Random thoughts...

What do the former striking workers from Caterpillar, Jesse Jackson Jr, Michael Madigan, Obama, Romney, and Drew Peterson all have in common? They all sleep in Toy Story PJ's? They all brush their teeth using baking soda? They all stir their Nestles Quik counter clockwise? Nope, nope, and again, nope. It was a trick question, they have nothing in common. Which is why they are separated in five quick little ditties in today's rant. What, you think I got time to actually put together a thought?

Cat's meow: 780 striking workers at Caterpillar caved in last week. They couldn't go another 6 months without that luxury some people call money. They were holding out for the American dream. You know, a pot of gold in their basement, ie: preserving decent wages, a pension, and low health care costs. Well good luck with all of that. Where do you think you live, America or something? So they settled for a one time 3% raise for only workers hired after 2005, and a one time 3 grand bonus. After all, car payments and mortgages don't go away if you ignore them. In return they get to work, they get to double their health care premiums, and they get their pensions frozen. In the mean time, the CEO made $17 million last year. Let me ask a question here. Do you think the CEO could get by for one year making only a million bucks? What sacrifices would he have to make to do that? Send his kids to, gasp, public school? Drive a Chevy instead of a Mercedes? Eat at Denny's once a week? Because if he took that extra $16 million and split it amongst his workers, they would each get over $20,000. What could you do with an extra $20,000?

Poor Jesse: He's got bi-polar disorder. He's depressed. His body is revolting after his Duodenal Switch. Cry me a freaking river okay? He is a professional ego-maniac, driven to perfection over his name. He has a tough billing to live up to with that name. After all, daddy ran for president one time. Daddy's name is known all over the world. Daddy has reached as far as he could, but it wasn't quite far enough. So the legacy needs to climb the mountain and reach the top. Step one, get out of Illinois. Hmm, how to do that. Let's start by buying that senate seat that our famous ex-governor was selling. Step 2, ascend to the white house. But a funny thing happened between those 2 steps. Busted!! Something inside tells me that the minute he steps out of the Mayo clinic, someone is going to be waiting with an indictment or 2. Yea, I'd be sick with worry too.

King of the Hill Illinois pension mess is a self created nightmare that isn't going away any time soon. Everyone wants to blame our lame ass governor. But it isn't the name Quinn that instills fear into the far reaches of the minds of our state legislators. The name they utter with trembling lips as they go to sleep at night is Beelzebub Madigan. If you think triple J has an ego problem, then meet double M. No one, and I mean not a single crooked politician in the history of the most corrupt state in the US, has held sway the way Madigan does. The ground trembles when he walks. Gods and mortals alike fall to their knees in devoted worship. Babies spit out their pacifiers at the mere mention of his name. You want to fix the pension mess in Illinois? Then throw this bum out of office. Somewhere along the line, the words "public servant" lost their meaning to him.

The Great Race For the first time in my life, I have no idea who I am voting for this election. Obama wants to ruin the country, and Romney wants to ruin us. Obama is sane in his social policies, Romney is not. Romney is sane in his fiscal policies, Obama is not. But the one factor that has me really scratching my head is how it seems that abortion has somehow crept it's ugly head into this debate. If abortion becomes a central issue of this campaign, then there is something seriously wrong with us. People are still out of work, we are in massive debt, Iran is going atomic, we still have nut-jobs around the world killing American soldiers, blah, blah blah. And we are still debating the abortion issue? Didn't we settle this a long time ago? I believe in a woman's right to choose, but I can't possible let that be any kind of determining factor in my decision, when we have much more pressing matters to overcome. Can I just write in Ross Perot and be done with it? Ahh, no Ross this year. The day we can take a serious look at a candidate with no Republican or Democratic albatross hanging around their neck is the day this country take's huge step forward.

Poor Drew: What is up with this crackpot of a judge in the Drew Peterson trial? He lets one guy retell of some hearsay testimony, but not another guy who heard the exact same thing. We are allowed to hear that Drew offered a guy money to kill his ex-wife, but not allowed to hear how one night, dressed in all black and carrying a bag of woman's clothes, he told soon to be murdered Stacy to lie to cover his ass. Proper court room decorum and laws leave us with the 3 ring circus we are watching. Common sense tells us to throw Drew into a boiling cauldron of oil and be done with it. If he walks free, I guess there is one hope that we can cling to: that someone out there will walk up to the guy and give him what he deserves. A bullet in the head.

Did something dumb? That's just plain stupid.

What is the dumbest thing you ever did? Think hard now. Did it result in a loss of money? Were you embarrassed? Were you injured? Did it kill you? If the answer to the last one is yes, then please tell me how are you reading this and is there a heaven? Is it Iowa? And does God really look like George Burns? But back to being dumb. Oh yes, I am not immune to the charms of doing something really stupid.

There was the time back in my CLC days (that is the College of Lake County for all of you non-northern Illinois burbers, or the College of Last Chance as it is more affectionately known), when I had made friends with a guy I saw in the lunch room all the time. We ate together, played video games together, lent each other quarters, bought each other sodas....yea, we were almost tight. Then the semester ended, and it was time to buy books for the next semester. I was in a long line, and he was way up ahead of me. He waved me over, and in a moment of sheer generosity, offered to buy my books when he got inside, thereby saving me 45 minutes of mind-numbing boredom. I gave him the list of books, gave him a blank check to pay for them, and then never saw him again. Yep, he was a con artist, and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. Pretty damn stupid of me.

Oh and then there were some lighter moments, like the time I was mixing a batch of wall patch. Non unlike mixing some cake batter or the like, I was day-dreaming of making a cake as I took the spatula, and promptly licked it, thinking for that one split second it was actually sweet, gooey batter. I think I scrubbed my tongue with an S.O.S. pad.

So go ahead laugh at my misgivings. I deserve it. But some folks don't, when a brain fart takes over, and in the end, pay for it with their lives. Like the article I read years back about the guy working the chipper (you know those massive machines where you throw a tree branch in one end and mulch flies out the other) when the offending branch got stuck, and yes, he decided one swift kick would dislodge it, which it did, taking his foot, leg, torso, and life with it. Absolute true story.

But the most recent case, the one that prompted my whole "Well I may have been temporarily afflicted with the stupid gene, but at least I am not dead," thing, can be attributed to "Being stupid because I got too drunk for my own good." The place, Palmer House Hilton, Chicago. The occasion, their annual Halloween Ball. The incident, a drunk party-goer can't resist sling down this staircase rail.

Who could resist? It's mother of all staircase rails, and yes, I have in my time, slid down a few of them. But some poor woman, in a moment of alcohol induced stupidity, had to let her inner child out, and went for a slide. And died.

Why do I bring it up? Tragic, yes, but the article made my blood boil. You see, I do imbibe from time to time, I am not immune to the charms of nice Pinot Noir, a Summer Shandy, or my good fried Mr. Jose Cuervo. But 2 years later, the still grieving parents of the dead woman feel the need to ease their pain by convincing themselves, and hopefully a judge or jury, that somehow it was the hotels fault. That it was "due to the negligence of the hotel and the companies who hosted the party" claiming that "the hotel and event hosts allowed people at the ball to 'consume unlimited amounts of alcoholic beverages' after they paid for a ticket and failed to provide security to protect the patrons of the ball." Protect them from who, themselves? If these people get one dime from the hotel, it is a miscarriage of justice. Why does someone else have to take the blame for another persons lack of common sense? If you can't control yourself when you are drunk, then, I dunno, maybe don't drink so much?

You can't teach stupid. It's in all of us, waiting to poke it's little head out at the most in-opportune times. I want to grab stupid by the ears, and bitch slap it's punk ass back into the bowels of my brain. I want to relegate it to obscurity, hoping to never see it's ugly face again. But at least I am alive to ward off its' advances in the future, a future that I am pretty sure won't include a wood chipper, or the staircase at the Palmer House in Chicago.

What's mine is mine, and what's yours is mine too.

Sometimes, it boggles the mind. Sometimes you just have to shake your head and say WTF? I am talking about the human spirit, and the way one person can have an effect on so many others. I am not a philosopher, but a mere blogger, whose prose is more in line with The Three Stooges than The Three Wise men. But I have a weapon at my disposal, that those wisest of men from biblical times did not have. It's called the morning paper. Still flung across my driveway every morning at 6am, give or take a day or two. And yes, you guessed it, with personal inspiration fleeting as I clean up from brooding young teens bonfire last night, it's time for 5 in 5.

Seven: Every see that movie with Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman? A little dark, a little gross, but highly entertaining, and disturbing. The basic premise is of a sick twisted mind that comes up with seven dead bodies killed in the name of the seven deadly sins. There is one particularly nasty scene where they find a rotting corpse that has wasted away, chained to a bed, filled with bed sores and the like, so sick that you have to say that someone in real life could not be so evil. Except it's not a corpse, the dude's still alive. Enter Joseph S. Duffy, who's wife Mary Jane Duffy weighed only 56 pounds, her body covered with bedsores more than 4 inches wide, her toenails long and dirty, her skin severely bruised, her bones fractured and teeth missing, blind, and in the last stages of dementia. The guy basically put his wife in a bed and left her to die. But she didn't. He apparently did not let her go to a facility because he "would lose money." Guess he forgot the part where he said "in sickness and in health."

No such thing as a free lunch: In Chicago, that bastion of integrity and goodwill, twenty-six Chicago Public School employees are accused of lying on federal school lunch forms, allowing their total of 45 children to receive free or reduced-price lunches at 40 schools across the district. Everyone cheats, right? Handouts everywhere, where's mine? The average CPS teacher isn't exactly getting rich in the system, so a little dipping into the pot here or there won't be missed. Except for one couple — a principal married to an assistant principal — together making more than $230,000, who also are accused of living in the suburbs in violation of the district’s city residency policy while sending their children for free to Chicago Public schools. They make nearly a quarter of a million bucks together. And they have to rip off the cash strapped CPS for $2.25 a day. $2.25? Are you kidding me? You can't even walk out of McDonald's for $2,25. Greed sometimes knows no boundries.

Charity starts at home: In a little reported side story the other day, in the south suburb of Robbins, in the middle of this nasty heat wave, a thief slipped in under the cover of night and stole their libraries AC unit. From on top of the building. With unemployment hitting the town hard, and people unable to pay the tax bill, which in part pays for the libraries existence, they had to turn to NBA star Dwayne Wade for a $25,000 cash donation just to keep the doors open. But more than just the comfort of a little cool air, they also conduct summer kids’ programs, adult literacy and computer programs, and serve as a cooling center for the elderly. But one scumbag in search of crack money put misery back on the front burner. Here's hoping that one human spirit can trump another. Here's hoping someone out there can cough up the $10,000 needed to replace the AC unit, someone who will miss the money like like a dog misses his fleas. Someone, I dunno, like maybe D Rose? After all, you can't let D Wade keep getting the better of you, on and off the court.

Greed 101: I used to work, in an affiliate group, for MF Global. I owned MF Global stock. Bought it really low in the crisis, and was hoping they would return to their former glory as one of the worlds largest holder of futures traded accounts. But then they gambled and lost on their customers accounts, and, well, the rest was history. Some of those former MF employees, the honest, hardworking ones, moved on with PFG Financial, in hopes of a company with integrity would help them move on. But, greed trumped integrity when CEO and firm founder Russell Wasendorf Sr. explained in a suicide note, from his failed attempt to take the cowards easy out of his self-created hell, that yep, his ego would not let him fail. So he stole $100 million. From his own company. As CEO of a multi-million (billion?) dollar company, the scraps you earn ain't putting food on the table? What I wouldn't give to make his salary for one year. And now the company is down in flames, along with the careers of those who have now had to withstand two separate scandals. How's that going to look on their resumes?

Bad mood: I can't let this opportunity of headline resuscitation pass me by without chiming in on Jesse Jackson Jr. He's been AWOL lately from congress, and until recently has been very coy with the media on why is is in a treatment facility outside Illinois. But we can all rest now, he has finally disclosed that he has, drum roll please....a mood disorder. Is that what you call it when you are known adulterer, you have your top fundraiser fly your illicit squeeze here with campaign funds for a quick little tryst, the very same top fundraiser sings to the feds and is now in prison for an, ahem, unrelated offense, and you're being investigated by the feds for trying to buy your way into the senate with Barack Obamas vacant seat? Is that what you call it? I rather call it what it is. A chicken shit escape from your family and responsibilities as you ponder the next 10 years of your life in prison.

Did you catch my subtle hint at today's common theme? If you haven't, it's because my Three Stooges writing style hasn't grabbed you hard enough where it hurts. It's greed. From the guy who let his wife waste away, to the CPS couple, to the A-hole who stole the AC unit, to Russell Wasendorf and Jesse Jackson, they all were greedy SOB's who didn't give a damn about who they hurt in the process. Ahh the human spirit. The good ones are out there, but unfortunately it's the bad ones who get all of the press.

An open letter Chicago's sports GM's.

Every Chicago sports fan from downstate to Zion has an opinion on how to run the Bears, Bulls, Cubs, Sox, and Blackhawks. Only one problem: they ain't getting paid to do it. It is up to the likes of Theo and Gar and Phil and Kenny and Stan to pull off collective miracles and reach the unreachable. To dream the impossible dream. To lasso the moon and pull it down to Chicago, where we will all wrap our arms around them and kiss their feet for bringing the Holy Grail to Chicago. Every man that has ever graced the office of GM for their team has always said they have one goal in mind. To sell tickets and make money bring home a championship. As a matter of fact, or fiction, the phrase "easier said than done" was actually coined as a euphemism for doing just that. So here's hoping that somehow the powers that be somehow find their way to my little corner of heaven, 'cuz I have the answers to make it all happen.

Dear Theo,
Don't do it. I know right now the urge is to sell all of the horses while the ponies are still learning the ropes. I have to admit, I am slightly swayed by the current winning "streak". Does winning 7 of 9 make a streak? But c'mon. Ryan Dempster is at the peak of his career. He and Roberto Garza are 2 proven quality veterans would could anchor the rotation for the next 3-5 years, not to mention mentoring young developing talent on the way. What are you gonna trade them for, prospects? We are loaded with prospects. And guess what? Don't look now, but the Cubs might actually be good next year. Good being a relative term of course compared to the first half of this season. But good pitching wins championships, and I never did get the mentality that you trade away all of your vets for prospects in rebuilding mode. So please, give us something to rally around for the near future.

Dear Gar-
Tough year I know. Even tougher than the loss of DRose and Noah to season ending injuries was watching King James finally buy his championship. The product on the floor the last couple of years has been great, but not great enough. In the real world, that could have been enough to go all the way, but DWade, the King, and Bosh have basically showed us that we don't live in the real world. Cry-babys will take their talents to South Beach, or any other franchise that lures them with enough talent and cash to go all the way. So what to do, what to do... Its as easy as 1, 2, 3. 1. Say goodbye to Boozer. Plays too soft for his position, plus we will have the added bonus of not having to hear the "HEY!" every time he is under the basket and misses or gets fouled. 2. Hate to do this, but move Taj into starting line-up and trade Luol Deng and some draft picks to the Magic for Howard. There ain't a team in the league, Heat included, that could touch us with a 10' pole. 3. Sign everybody else out there. It's the NBA way. Put 2 superstars on your team, and the rest of the vets in the league will line up at your door for a chance to play with them.

Dear Kenny-
Go do what you like because I don't give a crap about the Sox.

Dear Stan-
The aura of the Championship is long gone, and you have some great core players, regardless of how many shirtless, drunken, party photos appear on Facebook. But the NHL is one unique animal in sports. It seems the only way to win is to get the best team money can buy, future be damned. Look at the Wild. They just signed two of the top free agents out there and probably aren't done. I will totally admit as fan loyalty goes, you are number 4 on my Chicago big 5 list. I don't live and breath hockey like I do Bears and Bulls, but there is one thing I do know. You have to break the bank and overspend, because if you play by the rules, you will never get anywhere. I still say to this day, that if we had somehow found a way to keep Byfuglien after the Stanley Cup, the next 2 seasons would have had a much more fortuitous outcome. Spend the money.

Dear Phil-
Nice job this off-season. Signed some key players that should make an immediate impact, and the sqaure-peg-in-a-round-hole mentality of Matrz is being replaced by the shove-it-down-their-throat style of Tice. BUT. And this is one big but, it ain't enough. Your hall of fame middle linebacker is on his last legs. Believe it or not, he is the difference every opposing team worries about. Unless you have some rabbit in your hat to replace him, you should bet the farm on this year. Fill every question mark with the best money can buy. Sign Forte already. Cutler is "re-united and it feels so good" with his old friends. We are poised and ready to strike. So get some Cobras with some toxic venom in their veins and take the NFL by storm. Don't wait 'til next year because there is no such thing.

Ahh, it all sounds so simple don't it? Maybe I missed my calling in life. I coulda been somebody, I coulda been a contenda. But I'm not, I'm just a bum. With a blog. And a bunch of opinions.

Give me a small please.

Supersize me! Ever see that movie about the guy who eats nothing but McDonalds for an entire month? Actually pretty entertaining. My favorite part is when he orders the Double Quarter Pounder, with cheese, and has to supersize it do to his own rules on the social experiment. And then he pukes before he even finishes it. The moral of the whole story is that we Americans are supersizing our way to national obesity. Me? I don't have to worry about such trivialities, due to my Gilligan like body that devours sugar and calories, not unlike that of the modern day zombie guy that was eating the other dudes face off.

But! I am still offended that you can't go anywhere and and order a "small" anything anymore. "Small" has been replaced by "regular", meaning that portion we used to call "medium" is now the "small", and the "medium" is now the "large". And the "large"? It is now a gallon of soda, or a 5 pound bag of potato's worth of fries. On a recent trip to a Burger King, I snapped this photo of my order.

When my order arrived, I told the girl that I didn't want a large portion. She quietly ridiculed my ignorance explained my confusion by stating that this was indeed Burger Kings example of the word "small." Which of course was actually the "regular" portion.

The fries aren't necessarily the gigantic portion, and the photo doesn't look all that damning, but the container is more like what used to be a "large" fries from my teen days employed at a McDonalds. No, it is the drink that got me. Look at the cup. It has one of those shapes where they had to make the bottom smaller so that it would actually fit into the cup holder of my 13 year old mini-van. You know, the ones that predated the "Big Gulp" size cups that wouldn't fit anywhere? No, no, this actually is BK's "regular" size. You see why they can't call it "small"? It's like calling Nancy Pelosi moderate. It's supposed to be a relative term. Now when I order, I ask for the "smallest" size they offer. As if calling a portion of food or drink "small" is somehow offending the franchise.

I just can't drink all of that soda. I am like a hummingbird. I eat several small meals a day, rather than bursting my stomach lining with an entire seven course meal that threatens to explode my intestines. But a quick glance around at my fellow BK diners that day revealed that...wait a sec. I am the only one in the dining room! Meanwhile, the drive-thru was a line that snaked around the whole building. No doubt, everyone was in a hurry to get to the gym for their daily workout, and can't be bothered with getting out of the car.

What happened between the 1980's and now? Are we actually that much bigger as entire race that we need these gluttonous portions to fulfill our appetites? Were we actually starving ourselves back in the good old days by not putting enough fries and soda into our bodies? The answer, of course, is the almighty dollar. The more they sell you, the more they make. That "small", excuse me, "regular" soda they just sold is you is slowly creeping it's way towards 2 bucks. And it still probably costs them less than a quarter to serve it to you. Americas fast food empire is getting rich off of the belly of it's citizens. From now on I am going to order a "small" every time I go to a BK, or Mickey D's, or Wendy's, or Taco Hell, or any one of the 200 fast food places that dominate our towns. And watch with titillating glee as the person behind the counter says, "small, what the heck is that?" That is, until the Fast Food Police come charging in and arrest me on the spot for degrading their franchise.

Walsh vs. Walsh

I made a joke a while back, at least I think it was a joke in at least it made me chuckle like a giddy school girl, that guitarist Joe Walsh, he of the gravelly voice and
creeping guitar notes, was running for Representative in our great state of Illinois. If you ain't from these parts and don't know, U.S. Rep. Joe Walsh, that darling of the Tea Party wing of the Tea Party, is what we are stuck with. For now.

He's like a homophobic energizer bunny. I could bore you with my reasons for personally wanting to see his ouster, but it turns out the Real Joe Walsh just came out in support of Tammy Duckworth, opponent for the Fake Joe Walsh. Yep, that "Maserati" singing, guitar slinging, one time Eagle, is giving us his opinion. Now I like Ms. Duckworth, she has my vote anyway, and I know it would be a vast improvement over someone who caters to such a small choice of like minded narrow individuals, but can I really take Real Joe Walsh seriously?

Hey, I love his music. We do one of his tunes. He has a cool unique style that hasn't really been duplicated. But let's be honest. Does anyone else feel like he has probably seen his share of hallucinogens, beer bongs, bong hits, any any other combination of rock star vices you can throw at him? To me, he is kinda like Otis from the Andy Griffith show. You remember, the drunk that would let himself in and out of his own cell, walking around in a constant state of inebriation? Actually, he reminds me of a genetic mutation of Otis and Tommy Chong. But I have no actual proof per se, that would leave me to believe that the iconic rocker is anything but a stand up citizen. It's just a hunch. I think maybe I have seen a video of him a tad wasted out of his freaking gourd over served. But still. Why does the candidate, or the party, or the campaign feel the need to trot out celebrities in support of their cause?

It's actually sad that the common perception is that some housewife out there is going to vote for their guy because Alec Baldwin told them to, and that's good enough to get your vote. It ain't as hell gonna get mine. Jimi Hendrix could rise from the grave playing the solo to Voodoo Chile and tell me to vote for Joe Walsh and I still wouldn't do it. If Megan Fox walked out of a pool wearing nothing but a handkerchief and told me to vote him for I would laugh. And then go take a cold shower. I get it, it lends the cool factor to a candidates campaign, but the serious voter out their isn't going to be swayed by the circus show. And the campaigns aren't aiming at that vote anyway. If the candidate had any credentials in the first place, they would already have that vote.

Sing it with me now, "Out all night, sleep all day, I know what you're doin'. If you're gonna act that way, I think there's trouble brewin'". Recognize the tune? Hint: one of the Joe Walsh's wrote it. If the voters truly are gonna act that way, then there truly is trouble a-brewin'. Is it too much to ask to get involved? So that smart, honest, decent minded people start making our choices for us? We can do a lot better than bigoted, loudmouthed, homophobes like Joe Walsh. Yea I said it again.

Vulgarian-ese 101

"You're a true vulgarian, aren't you?" asked John Cleese. (WARNING: The following bit of inspired wit contains numerous vulgar words, references, insinuations and outright expressions of colorful vernacular. So if you are offended by nasty words that start with the letter "F", or if you are my mother, or both, please hit the back arrow on your browser or that little red "X" in the upper right hand corner now.) Kevin Kline's answer was I believe, "You're the vulgarian you FUCK!!" I am of course quoting from "A Fish Called Wanda". It seems all I do is quote movies these days. And curse like a fucking truck driver.

Of course, my speech wasn't always so heavily laden with damns and hells and motherfucking this or that. I was a nice little boy. Once. Oh sure, there were moments. Like that frozen moment in time when that cute little red haired girl I had a crush on walked by my house, and my friend was all like "Here comes so-and-so," and I was all like "I don't give a shit," and my mom, standing within earshot was all like "Get in the bathroom, NOW!" Yes I do know what soap tastes like, it was imbedded in my teeth for hours. Dinner that night tasted like Ivory. But pre-teen bravado aside, I didn't swear all that much. Just enough to be cool with my friends, and not enough to be what I would later become: a true vulgarian.

It was my first real job after college where I learned to be so colorful. Mired in the battlefields of Chicago, the wasted expanse of concrete, degradation and excess, were my lost years on the trading floor of the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. I went in with a bachelors degree in "shit", and came out with a PHD in "God damn motherfucking piece of holy dog crap." Everyone fucking swears. A lot. The old men, the women, the bosses, the runners, the bosses bosses, the guys that sweep the floor, they all cuss like truck drivers too. Only, it should be said that truck drivers swear like trading floor people. It is also where I met the woman who would in one fell swoop, ruin my life and in turn give me song writing material for years to come. God was she a fucking bitch. 3am screaming matches tend to bring out the worst in me, especially when it's in some hotel room half a world away.

But today? I can't seem to escape my past. A calm, leisurely morning turns to obscenities the second I get in the car. I can't even get on the highway before I am muttering to nobody, "Stupid fucking asshole." Even phone conversations with my mother aren't immune to my indelible charms, of which I instantly see the err of my ways and apologize. But by the end of a typical day, I think I have uttered enough cuss words to make Joan Rivers blush. She could use a little color in her cheeks. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to exit a conversation without the person to which I was over-vernaclurising most likely thinking, "Jeez, who does this guy think he is, Samuel "Fucking" Jackson?" I suppose I know the answer. Swear less. Mmmm-hmmm. Like that's ever going to fucking happen. You can take the man out of the gutter, but you can't take the gutter out of the man. I already know what some of you are going to say: go to church. To coin an old expression, fuck that.

Lunatic fringe, I know you're out there.

Ahhh, there's nothing like a little NATO summit to stir up the wackos. In case you have been in a coma for the last few months, yes Chicago is hosting the NATO summit this weekend. And lest you think the GM is going to get all political on you, think again. I couldn't even tell you what the World Leaders will be talking about. The local press is all agog over the influx of protesters, occupiers, anarchists, activists, Black Bloc-ers, and every other nutjob out there, who's sole intent is to disrupt the lives of everyone in their path. We even have the NATO 3, sure to go down in infamy with the likes of the Black Panthers and the Weather Underground. What binds all of these people together? Love of their country? Hatred for the government? Probably a little of both. But the one underlying factor? To quote another famous movie line, well to me anyway, "...he's out of his gourd."

They come from every corner of the country, with one goal in mind. Anarchy. Disruption. Well that's two. But in reality, what happened along the way? How did their warped minds decide one day that they would forgo a sane line of work, such as being a CPA or a bus driver, and instead become leaders of the revolution? It still

makes me laugh when I read about someone like Kathy Kelly. She has done it all. She was on the "Audacity to Hope", part of the flotilla of activists raging lunatics trying to get through the Israeli blockade. She defied U.S. sanctions to sneak into Iraq, surviving the Baghdad bombings. She was arrested for trespassing on a military training base, and again for planting corn on the site of a nuclear missile solo. Mmmm, give me some of that for dinner. ("Daddy, why is the corn glowing?") And lately, she walked from Madison to Chicago, to build support to stop the war in Afghanistan. I seriously doubt the President of Pakistan is saying right now, "Gentlemen. We cannot continue this path of destruction in Afghanistan. We must listen to Kathy Kelly and replace ours guns with bouquets of flowers. Or poppies." More likely he is saying, "Pass the hummus please."

And it's worse when people like Kathy are championed by the likes of columnist Mark Brown, who applauds her courage. Clap all you want Mark, but to me she is nothing but the lunatic fringe. A life wasted in pursuit of windmills and activism. Like the loonies just arrested in Chicago now called the NATO 3, she should be put in a padded cell and given milk toast. You are not in my mind contributing to society. On the contrary, you are draining from it. Every time some protester is arrested here, police have to waste their time hauling his ass to jail, a judge has to pass a meaningless sentence, and so on. Every time an American is arrested abroad somewhere, the government has to get involved in trying to secure their freedom before some Sadaam-like despot cuts their head off. Every time we host world leaders to actually sit down and try and get something accomplished, money and resources are wasted to keep the bomb-throwers at bay. And where does it get them?

Was Kathy Kelly instrumental in freeing Iraq from a crazed egomaniac? No. Are the Palestinians any better off from the actions of the peace flotilla? My bet is they don't even know of it's existence. Are the world leaders here for the NATO summit taking into consideration the demands of the protesters? Doubt it. Did the NATO 3 really think a few Molotov cocktails were going to shut the city down? You bet. And there-in lies the rub. These people actually think they are doing some good. But the reality is that they are wasting their time, and their life. So go ahead and hike into Iran and see where it gets you. Extend your middle finger to a bunch of cops in Chicago. Does that make you feel better? Hitch your star to the plight of a bunch of oppressed foreigners half a world away, who don't even like you or what you stand for. If it makes you breathe easier at the end of the day, do it. But to me, you are just a wacko with no job.

Make a Stand

So, if you take my title literally, then you may assume that this is one of those how-to-do-it-by-yourself-without-cutting-off-an-appendage blogs, and they ARE out there. I would start by having you decide upon the type of stand you want to make, choose your wood, call Bob Vila for advice, etc... But I don't want you to make that kind of stand. I want you to make one like the President of these here United States did today. I want you to make a stand on the issue of gay rights.

Before that day last year, I didn't know. Before that day, I was fine being in the shadows. Before that one day, I had not taken a stand. Innocuous joke here or there, unfettered opinion on this or that. It didn't pertain to me. But since that day, my eyes have been opened. The jokes, it turns out, were not so innocuous. My opinions, weren't opinions at all. You see, that day, was the day my son told me he was gay. Did it change my life? You betcha. In a good way? Undoubtedly.

Gay, straight, bent, happy, sad, black, white, rich, poor, with, without...it doesn't matter. One should be entitled to the same freedoms and rights as the guy in the house next to you. And how do we define those rights and freedoms? With a thousand year old book, or with a constitution? Me, I go for the constitution. It's too bad that half of the country sees it the other way around. Like the good folks in North Carolina. And one dubious individual named James Komaniecki.

If you haven't heard of JMK, let me fill you in. He is the president of a little group called RestoreAmericanLiberty.com And he likes to sign his emails with the following signature: Defending Freedom, Judeo-Christian Values and Conservative Principles. Well, I'll give him the conservative principles part. But defending freedom? What a joke. Who's freedom? Not my sons that's for sure. Being an outspoken homophobe intent on keeping freedoms away from a percentage of the population isn't exactly what I would call a "defense". And the Christian Values part? I'd like to invite all of my Christian readers to weigh in with a comment below answering the following question: do your Christian values equate more to my view on gay rights, or JMK's? Do you side with the outdated ramblings of the bible on this issue, or with the principles this country was founded on? I want you to make a stand.

I wish I had the time and space to share with you the email stream that I have had going with JMK for a while now. I can summarize here by saying that he believes that being gay is a lifestyle choice, and that one can be cured from this "malady." He even had some of his Komaniecki-ites weigh in with their opinions. They feared that I had given in an allowed my son this immoral behavior. Well I will tell you this. It is not my son's future that I have any fear about. But it is the future of the offspring of these homophobic hate spreaders that I fear. Afraid that one generation is passing on their bigotry to the next. Afraid that among them, lurks a gay teen too brainwashed by his own parents to come out and be who he or she is. Imagine a young gay child, coming to terms with his own sexuality, that in itself being a mountain to overcome. But also knowing that if his or her parents knew, they would at best try and convert him back, or at worst, abandon them. That is the person I am afraid for. Why do you think the rate of suicide among gay teens has reached the epidemic level that it has? Bullying for one. But I am pointing right at the parents for that one.

I will admit one thing here, that the bible is the reason we have marriage in the first place. But somewhere along the way, a country was born. Rights and freedoms were established. Somehow, though, one seemed to have an effect on the other, and throughout the years, has had its foot on the throat of the other. What is it exactly are the JMK's of the world afraid of? Nobody wants to turn you into a gay man. They just don't want you to tell them how to live there own life, a life you can't possibly comprehend. At one point, I couldn't either. But now I do, and I will go to my grave trying to put people like James Komaniecki in their place.

I want to end this by doing what I do best, quoting a line from some movie I have seen too many times. At the end of Along Came Polly, one of the characters pulls aside a guy and tells him something like, "It's not about where you're going or where you've been. It's about the ride for Christs sake." Enjoy the ride. Be happy. Be yourself. It's the golden rule, do unto others. That's in the bible, right? And for Christs sake, be kind to thy fellow human being. After all, God made us all in His image, not James Komeniecki's.

Say cheese!!

I have often wondered what my mug shot would look like. It all depends on the crime I guess. You can't help but to look into the eyes of people and wonder exactly what was going through their minds the instant that shutter clicked. A moment frozen in time that most everyone would like to forget, with the possible exception of Charles Manson. You would think, it might be a moment of personal reflection. A little sadness, a little remorse, a little self pity, a blank stare looking off into space, wondering where it all went wrong. You would think. But, alas, we know that isn't the case.

Some look just happy to be there.

Some are saying, "Fuck you I did it! What are you gonna do about it?"

Others lose all manner of self control and succumb to their situation.

Some are still drunk from the night before...

...while a few are still trying to use their "skills" to get out of a ticket.

Then there is the confused...

...the too cool for words...

...and the, "I am still running for re-election so let's make this a photo-op".

And some? Well some look like aliens from another planet.

I am sure though, that if I were to find myself in the uncompromising position of having to pose for a police mugshot, my expression would look something like this poor person, only without the long blond hair, the tank top, and the mascara running down my face. But until we find ourselves in that position, we can either wonder forever what we would look like in the pain of the moment, or pose in front of the mirror, practicing for that inevitable day. Wait, everyone else does that too, don't they?