrenaline seeking without mentioning the sights we saw. No, we didn't look for Callahan Auto from the movie Tommy Boy, the sights we saw in line. Some of the freakiest looking people I have ever seen seem to populate the place with their piercings and tattoos and mo-hawks and hair dyes and those ear thingies that look like they're from some tribe in Africa. As you pass by them in line over and over and over again through the mazes, you can't help but take in everything about their appearance. All in all a great trip, a little expensive, but worth it as I am sure we won't ever do anything like it again. Before I know it they will be in college, and seeing how the wife opted out of the trip as she hates coasters as much as I love them, it doesn't look like I will have anyone to go with. Something weird about a man in his fifties going to an amusement park alone.

We're not so think as they dumb we are.

So, I'm sitting at this intersection in the double left turn lane. The left turn arrow is red, but the light for traffic in my direction is green. Looking down the vast expanse of concrete and blacktop the lay before me, there is not a car coming for miles. Head spins left, right, then left again, and I 'm thinking, Do I do it? Would you? Have you?

Ok I didn't. Not there anyway. But I have. In intersections that were not so vast, a little later at night, you get my drift. But this is why I am ranting today. It's been a while since I have given my monthly traffic rant, and it's about time I went off on the left turn arrow. Like I can't make the decision to go when it's safe to turn. I just don't like the government telling me how to do things. We pay the price for the actions of asshole/stupid driver's that become a statistic when they have an accident. It's not fair.

So, as I am sitting there, I ponder the math. Imagine a busy intersection that still employs the now archaic notion of left turns on the green light. How many accidents actually happen here? One a month? A week? Lets be generous and say one a week. Now this busy intersection is near to a tollway entrance, and that means two things; speed and quantity. How do you guess how many cars go through it on a daily basis? Where do you even start? Well I'm guessing a cycle of the lights could be as high as 90 seconds. In that time, ten lanes of combined traffic, in rush hour, I'll bet it could be as many as 2 or 3 hundred. Let's be fair and say 200. Times 40 = 8,000. Figure a good 6 hours of heavy traffic, plus average flow for the remaining daylight hours, and sprinkling in the stragglers coming home from the bar late at night, and I come to an approximate total of 78,000 cars a day. Whew. But I'm not done.

312,000 cars a week with one accident means that you or I have about a .0003% chance of getting hit. Well, probably more like .00025$ you and .00005% me. I'm just saying. But it all boils down to one infuriating mantra, that the masses are all dumbed down to the basest of levels. That I have to sit at a red turn arrow for no reason, while not a single car passes through the intersection, all because some careless jackass/clueless idiot wasn't paying attention. Hey, I'm all for rules. Like no public urinating and the like. Rules that make common sense. And common sense tells me that if I can safely turn left at an intersection I should be allowed to do so. Next time, I am so going.

Bring it on.

Holy perpetual procrastination! Has it really been 6 weeks since I posted last? I've been busy, sure, but there is no excuse for laziness! Well, I did finish my book, start a new job, and travel around the world in a 10 foot dingy named "Dinsdale". Actually only two are true, but I did find time to butt heads with brooding teenager number two. And that's why dear reader(s) I am back to the keypad.

True blood. Ever seen it? It's an HBO series that's about vampires, and it's full of violence, sexual innuendo, and nudity. Oh, and blood. No blood, no vampires. And here's the rub: it's rated TV MA. To be honest, I never let a little thing like ratings determine whether or not I let my kids see a TV show or a movie. So I did what I had to do, I watched an episode.

Now brooding teenager number one is a month shy of 17 and is at the point that A) he can pretty much watch anything and B) there's not a damn thing I can do about it if I disagree with point A. But the young lass is only 14, and after watching a scene where a female vampire was having sex, but had to stop because it hurt due to the fact that everything heals on a vampire which I guess includes the hymen, followed by a scene where two lovers, after eating a pie made from a human heart, beat the living crap out of each other while spewing vile language, then had sex, which was interspersed with nudity, more violence and lots and lots of blood, we drew a line. The wife and I decided that we would say no, and that would be that.

She didn't go quietly. She stomped, she threatened, she sulked, and she scowled. I remembered at that point that parenting isn't about being friends with your kid. When you know that, then nothing else matters. Sure, you want them to know you love them, but pissing them off for their own good is a good thing now and then. And the tantrums? The brooding? The evil stares? I say, bring it on.

Digging ourselves out of a hole, one ego at a time.

After much deep thought, hand wringing, and contemplation, I have finally figured out what is wrong with our home state of Illinois. Bad governor? Got it. No budget? Got it covered. It all comes down to one word. One little three letter word at the root of all our indeterminable woes. And that word is EGO.

It is the driving force behind everything wrong with this state. Start at the top. Take ex-governor Rod Blago... wait a sec. The real top. Take Oprah. In the now famous Kitty Kelley unauthorized biography, the queen is quoted as saying, "Oprah doesn't do stairs." It's bad enough that she refuses to, in the immortal words from Santa Claus is Coming to Town, "put one foot in front of the other." But the whole third person thing, who does she think she is? Lebron?

OK so Oprah doesn't have anything to do with our state's ills. But we can't have a lesson on ego without mentioning her, now can we? People in power in my state all have that one thing in common, it seems they are driven by their own ego. Roland Burris, our lame duck, look-what-I-found "Senator" already has his own tombstone made up with all of his accomplishments on it, just in case after he is gone, someone might forget. Or former CHA executive Barbara A. McKinzie, (I know, who?) had her own wax statue made of herself. Really? Who the hell are you anyway? And of course, we can't forget Blago himself. I can't even begin to think of a glaring single instance due to the fact the everything he did revolved around his self promotion. Wait! I got it. Spending almost $500,000 on those tollway signs that reminded us that he is, ahem was, governor.

But it seems to me, from the top dogs (Blago, Mike Madigan) down to the lowliest of state representatives, (Jesse Jacson Jr.), from Mayors (Richard Daley) to crappy judges (Judge Thomas Gainer), ego drives these people to make decisions that are in the own self interest, rather than the people they represent. Though her fathers name had a big hand in where she is, Attorney General Lisa Madigan seems to be doing things right, with no regard for her self preservation. Illinois voters need to look for these qualities come election time, and just maybe, we can begin to crawl out from the hole that we have dug for ourselves.

Illinois. Ashamed to live here, but afraid to leave.

Ahh, Illinois, once the Land of Lincoln, now a constantly evolving punchline. Random thoughts on a desperate Friday morning:

After six years in office spanning two elections, an impeachment, multiple indictments, countless appearances on talk shows, and being fired by Donald Trump, I still can't believe that the people of Illinois elected the buffoonish Rod Blagojevich as Governor. Twice. And it's still not getting old. The latest? Blago's choice of words to the people that elected him to his "dead end" job: "F--- them." Nice.

You still don't think Illinois is a joke? I'm talking, across the board stuff. Flat broke, no budget, and our criminal justice system is a sham. No? Then why did it take 10, that's double digits, ten DUI arrests to put Gordon Vanderark in prison? Just asking.

And to further my point, Chicago lost a good, honest, caring cop to the hands of a lifetime criminal with 21 priors on his record. Again, twenty-friggin-one times this piece of crap was hauled before a judge, yet it took killing a cop to get him off the street. Still think our courts are working just fine?

On the "Wow, they got it right!" front, Drew Peterson is to stay in jail while an appeals process goes on that could last up to 9 months. C'mon everyone, if you don't believe he killed his last two wives, then your last name must be Peterson too. Here's the one time our snails pace judicial process is actually a good thing.

Party + alcohol + swimming pool = very bad idea. Tragic that Carlos Salgado, unable to swim when sober, fell into a pool after probably consuming too many beers, and drowned. Also tragic that the "It wasn't my fault!" syndrome hit his family, as they are now suing the party's hosts because it really was their fault. Riiight.

And finally, our hometown-boy-does-good, President Obama, promised during his campaign, among other things, to protect the environment, get tough with the oil industry, and let science guide the decisions of his administration. Well it turns out that an appeals court blocked drilling in the gulf because the government had not adequately prepared for a major oil spill. Then with all the hubris of another campaign speech, got the court to reverse it's decision by citing the economy and the $10 billion in oil reserves (that's science dictating his decision?), which in turn led to the BP well being dug. So blame BP all you want, but there's no denying that Obama was an enabler to the situation. When are the voters going to learn that politicians are like used car salesmen? They will say and do anything to get you to buy their lemon.

The potato chip that changed my life.

Avid readers of this blog might recall my ode to the sausage. A spur of the moment tribute to that cholesterol laden, artery clogging, culinary masterpiece. Then again, there may not be anyone that falls into the "avid reader" category. So, then, I am set to tell the tale of the most amazing potato chip I have ever eaten.

Tuesday, on the way to Elmhurst. Stopped at tollway oasis to grab a bag of chips. Doritos. Lunch was average.

Wednesday, repeating routine. Lays Barbecue. Always a favorite.

Thursday, just as I was beginning to succumb to my fate of another lunch with average chips, it happened. I had the bag of Lays Ruffles Cheddar and Sour Cream in my hand. That rack by the register makes it easy for you to avoid going to the back of the store where the real chip section was. I ventured anyway. Tucked away on the bottom shelf, in the far corner, were a few bags of Kettle Brand Potato Chips. I was fully aware of the "Kettle Cooked" phenomenon that has invaded the market. Crunchier, healthier, "Kettle Cooked" just sounds too cool to pass up. I set down the Ruffles. It would be a turning point in my life.

I selected the Honey Dijon flavor, as I have a secret affinity for the whole Honey Mustard thing. I got back into my car and headed south. The entire way, the bag of chips was calling to me. But it was only 8:45 in the morning. Is there a time rule on chips? Can you have a few with your Egg McMuffin? I wasn't about to find out and spoil my lunch. I drove on.

At approximately 11:45, I broke for lunch. Pickle first, half my sandwich next, it's a routine I can't ignore. Then I opened the bag of chips. To say that the first bite was a tantalizing explosion of crunchiness and sweetness would do no justice to the moment. Chip after chip, the experience grew exponentially until I thought that no experience in my life had ever given me this much pleasure. I broke my cardinal rule of lunch sins that day: I finished the bag before I finished my sandwich. I had none to leave the final taste in my mouth as I returned to work. I had none to savor on the way home. I was left to keep the bag for a few deep inhales. Sort of like walking into a bakery just to enjoy the smells.

So it was, that fateful Thursday, that I would fully embrace the "Kettle Cooked" era. I went to the Jewel to buy a more plentiful sized package, and even as I reached the chip aisle, I was contemplating where I would stash my horde away from the bottomless pits that were my teenagers. To my utter disbelief and horror, there was no Honey Dijon flavor. My life was over. So I did the next best thing. I grabbed the Honey Barbecue flavor instead. It's the sacrifices we make that define us as human beings. That and the brand of chips we eat.

Fathers day 2010, my laziest day ever.

That was one for the ages. It's our day, right guys? And we are entitled to spend it any way we like. Maybe you're into the whole "picnic on a Sunday afternoon thing", or a nice dinner with your loved ones. Maybe even a bike ride? All were considered, but in the end, here was my day:

12:56am--Woke up on couch and couldn't fall back to sleep. Watched TV.
2:30--Still can't fall asleep, trudge to bed and try anyway.
6:15--Hit snooze button on alarm clock.
6:22--Hit it again.
6:29--And again.
6:36--And again.
6:43--Dream I am Bill Murray in Groundhog day and imagine smashing alarm clock with my fist until the little speaker dances on the floor next to fragments of plastic and wires.
6:55--Try to order at BK only to find all the lights are on but no one is home.
6:57--Succeed in ordering from McDonald's. Sausage, egg, and cheese McGriddle. Mmmm for about the next 10 minutes, uggh for the next 3 hours.
7:11--Mad scramble to get golf shoes on, pay for round, select 6 "gently used" balls, and find playing partners for my 7:12 tee time.
7:13--Get a ride from Ranger to join group already on 1st hole. (My "buddies" teed off early when the group ahead was waiting for their fourth to show. What am I, chopped liver? Maybe I should have played with them.)
7:16--Tap in for par. I had to drop at the 150 and play from there. I am SO taking that 4.
9:33--Realization of a good round out the window with triple on the 10th hole.
9:59--Realization of a relaxing round of golf also out the window as I take my second triple.
11:42--Seek out lunch on the way home. Still can't believe that there were no hot dogs ready @ 9:31 as we made the turn.
11:49--Hit McDonald's again to satisfy the hamburger craving. Feel like that guy in Super Size Me.
12:06pm--Kiss wife, open cards, hug daughter, hit couch.
2:15--Get off couch after fruitless effort to get in a nap. Must've been in that "almost asleep" moment 4 or 5 times to no avail.
2:19--Turn on final round of US Open.
8:16--Watch Graeme McDowell roll in 2 footer to win. (Snuck in a trip to Best Buy so daughter could buy new Wii game)
8:17--Find movie on HBO that I've seen probably 6 or 7 times.
11:48--Wake up on couch and go to bed.

Productive? Not by a long shot. Selfish? Certainly. Memorable? I won't be writing about this day again. But relaxing? I didn't care that I shot a 90, missing the 80's by a stroke. I didn't have to do any chores around the house. I didn't have to listen to my kids arguing. And for one day, I didn't feel guilty about being a lazy bum. But today's a new day.

It's 11:37pm, do you know where your young driver is?

Ahhh, Sunday mornings. Just love that lazy feel as I am sipping the coffee, turning the pages of the paper, and plotting my course of action for the last day of the weekend. No worries, no hangover, and the stress level is nil, that is until the phone rings at precisely 9:00am. I used to love caller ID, letting us know if a tele-marketer is about to rob us of our early morning sanctity. But this morning, Gurnee Village Police was the last thing I expected to see blinking back at me.

Within minutes, there stood the officer at my door. Now a flood of possibilities have entered your mind, I'm sure. As did mine when I first got the call. The minute he mentioned the license plate number of my Mercury, I stiffened. I prayed to God he wasn't going to say the word "accident", or "hospital". You see, that is the car my 16 year old son drives. When he convinced me that there were no reports of injury, he continued. When I heard the words "11:37am" combined with "Jewel" and "4 cartons of eggs", my mind did the math. Phew, I said to myself. He had spent the night at a friends house, and obviously they were really hungry, so just before midnight they went to buy some eggs to make a bunch of omelets. Case closed.

That's it, right? I mean, really, what are the other possibilities? He's a good kid, gets decent grades, works hard to be on the basketball team, and he eats a lot. Sure, they could have settled for a bowl of Lucky Charms, but I mean omelets at midnight, it just doesn't compare. But 4 dozen? Even that is a lot for 3 boys to consume. Then my mind began to consider the possibilities. Just maybe, he was secretly making a carrot cake. I know for a fact that it takes 4 eggs to make one of those, I have to make about 3 or 4 every year. But even if he messed up the first one, and needed a redo, he would still have about 3 dozen left over. That really leaves only one other scenario. Must be getting a jump on Easter for next year. What a good kid.

Long story short, I am not really that naive. Nor is the Jewel employee that wrote down his plate number after witnessing 3 teenage boys buying 4 dozen eggs at midnight on a Saturday during summer vacation. Nor is the 20 year veteran cop who has to go through this same routine EVERY Sunday morning, he tells us. But the cop wasn't looking for a bust. He offered that if indeed mischief had occurred, it was correctable before mischief became criminal. That is, until some car owner calls to say the drying eggs were removing the paint and now becomes property damage. The 16 year old is at this very writing, walking the neighborhood of his buddies house with a bucket of soapy water.

Like I said, he is a good kid. But even good people sometimes make stupid decisions, and it is how we react to those stupid decisions that really defines our character, rather than the act itself. He fessed up, knew what he had to do, and did it. That call could have been a lot worse, I know. A long rope had been extended to the lad when he got his license, but the rope just got a whole lot shorter.

Duck soup.

Whew, been busy! And that's a good thing, 'cuz busy = money. Er, most of the time. For a few years there, busy meant coaching and shuffling both kids to baseball and soccer, sometimes both kids, both sports, in the same night. Not to mention tending to 6 baseball fields as head of field management for three years. But the other day, just before we were to drive to the guitar store so she could buy her first guitar, the daughter and I happened upon a little lost soul.

He was so tiny, so pathetic, so lost, so damn cute, this little 4 day old baby Mallard duckling. He was by the front door to the High School, a vast expanse of concrete with no real water in site. No bushes to hide in, nothing. He was like a little kid that lost it's mommy at the mall. He was wobbling, falling over, and could barely keep it's eyes open. We couldn't just leave him there, so I scooped him up, stuck him in my golf shoe, (the left one I think), and took him home, where I promptly stuck him in a bowl of water. He drank for like 10 minutes straight.

Now against the advise of the police, I did not take him back to where we found him so his mother could take over. We looked. There was nowhere for any ducks to hide. I knew that if I brought him back he would never make it. So I found a woman who takes in abandoned animals and raises them. She was amazing. She knew more about ducks than Wikipedia. She had the little guy eating in no time, and told us that newly hatched ducks need to get to water ASAP for that first drink once they are hatched. So sometimes if one is hatching late, the mother duck takes the rest and abandons it. I bet this little guy took his first sip of water in my garage.

Feel good story, not my style I know. But the daughter (and The Guitarman) felt it was more important to help out the helpless creature than to buy a guitar. The woman did tell us one other thing. She said that baby ducks need 3 things to survive: water, food, and warmth. She was sure he would not have survived the night. So I guess we saved it's life. And then we went and bought the guitar.

World politics quiz: What does U.N. stand for?

So what does U.N stand for? Anyone, anyone? Bueller, Bueller? If you said United Nations, then give yourself a Valium and go back to bed. I have a few more appropriate suggestions.

What do you call it when their forces are put in charge of keeping weapons out of southern Lebanon, a promise made to Israel as a condition at the end of the 2006 war with Hezbollah. And instead, missiles, with Scuds capable of hitting Jerusalem, have poured into the region under the helpless watch of the U.N. troops.
(http://www.haaretz.com/news/lebanon-army-7-missiles-ready-to-be-fired-at-israel-found-in-south-lebanon-1.260252) The same group that idly stood by while genocide was ravaging in Darfur and Kenya. How about Useless Non-Entity?

What do you call it when the governing world body rebukes a world power for exercising it's right to strike at it's enemies? Enemies of not only the U.S. but the entire world. Enemies that have no nation, no constitution, and no soul. CIA drone attacks have been successful in striking at the hidden leaders of Al-Qaeda and the Taliban, yet the U.N. says now that it is a no-no. (http://www.channel4.com/news/articles/world/americas/un+report+says+cia+drone+strikes+in+pakistan+aposillegalapos/3667127) Let's go with Utter Nonsense.

And what do you call it, in regards to the "flotilla massacre", when a supposed impartial world governing body immediately jumps to the defense of a group that has a terrorist organization at it's helm? An organization that willfully and publicly calls for the destruction of the other. An organization that has time and again rebuked efforts by said enemy to hold reconciliation talks that could lead to state-hood. Have you read that Israel offered to take the entire load of humanitarian supplies and deliver them, along with the tons of medicine and food they already deliver daily to Gaza? Have you read the statement by flotilla spokesperson Greta Berlin and I quote, "...this mission is not about delivering Humanitarian supply, but rather about breaking the Israeli siege." Peace activists? Armed with knives, slingshots, rocks, smoke bombs, metal rods, improvised sharp metal objects, sticks and clubs, 5KG hammers, and firebombs?
It seems that the Underground Nazis have one goal in mind. To enable the terrorists to continue on their destructive path.

So when a burqa-clad suicide bomber strolls into UN headquarters and kills himself along with a bunch of UN workers, what will their response be then? Will they stand up for the rights of the bomber?

Why?

Why? I mean really, why? If you have a young child, then you know that not a day, nary an hour, goes by without a question starting with that word. Why does the sun come up daddy? Why do to birds chirp in the morning? Why are you sitting at the computer typing? (I swear the young teen JUST asked me that question as I am typing this) Why are you wearing mommy's underwear on your head? You know, typical stuff. But, alas, I have read my morning paper yet again. And I have my own bunch of why's.

Why do some people feel compelled to tell the rest of us what do do and how to run our own lives? Do they feel this inherent "motherhood" syndrome where they must watch over us like their own offspring? Although it may seem like a good idea, the new car sign by Jodi Brubaker and Kari Galassi (Get Off The Phone!) infers that we are ALL stupid and can't protect ourselves from the evil world. They want to dumb the rest of us down to their level so they don't feel so alone in their world of bubble wrapped safety for all.

Why do some people blame anybody else but themselves for their own stupidity? Ask Lauren Rosenberg, who was injured by a motorist while following the walking route through Salt Lake City supplied by Google. Yep, you guessed it, she is suing Google. Seems common sense was trumped by a computer when she chose to follow the route along a busy street. Hey Lauren, do you ever think for yourself? Just maybe it was the motorist, or even, gasp, yourself to blame.

Why do we allow elected officials to make decisions in an election year? Illinois can't pass a budget because the law makers are too worried about what will happen to them in November. Popular opinion outweighs the law, especially when the Cook County commissioners pass a resolution boycotting Arizona business because they think that's what the voters want to see. And then turn around and hand a contract to an Arizona firm that makes red light cameras. A better question might be, why do we keep electing these hypocritical, self-serving morons?

Why does the world hate Israel so much? Now I try and avoid this topic, because 1. I am not Jewish, and 2. I am not Palestinian which = none of my business. But when the press starts quoting pro-Palestinian protesters (try saying that ten times fast) in saying, "It's been way too long since there's been a suicide bombing in the State of Israel," I can't help but feel the need to quote Rodney King. "Can't we all just get along?" Whether you think it's ok for Hamas to rain missiles down on Israel, or it's ok for the Jewish state to suppress an entire population with roadblocks and illegal occupation, the bottom line is that both sides hate each other. How the hell do you fix that?

What's a mere 45,000 words between friends?

First of all The Guitarman would like you all to know that he has not been at a loss for words. You know that is not possible. He can go all political on your ass at any second. But not today. You see, he has been consumed lately with finishing something he started like five years ago. Something he though he would never do in his lifetime. No, not writing in the third person. I wrote a novel. Seriuously. And today, I'll give a little taste:


The little man in the classic bowler hat nervously scanned the street before he scurried on his way. Though a penetrating rain swept across the block, he firmly kept his umbrella tucked under one arm. He shouldn’t be running for his life like this. He knew there was a contract on his life, and that is why he was shuffling to Heathrow with as many of his belongings stuffed into his tattered suitcase as it could hold.
At the end of his street, he paused under the streetlamp and nervously craned his neck side to side, praying for a cab.
“Damn! Never when you need one,” he muttered to no one. Pellets of rain stung his cheeks like bits of gravel in a wind storm, the water dripping from his spectacles in a blurry cascade.
Turning right, he hustled down the sidewalk. Then he saw him.
Where did he come from? the man thought to himself.
He slowed his pace and tried to focus through the rain. Probably just out for his evening constitutional, he convinced himself. He crossed to the other side of the street. His face went pale when the shadowy figure crossed as well.
The man stopped in his tracks. The figure kept coming.
“I had no choice!” he yelled down the street.
The figure kept coming.
“I was going to lose my job! My house! My bloody life! Everything!”
The figure steadily stalked towards the man, pulling something from under his jacket.
“For God’s sake, I had no choice!” pleaded the man.
The figure stopped ten feet away, gun at his side.
The man wasn’t sure if his trousers were soaked through from the rain, or if he indeed wet himself. “Wait!” he exclaimed, “I’ll pay you. More than you’re making now. Nobody has to know. I’ll disappear.”
Stone silence. The only sound that of the drenching rain.
“Please!” begged the man, letting go of his belongings and dropping to his knees. Under the shadow of the night, the man could not see the wry smirk on the killer’s face.
“SAY SOMETHING!!” screamed the man, not knowing at the time that these would be the last words he would utter in his life. The figure raised his silenced gun, and put a bullet in between the man’s eyes. He said nothing.
Two blocks away he spied a cab coming around the corner. He flagged it down, and got in. He uttered but one word. “Heathrow.”


I know, I know. I am not Clancy, nor Creighton, nor King, not even Dr. Suess. It's not very long, 45,000 words is about the length of a Jack Higgins novel. But it took me a long time. A really long time. So if you want to read more, send me a note, and I'll forward it to you. Maybe. After I get the copyright filed.

How many kids do you want to invite?

So the younger teen wanted a party for her birthday. Sounds like a reasonable request from a young girl. Used to be renting a moonwalk perennially entered me in the father of the year contest, I just had to make sure that no one left with a concussion, or in traction. Then for a few years came the, "I don't really want a party because I'm too old for that and it would make me look uncool, but I still want to do something with my friends because deep down I AM still a little kid and, well I have to have a party," stage. Then there was this year.

At first, it went something like this:
"Dad, how many kids can I invite to my party this year?"
Party?
"My birthday party."
I repeat, party?
"I want to have a party for my birthday this year. How many kids can I invite?"
How many do you want to invite?
"How many can I invite?"
You can't answer my question with another question.
"I dunno, like 50?"

From that point on, negotiations ensued, and I brought the number to a final tally of 25. And I thought, am I really going to have 25 girls in my house at once? I told her she could invite the boys too. And there it is, the first girl-boy-mixer that my 14 year old was going to attend, and it would be at my house. Well at least I could keep an eye on them.

So for 5 hours, small gangs of well groomed, respectful kids roamed the outskirts of my house, only daring to venture in for the pizza and cake. (Side note: some brought Ready Whip, and the wife assumed they were going to be "huffing", but they actually put it on their pizza. Really.) They buzzed around like bees outside of a hive, darting in for only a fleeting second. I think the endless supply of caffeinated sodas was too tempting for some, one kid threw up from a few too many. Wait until he discovers beer. Then they closed the garage door, put on a strobe light, and started dancing. I kept peeking through the door, being the nosy dad, making sure that there was no 2nd and 3rd base action going on. 1st base I could tolerate, but all I saw was a few slow dancers standing as far apart from each other as slow dancers possibly could. So cute. Ahh, memories.

She had the time of her life, the teenager did. Her friends all had fun, and they'll all be talking about it at school on Monday. And therein lies the rub. Better than a material gift, she'll have the giddy feeling of being popular at school, at least for a day, as the kid that had the cool party. But me? I just became the dad who let his kid throw the cool party. Am I going to be doing this for the next 4 years as she enters high school? It only goes downhill from here. I really miss the moonwalk.

When PC trumps hard work, who are the losers?

Anyone else think the Arizona thingy is getting a little nutty? Protesters outside the Cubs game because the Arizona Diamondbacks were in town, other municipalities refusing to do business with the state, and now Highland Park HS in Illinois refuses to let it's girls basketball team travel to the playoffs in Arizona. All in the name of protecting the rights of a bunch of illegal aliens. Well, what about the rights of Robert Krentz?

Robert Krentz didn't live the life of most Americans. He was a rancher from Arizona who had the misfortune of owning property on the Mexican border. He tried to do his part by reporting illegal border crossers to the authorities. And he paid for his crime of being a cattle rancher and diligent citizen with his life. It is suspected that he was killed by a member of Mexico's drug cartel as drugs were being stashed on his property. This is the kind of threat that the citizens of southern Arizona face everyday. A threat the the USA fails to recognize and/or control. So when the state has to resort to extreme measures protect their citizens, something the government has failed to do, they are branded as being un-American and civil rights abusers. Poppycock.

But back to Highland Park HS, and their thin veil of an excuse that the "students safety or liberty might be placed at risk..." Again, poppycock. They don't even have the guts to stand by their decision. These girls are about to have a once in a lifetime dream squashed because some PC board member has a bug up his ass. These girls raised their own money to help pay their way to the finals, first time in 26 years for HPHS. Why don't we ask the team how they feel about it? Yet the high school is also sending a group of students to China. Yep, China, the poster child for human rights abuses is "OK" in the eyes of HPHS, where they jail, torture, and kill their own citizens. But when Arizona actually tries to "protect" it's citizens with a tough new law that holds law breakers accountable, the knee jerk reaction is to jump on the PC bandwagon and deny innocent kids their dream.

In some house in Highland Park, someone is sitting smug this morning that a decision they have made will reflect well on the schools image. A decision that gives hope to a bunch of criminals. In that same town, my guess is that a bunch of teenage girls are waking up in tears, knowing that all the hard work, dribbling in the driveway, shot after shot on the court, lessons, AAU tournaments, tryouts, camps and the like has all been a monumental waste of time.

When bad is good.

As you may know, The Guitarman likes to read his morning Sun Times cover to cover before he has to step into the fracas that is his life with a two teenager household. Whatever arguments or annoyances await, I at least have the solace of my 30-45 minutes of just me, my coffee, and my paper. And those infernal reading glasses. The wife prefers to get her news from one of two sources: the TV, and me. So it was the latter today, as I am relating story after story of negativity to her and she comments, "Can't you give me any good news?" Sure I said, and proceeded to turn back to the sport section to mention the Blackhawks impressive 7 goal performance, and the record setting 6 RBI major league debut of the Cubs Starlin Castro. That's where the only good news is these days.

So a quick check of my usually thin Saturday edition reveals 29 articles, not including the always rosy sports section. Of the 29, 7 I considered indifferent, 4 I put in the "good" news category, leaving me with 18 pieces that are for the most part, bad news. Metra chief commits suicide, pit bull kills woman's dog, Philadelphia landlord sentenced from a 20 year peeping tom career, another cop gets off, disgraced department heads resign, Illinois house still can't pass a budget, 8-year old chained to bed in 2 day old diapers, the gulf oil spill, the list goes on and on and on. Depressing. If I wanted to feel depressed I'd go watch "Leaving Las Vegas" again. I read to stay informed, and all I get these days is pissed off. I didn't even mention the commentary by a Chicago lawyer and judge, who both contend that my Scumbag of the Month winner Cook County Judge Thomas Gainer Jr. was following the law when he let off that drunk cop for vehicular homicide due to false arrest. It shouldn't matter because of some technicality. Two guys are dead because he was drunk, and he will get his job back.

And the good news? It would be nice to read, "Springfield passes campaign reform AND passes a budget in an election year," or "Chicago to offer free job training to inner city youth, or "Inventor of a flying car that runs on water will share his technology with the world." It's gonna happen, I know it. But our "good" news is actually headlined by Michelle Obama's tribute to her mommy, and previous bad news turning good. It's encouraging that the woman from Ireland that was beaten with a bat has come out of her coma, but she is where she is because of a bat wielding loser with no soul.

A friend had an idea that he would create a publication that would only print positive stories, leaving the daily grime to the big news outlets. That's noble, but I scoffed. There might not be enough to print a front page. But it's all good to the newspapers, after all, the bad stuff brings in the green stuff.

Three for one day!!

Couldn't decide which story had me roiling more this morning, so I'll try and keep it short while my fingers dance over the keypad like a ballerinas toes on a bed of coals:

They may hate us, but thank God they are stupid.

USA 2, Terrorists 0. No need to remind everyone of the failed Detroit bombing when the would be martyr only succeeded in burning himself. And I am sure the name Faisal Shahzad will be on the nations lips in the coming days. He was the terrorist that tried to set off a bomb in Manhattan this week. But I want to point out the obvious connection. These guys get pissed off at some point, decide to go to a training camp in the motherland, then come back to unleash holy terror on the infidels!! Er, except it didn't exactly work out that way did it? Both bombs failed to detonate, and in both cases, it looks like they were actually too stupid to pull it off. So while their hearts might have been in the right place, thank God that they left their heads in some pile of sand in the desert.

Why even bother with a trial at all?

The trial of Lori Hunt began this week. If you don't remember her, she is the nail-painting driver that killed a woman with her car as the woman was sitting on her motorcycle at a red light. He lawyer says his client is "not a criminal." I beg to differ. Vehicular homicide is a crime, and your client admitted her actions led to the womans death. Case friggin' closed right? Wrong. She may not have plead guilty to the actaul crime, but she did admit she was painting her nails and failed to hit the brakes. Whatever happened to common sense? Lawyers gotta make their money too I guess.

Who is judging the judges?

So does anyone remember Cook County Judge Thomas Gainer Jr.? He was one of my Scumbags of the Month recently for letting off another Chicago cop for an obvious crime, one that you or I would be in jail for right now. Now let's add in Lake County Associate Judge Helen Rozenberg. A woman was helping a friend with a ride to court the other day, and stayed to watch the proceedings. She was coming from the gym, and was wearing her gym clothes. Which included a T-shirt that said, "I have the pussy, so I make the rules." Guys, if you are married, then you know this is the plain truth. Seeing as she probably doesn't like to get hit on when she is working out, she may have worn this particular shirt to scare off any losers. But when the judge saw the guest in the courtroom seats, she got offended and through her in jail for contempt of court. Now in the former case, two guys were dead, and an obvious miscarriage of justice has occurred. But The Guitarman feels compelled to link the two cases and ask, who is judging the judges? It's obvious voters elect these egotistical buffoons, not knowing who they are even voting for. But when murderers walk free and ordinary citizens are thrown in jail for no reason all because a judge has lost sight of the reason he or she is there in the first place, maybe it's time that we held them accountable with a higher authority. Only question then will be, who will be judging the judges of the the judges?

Scumbags Pt. II

Ok no need to rehash old subjects, like who is the biggest scumbag on the planet. But when the contestants keep coming out of the woodwork faster than pedophile priests (scumbags in there own right, but I digress), it is the sworn duty of The Guitarman to pluck at the metaphorical strings:

Lets start with an obvious target, the honchos at Goldman Sachs. Never mind that some were caught on tape admitting the shitty deal they were trying to pass on to their investors. Not every broker can pick winners all the time. But the fact that they bet against their own advise, thus making millions (billions?), conjures up memories of those most famous of scumbags, Randolph and Mortimer Duke. Quoteth Randolph: "...no matter whether our clients make money or lose money, Duke & Duke get the commissions." Money talks, bullshit, er, makes more money.

And while we're on the subject of the Goldman hearings, let's not overlook our own federal government. Members of Congress are holding up to the fire the execs at Goldman for their role in the banking crises, hoping that this mis-directional tactic will help Americans forget that is was they themselves who kept pressure on the Fed to push the twin Freddies (Mac and Mae) to keep extending questionable mortgages. Shuffle the blame, shout angrily, and keep reminding the voters that you really are on their side. It is an election year after all, may the loudest, richest scumbag win.

An obvious candidate, lets look at 30 time arrestee Heriberto Viramontes. Who? I'll tell you. He's the piece of crap scumbag that beat those two woman in Chicago with a baseball bat for some gas money. Being a member of a gang, in this case the Spanish Cobras, makes you an automatic scumbag. But beating unconscious two defenseless woman so you can get home that night puts you in the running for scumbag of the month. (Side note: we must include the asshole cab driver who saw the bloody and almost unconscious Stacy and DROVE AWAY! Thank God another cabbie with a soul was right behind him) Why hadn't the courts and cops put Heriberto away for any of his past indiscretions? They were to busy protecting themselves and winning this months scumbag award.

And heeeeere they are! Chicago cop John Ardelean and Cook County Judge Thomas Gainer Jr. Lets start with the cop. He was drunk one night. A video tape SHOWS HIM doing 5 shots before leaving the bar he was at. 5. Don't know about you, but I am passed out after 5 shots. So John got in his car and killed two men with it. He wasn't arrested or even given a breathalyzer for seven hours. (We should include the fraternity of cops protecting each other as scumbag contestants, but this space isn't big enough to go there) So the Judge relies on the "testimony" of two fellow cops that said he didn't appear intoxicated, to throw out the evidence. And the cop walked. 2 guys dead, and he walks. That should be enough for Thomas to win, but guess what? He has a history of letting bad cops get off scot free. He was the one who acquitted the 3 cops that beat the shit out of a group of businessmen last year at the Jefferson tap bar. Just as it is with the Catholic Church, these scumbags put their own survival ahead of the people they were hired to serve. If that ain't a scumbag, then I'm not The Guitarman.

Asparagus. Life Lessons 101.

So yesterday morning, I was pissed off. I mean, downright four letter word inducing, lip quivering rage. At like 10am. There's a whole lot that went into building me up to that point. It started the night before, well before our gig was to start. Early in the evening, I got a ridiculous stomach ache. You know the kind where the bathroom better be within 30 seconds of you. By the time the gig started, I was just wishing I was in bed. Then things got worse.

We were running with an unfamiliar sound system that required a sound man to navigate, and we didn't have one. Couldn't get the levels straight for anything, guitars, vocals, bass. Feedback everywhere. It was a train wreck. And me being the anal perfectionist that I am, was completely unnerved and subsequently played like crap. Thus the scowl appeared on my face as we were breaking down, and I wore it like a crown all the way home. Woke up with it the next morning too. Spent a few minutes arguing with one of my teenagers about something ridiculously inane. Then I sat down to blog about the whole Arizona immigration thing.

I made damning points about Arizona having the guts to do what the country can't. Seeing as 7% of their population is illegal to the nations 3.9%, they enacted legislation to do something about it. I quoted Chicago Rep. Luis Gutierrez in his attempt to show the "bigotry and hatred" won't be tolerated. (Um, these people broke the law. Some "borrowed" social security numbers, and most are driving down the cost of wages by taking the jobs that "nobody wants". Tell that to the nearly 12% of the actual citizens that are unemployed). And as I was putting the final corrections in place, I hit a wrong keystroke (still don't know what I did) and 30 minutes of writing was gone. Poof. And this blog site isn't MS Word. There is no "undo" button. Throw everything together, combined with my smoldering fire of not having worked in a year (you really do feel like less of a man), I went off.

But it was about an hour later when I was at the produce market that perspective finally crept in. I was noticing how the simple act of picking produce was having a calming effect on me. As I made my way over to the asparagus, I made a comment to a fellow shopper, a kindly looking elderly lady. "You ever notice how they package asparagus so that one pack isn't enough, but 2 is too many?" And she agreed, and shared a cooking tip with me. So I replied with one of my own, telling her after she cuts off the ends, she could use a potato peeler to take the skin of the hard end of the stalks. She looked at me and said, "You see that? You serve the lord and every day something good will happen to you." I tell her it is time consuming, and she says, "But it will make for a better meal." And she smiled at me and walked away. And right then, something amazing happened. I smiled too.

The emperor has no clothes, but his lawyers are getting richer.

The emperor has no clothes. He thinks he does, but no one around him will tell him the plain and obvious truth. A common tale, most everyone has heard the story, or more likely, has heard the comparison to someone in real life, as I am about to do here. Usually, it's some Chicago reporter calling out Mayor Daley and his go-at-it-alone take-chargedness. And I am not going to surprise you with someone you've never heard of. This person still believes that they are the shit, that what they have to say matters, that they are still relevant in some way. And why won't the people around them just say what everyone else knows? Because of money.

Greedy, money grubbing, soul-less, power hungry, headline craving, grandstanding lawyers to be precise. And the man I am talking about needs no introduction. He's innocent. He was only working hard for the people he represented. Everyone else is wrong, and he is right. Just PLAY ALL THE DAMN TAPES ALREADY!! Yup, we're talking about Rod Blagojevich again. The only reason, other than his massive ego, that this BS is still playing out is because of lawyers. If only some, er one, of them had the nerve to tell Bla-boo-boo-itch what he needs to hear, maybe this circus that is supposed to be an indictment would go away. Right? Ha! Not even close. Because if the world is full of one thing, it's yes men. Not just any yes men, but the kind who say yes to the emperor for the loftiest of aspirations. Money. And TV time. Which leads to, yep, more money. And if we know anything about lawyers, it's that there are more of them ready to swoop in should one vulture leave it's roost.

Maybe Boy-have-I-got-an-itch will someday scratch his itch and he will be satisfied, an itch that goes something like this: I'm Good Enough, I'm Smart Enough, and Doggone It, People Like Me! Now keep on keepin' on until you are president! Here's my vision: Trial becomes bigger than OJ. It's dragged out through appeal after appeal. Boo-boo goes to jail about the time his girls are in high school. Serving his time, he gets out and runs for office again. He is delusional enough to believe it, but better yet, the people around him will convince him that it could happen. Wouldn't it be refreshing instead to see Patti say, "These past 10 years have been nice without Rod around. We reconnected with my father (Ald. Dick Mell). We haven't been on a reality show since I dropped 128 pounds on Biggest Loser. I haven't seen my name in print since the trial. And my daughters have grown up without a camera shoved in their face. I only hope now that their father can somehow quietly integrate back into the private sector." But somehow, I believe it will sound more like this, "Yes we can!! Change we can believe in!! Don't stop thinking about tomorrow!!" Blagojevich/Blagojevich for president, '24. I know I am right.

Proud of what you did yesterday?

What did you do yesterday? Was it productive? Was it therapeutic or relaxing? Was it self-serving? Or maybe it was serving someone else. I am not advocating some moralistic duty of humanity. If that serves you well, go for it. My day consisted of cleaning the garage (productive), taking a small nap (therapeutic), and practicing for and playing a gig (self-serving). (Side note: cleaning the garage is not an actual task, as my garage is in the perpetual cleaning cycle. Meaning, I have so much crap crammed into every nook and cranny, that cleaning more or less consists of moving said crap from one spot to another. If I can ever manage to clear enough space to actually get CARS in the garage, then maybe I have accomplished something.) One thing I did not do, however, was to maliciously and cowardly find and murder innocent civilians from my own country in the name of religion.

If you are tired of hearing me say this, then by all means, close the page, go back to facebook, and pretend I never said it. But low and behold, and coming to a theater near you, two piece of shit cowards in the name of Islam, dressed up in head to toe burqa's, and blew themselves up in a line of civilians along the Afghan/Paki border. Innocent people who were in an aid line because they had fled a Taliban offensive, only to find that the offensive had indeed followed them to their place of refuge. Why do I get so upset at something that is occurring on the other side of the world, so far removed from my life? Something that I will never have any control over whatsoever?

Because I still say it is only a matter of time before this hits closer to home, and a couple of burqa clad maniacs blow themselves up at the Super Bowl. They are still out there, and they will never go away. They are not a country we can put sanctions on (how's that working in Iran U.N?). They are not an identifiable person we can bring to justice (how long have the Gitmo detainees been there?). They are like the terminator. Says Kyle Reese, "It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead!" Only we are not dealing in science fiction, but a painful reality. The Taliban and Al-Qaeda are out there, and like it or not, we are Sarah Connor. So for all you folks out there who want us to take the foot off of the military gas pedal, and insist upon bowing to ridiculous sensitivities toward a kinder, gentler US of A, I have one suggestion. Go watch The Terminator. Maybe then you will get a glimpse of the mind set we are facing.

The day of the sausage is nigh.

Facebook is either a) a monumental waste of time or b) a wonderful tool to reconnect people to each other. And thusly my post on sausage skins generated enough responses to put me in category (a) for the day. Not that I don't take full advantage of category (b) to tell the world when our bands are playing out (200 friends does not = the world but I digress). But now I am waxing poetic, and well you can close the page any time now if you wish:


Scalding white hot juices flow from your very existence,
to which I fervently devour, in my every waking hour,
knowing not from whence you came, I devour all the same.

You're perfume is that of a bee to nectar,
be it pooh to honey, or man to money,
I am singularly drawn, like some ravenous pawn,
to be sacrificed for the greater good.

A poppy seed womb, a mummy like existence,
fleeting as a ray of light in the cave of the swallows,
but your sauerkraut crown, will undoubtedly drown my sorrows.

Going down is a joy, a remarkable bliss,
coming out, my crap is like piss.
But to me you are royalty,
be you Italian, be you Polish, be you Andouille, be you Szynkowa, or be you Kielbasa,
it's the day. The day of the sausage.

Your time has come.