Forrest Gump had it right: stupid is as stupid does.

Land of Lincoln. A tough billing to live up to these days. Who was Lincoln anyway? A man of honesty, obviously. So honest that his mother named him after that famous saying, "Honest Abe." Or maybe it's the other way around. And smart too, I would think. Didn't get to be president for being stupid. Then again, it's not exactly a pre-requisite lately now is it? So how is Illinois carrying on his legacy? Not like Atlas, with the weight on his shoulders, trudging defiantly through time. More like a kid dragging it behind him like a sack of books through mud puddles on his way home from school.

It's not hard to tell you about letting Lincoln down on the honesty front. Lesse here, one former governor in jail, another on his way, not to mention the one that served his time and is living in California. And by last count, and that means I have actually lost count, 6 bajillion former Blago aides face trial and/or jail time for their actions while being employed by our state. No, "honest politician" has become the very definition of oxymoron, at least in Illinois. But this is not news, this is common knowledge.

I want to wade into the swirling waters of the "smart" badge I bestowed upon out most famous citizen. We have become just plain stupid. As voters, we are stupid for electing these self serving, dishonest, idiot rule makers and shakers. Where to start? It's like being Augustus Gloop as he gazes upon the candy room in Willy Wonka. How about our former Mayor Daley? Has anyone made a more stupid deal in the history of deal making? Selling the skyway to a private bidder for a hundred years. Lost revenue for one hundred years. Let me answer my own question: yes. The sale of the parking meters by the very same Mayor Daley. All that is left from a $1.2 billion, 75 year lease 3 years ago is $76 million. And the city council? Too stupid and self serving to vote against this joke of a deal.

But that is only one man, and one issue. Stupid is like an epidemic, you can't stop it. We elected Blago, twice. We are the only state in the nation, THE ONLY FRIGGIN" ONE, where you can't have a gun to protect yourself when you leave your home. We keep adding red light cameras as the rest of the nation keeps dismantling them because they, not we, realize they are just a way to feed money grubbing municipalities, not actually making the roads safer. In Park Ridge, you can't park your truck outside overnight. In Moline, you can't drive in circles, and you can't ice skate in July and August (maybe they got that one right). In Normal, you can't make faces at a dog, and in Zion, you can't give your dog a cigar, (a smart state would just ban dogs altogether). In Galesburg you can't ride your bike no handed, barbecue roadkill, or be a close talker.

OK so I am getting a little lost in my own world. But the bottom line is that I am tired of opening the paper every day and reading yet another example of how we have got it all ass backwards in regards to common sense. Is the rest of the country laughing at us? They would if they read that in Evanston, midget bowling is illegal.

The circle of life.

Most people, and by that I mean most people in the civilized part of the world where we live, don't deal in death. We leave that to the truly evil people in the world, like terrorists who kill in the name of The Almighty, and soul-less rebels in South African nations who slaughter whole villages without batting an eyelash. That doesn't even mention brutal dictators the world over, who kill in the name of power. And closer to home, gang-bangers who think nothing of taking a life, be it each other, or innocent kids who happened to be in the line of fire. And in most cases, death is celebrated. Be it bragging, or partying, or claiming responsibility so the world KNEW it was you and why you did it. But can a virtuous person celebrate death? I have to admit, I have celebrated death a few times. Is it truly wrong?

A few years back, it was Sadaam Hussein, and his evil offspring Uday and Qusay. After hearing of the atrocities they inflicted on their own people, it was easy to be relieved when heard of their demise. And who didn't go "Yes!!" with a fist pump when you heard Bin Laden was dead. Well, maybe his family. Even there I'm not so sure. But closer to home, I recently found out that my ex-next door neighbor developed stage four lung cancer, had a stroke, and died. My first gut reaction was the same as it was for Osama. I am not a hateful person, but this woman was.

I can go on and on about how she indeed was the neighbor from hell. Yard full of barking dogs (I'm talking anywhere from 4 to 10) that she NEVER picked up after and left out all night. Can you imagine that smell in the middle of the summer? A cattery in her basement. (Cattery: A cat breeding business) Over 30 cats were seen by the city inspector when he went over to read the meter. All of this on a quiet little cul-de-sac with modest houses on small lots. The city told her she had to choose between her pets and her house. She chose the cats. Very happy day indeed when she moved out. But, it wasn't over.

After a dispute with me in which I pleaded with her to find a more suitable place to take her business of rescuing dogs and breeding cats, I called the city and alerted them to the illegal activities going on. So to get back at me, she called in a bogus "tip" to a tip hot-line, and without going in the nature of all of that, it was days of harassment to my wife and I, followed by months of turmoil in a courtroom. When it was over, I was exonerated. I was relieved, but bitter. I buried all that deep down and went on with my life, without her as neighbor.

A truly wonderful couple has moved in since, they couldn't possible be any better neighbors if you asked. Giving us fruit and veggies from the garden, letting me borrow all his tools that I don't possess, cutting my grass on his side of the house, and ah yes, he is a computer whiz, rescuing my computers more times than I can count. So it was with a slight bit of irony that he was the one who informed me of her passing. And the one who saw the fist pump and heard the "Yes!!"

Technical Stuff: Further Proof That Psycho Nut Job Neighbor Was Just That (Paragraph 4 in particular)

http://www.newsletter.traditionalcats.com/Alert/2007/BellerSept%202.pdf

Short and not so sweet.

Repugnant. It's the only word I can come up with as I watch the poor, pitiful, saga of the Rod Blagojevich trial Pt. II play out. It seems almost impossible that something new could come out of the mans mouth. With all the talk shows, radio interviews, reality shows, books, and press conferences that Blago has thrown in our face, how could he possibly do or say anything that would shock us? That's what I said a few days ago. Then he took the stand.

Day 1. Classic Bla-boo-boo-itch. Nothing exciting, nothing new, just more of the "look at me and see what I have done" mantra. Then Day 2. Still under defense questioning, the heart of their defense is revealed. He blamed a dead man for it. No, let me re-phrase. He spat and danced on the grave of his long time friend and political ally, Chris Kelly. A man who was more like a brother to him, a man who took his own life rather than go to jail for taking part in the illicit schemes of his best friend, was just thrown under the bus from the grave. If sympathy from the jurors is what Boy-have-I-got-an-itch craves, does he really think this will do the trick? To me it looks more like the last desperate swing from a man on the ropes.

When a man's home aint his castle.

Aug 17, 2012. Here sits the Guitarman, alone with his thoughts, in an unadorned, bleak, and desolate jail cell, wondering where it all went so horribly wrong. He didn't really ever consider himself a criminal, per se. But he knew it was wrong. He knew that the erosion of the 4th Amendment began nearly a year and a half ago, yet he persisted in his law defying antics, daring authorities to not only find him, but persecute him as well. He could still hear the words of the patrolman, echoing in his head like a lost tourist in the Grand Canyon, from that day in court.

Judge: So, patrolman McGruder, describe your train of thoughts as you entered the defendants home September 20, 2011.
Cop: Well, your honor, I was chasing a known felon, wanted for grand larceny, murder, weapons trafficking, and possession of a narcotic with the intent to deliver, when I passed by an open window of the home of the defendant. I stopped in my tracks as I heard an unmistakable "ripping" sound coming from the second floor bedroom.
Judge: And by "unmistakable" you mean...unmistakable?
Cop: Yes your honor.
Judge: Proceed.
Cop: So,likes I was sayin', I immediately gave up on my foot pursuit of the suspect, and proceeded to the front door of the defendants home. I drew my weapon and was prepared to kick in the door, and paused for a brief second to consider the legality of my impending action. It was at that precise moment I remembered the US Supreme Courts near unanimous decision in May of 2011 that allowed police to enter a home without a search warrant if the officer perceived an illegal activity was taking place in the home.
Judge: Now when you say "near unanimous", you mean...near unanimous?
Cop: Yes your honor, if not for Ruth "Lone Wolf" Bader-Ginsburg.
Judge: Proceed.
Cop: So with my new sense of purpose, I kicked in the door, proceeded with weapon drawn to the upstairs bedroom, when I saw the defendant on his knees, next to a brand new mattress, with the tag in his left hand.

The moral of my story? If you are preparing to give a skunk a bath in your kitchen, best close that window lest a wandering patrol officer mistakes it for the "unmistakable" odor of potent marijuana growing in the home. And if you happen to be rehearsing lines for a play with your spouse that includes a rape scene, or like to watch violent movies with the volume turned up really high, or if you are a migraine sufferer, and prefer to chop up your aspirin into a fluffy white pile and leave it on a mirror on your coffee table, draw those curtains buddy.

"...with the tag in his left hand." Those words will haunt me forever. Why couldn't I have just used scissors?

Waste not want not.

If there's one bit of morality that I can cling to in my increasing years of cynicism, it's that I consider myself somewhat frugal in the area of waste. I fervently recycle, making sure to rinse the putrid bits of cat food from the empty tin, fill and shake the milk jugs, rinse cans, etc. You get my drift. We save all leftovers, and I mean all. Last Thanksgiving I nearly fainted when I saw my bro scraping the last bit of broccoli casserole into the garbage. "It was only like two bites," he protested. "But it would have been the most insanely flavorful and tantalizing two bites that have ever existed in a Tupperware container!" I bellowed. I can't throw anything away that holds any bit of value, much to the constant chagrin of the wife. That's why I was aghast when I opened my insurance statement.

The second page was blank. At the top of the page was printed in a neat little box, This page intentionally left blank. What, exactly, is the point of putting in a blank page, and then telling us that they did it on purpose? Lest we assume that someone was sneaking around the billing office, maliciously inserting blank pages into all of the envelopes in some vain attempt to expose the offending insurance agency as a global glutton, wasting resources in today's ever green world. No. We did it this way, and we want you to know that we are so rich and powerful, that we think nothing of the extra cost of putting a blank piece of paper into your bill. Or something like that.

From www.conservatree.com; based on a mixture of softwoods and hardwoods 40 feet tall and 6-8 inches in diameter, it would take a rough average of 24 trees to produce a ton of printing and writing paper, using the kraft chemical (freesheet) pulping process. If a company like farmers has 1,000,000 clients, and they send out these things bi-annually, that could be like, lesse, carry the one...a lot of wasted paper. The conservative in me wants to send it back in an envelope and say why, WHY? But pragmatist in me just uses it for scratch paper anyway.

2012 Campaign Slogan, "Trust Me."

That was then, this is now. It was in 2008 that a young, fresh, and hungry Barack Obama delivered one of the most impressive campaigns in recent memory, promising, among other things, to 1. fix an unjust immigration system, and 2. build bridges with the other party. Why bring this up now? Why rehash the past? Because we are supposed to learn from it. And because the present has an ominous way of mimicking the past, and if there was any doubt, we are now in full campaign mode for 2012.

Promise number one, fix immigration. The real way to do this, of course, is to actually engage the policy makers and shakers, those lofty, honest politicians we like to call Senators and Congressmen. The Obama method, on the other hand, is to traverse the country holding hands and singing Kumbaya with US Rep. Luis Gutierrez, promising the moon. But reality has a funny way of sneaking up on you. In Gutierrez's own words, "He came to our neighborhoods, he came to our communities, he gave speeches." In other words, he bullshitted them. 67% of them trusted and believed in him. Now he looks them in the eye, 3 years later and says, "Hey I really mean it this time. Trust me." And he goes on television to once again woo the important Hispanic vote. He must really think the Hispanic population is just plain stupid. If he couldn't do it with a filibuster proof Democratic majority during his first term, how or why the hell is he gonna do it now?

Promise number two, build bridges. Without boring you with endless references to the Dark Side of the Force, ie. the Republicans, let's look at a recent, full campaign-mode quote. Once again, on TV, in Clinton-speak, he calls them, "alligators in the moat" along the US border for their stance to secure the borders first, talk immigration reform later. So much for steering the nation away from the partisan ways of the past. It was only a few months ago, (post-2008 campaign and pre-2012 campaign, you know, those 2 years of actual presidency) that Obama stated that addressing entitlement reform shouldn't result in one side blasting the other for at least coming up with real ideas. Then a funny thing happened on the way to the altar; he went into campaign mode. Recently, House Budget Chairman Paul Ryan (R-Wis) proposed Medicare reform, and Obama could have said something like, "I appreciate different views and ideas, and I applaud my colleague's willingness to open dialogue on the subject." But alas, his words were more like, "I reject Lord Vader's attempt to woo the poor, neglected seniors of this country as mere campaign propaganda."

This, in turn, is exactly what he is doing now. Same old story as always, do as I say, not as I do. Wooing the voters of this country, black, white, Hispanic, Middle-Eastern, Asian, old, young, rich, poor, with the kind of BS that used to be reserved for snake-oil salesmen traversing the country in a horse drawn Walgreens on wheels. People used to believe the words that came out of the salesman's mouth, because he sounded so sincere. So trustworthy. He had the gift of gab, and he used it to sell. Hard part was, though, you could never go back a second time. Because the folks who bought his snake-oil the first time around, knew better. They told their friends, and they learned from the past. Question is, will we?

My nemesis.

So I'm in the Ace Hardware the other day buying bird seed, and I see the bag of corn. "Squirrel Food" it says. It's just corn. You could put it in any store anywhere in the world and it would say "Llama Food" or "Yak Food" and it would still be just a bag of corn. But I ponder my own dilemma, and that is how to keep the bloody squirrel out of my bird feeder.

In the past I have tried to spin a good yarn on my perils with the resident rodent in my back yard, but not today. In reality, this pesky pest won't stay out of my bird feeder. I put out corn for him on a little squirrel feeder, which he and the blue jays devour, but he still manages to get on the bird feeder and spill it all over the grass. I've hung it high, low, on every branch on the tree, and he still climbs, leaps, and flies to the thing at will. I have a giant "anti-squirrel" device on top, which actually makes for good theater. Every once in a while he still tries to climb over it and plummets to the ground as I give out a hearty "HA-HA!" ala Nelson the Bully from the Simpsons. But still, he finds a way.

My grandfather had a solution. He had a little bb-gun and would "shoot 'em in the ass" to scare him. He was successful in not harming them, but it never worked. They always came back for more. The acorn tree dumped buckets of acorns in his yard every year and it was like a buffet table to them. I never understood exactly what it was they were doing that made him upset though. They're just squirrels. It's just nature. Probably had something to do with digging in the yard. You don't mess with an old man and his lawn, squirrel or human.

You know I have that thing in my attic. Still shoots. I've though about it from time to time, but I'll never use it on him. I really don't mind him in my tree. He's like my little outdoor pet. He has his own feeder, why doesn't he get the concept of corn = squirrel food, seed in feeder = bird food? I think I might have finally found a spot he can't get to. Hmmm, we'll see. I might have to go all "Carl Spackler" on him. Hide in the bushes with my grandfathers bb-gun, and when he makes his move, I take him out. You think a little C-4 is over the top?

Ahh for the good old days.

I used to live for Saturday mornings. Some of you know what I am talking about. The TV would be on well before 9:00, in eager anticipation of Bugs Bunny, The Road Runner, The Banana Splits, or whatever cartoon was on. Massive bowl of Quisp cereal in front of my face, I would crunch away as The Coyote would be foiled yet again in his vain attempt to have Roadrunner Stew for dinner. It was the time when cartoons were on. There was no Disney Channel. No Cartoon Network. No Nickelodeon. There was just Saturday morning.

Today, my DVR is filled with episodes of Wizards of Waverly Place and ICarly. Every night before I hit the sheets I have to turn off brooding young teen #2's television in her room. (TV in our room. Who could have imagined that growing up.) She HAS to fall asleep to some endless loop of reruns on one of the afore mentioned channels. Next to her head, is her Ipod touch, loaded with games, songs, pictures and the like. And her charging cell phone blinks away as she sleeps. The thing is never off. Do you see where I am going here? Do I have to actually say it? Today's kids are spoiled rotten.

I defy anyone to find a young-un who knows what kick the can is. Or ghost in the graveyard. Or sardines. My neighborhood growing up was a plethora of young minds, where age didn't matter, and you came home to the dinner bell at 5:30 every night. Some dads would whistle from their back porch, other kids would just instinctively head home every night at the same time. We had the bell. You could hear that thing 8 blocks away, mom knowing that we were out there somewhere, and within minutes would be sitting down to meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Today is a different story indeed.

If we are brave enough to let our cherished offspring out of our site for one minute, we know that peace of mind is only a cell phone call away. That is, if the kids aren't chained to the TV in the basement playing Call of Duty with some kid on Xbox half a world away til 2 in the bloody morning. Hell I used to go to bed early on Friday night just so I wouldn't oversleep and miss a minute of the weeks worth of cartoons. But dinner at the table? With the whole family? Oh we manage a few times a week. But 35 years ago there wasn't the constant shuttling to basketball, soccer, baseball, tennis, whatever you-name-it sport-of-the-month you can come up with that dominated our lives 24/7.

When I was a kid, we played. All the time, all over town. At my house, at your house, outside, inside, we played. On our bikes, with cards in the spokes, we cruised the neighborhood like we owned it. Because we did. And you know what? I miss it.

Am I missing something here?

Lets start off this week by saying that I am probably going to piss a few people off. It is not the intention of the Guitarman to fan the flames of anger with his misplaced rhetoric. But to stir debate in a healthy way, is that not the responsibility of the author? Be it the lofty perch of a true journalist, or the demented ramblings of a self appointed blogger, getting under ones skin is our job. Or hobby. Hence, I wade into the sensitive topic of religion.

By all rights, most of my family have come from or are deeply embedded in religion. My grandparents on my dads side were loyal Christian Scientists. So much to the point that their "anti medical" stance in adherence with the strict confines of their church, probably cost my grandmother her life. Both children of that marriage (my dad and his brother) went on to become fierce born again Christians in their middle age. Forced to attend confirmation, I was raised Methodist, but to me it was a joke. For years my dad tried to "convert" me, but it was too late. A geology major has a big time problem with the idea that the world was only created a few thousand years ago. My uncle, in turn, raised his kids with God as the focal point of their lives. They can't understand where I went wrong.

My maternal grandparents were devout Catholics, going to mass 3 times a week like clockwork for 50 years. And in my wife's family, priests and nuns decorate the family tree like a string of Christmas lights. Yes it's safe to say I am like the Black Sheep of the family when it comes to God. But enough already with my boring history. What got me going, of course, was this mornings story about killing on the other side of the world in the name of, yep, religion. And leads me to my point: religion can be poison.

I toyed with that last sentence for a while. To replace the words "can be" with "is" was a raging debate in my head for all of 5 minutes. Of course the majority of the entire world believes in God one way or another, whatever name you want to give Him. And I guess I believe too, hence my fist shaking and cursing towards the heavens above when something in my life goes awry.

But to clarify, seven people were killed in Afghanistan when overzealous nut jobs stormed a U.N. building because some other overzealous nut jobs in Florida, half a world away, burned a copy of their holy book, the Quran. (Holy crap, get over it already!) This is nothing new. Theo Van Gogh was killed for his outspoken anti religious views. Well over 100 people died because of a cartoon depicting the Prophet Muhammad in a negative light. Lunatics from Massachusetts show up at the funerals of US soldiers to tell anyone who wants to hear it that God hates fags. The list goes on and on. It's like religion is an excuse for the world to forgive crazy people for being crazy.

Well not me. In the immortal words of Forrest Gump, stupid is as stupid does. I am not going to give a pass to someone who hides behind some unseen higher power for being one brick short of a load. For wanting to push their beliefs on the rest of us. For resorting to brutal and monstrous attacks on innocent people that don't agree with their views. Yes, religion can be poison. Innocently at times, and vindictively at others, it can poison the mind to the point of delusion. And we put up with it. Why? I guess that is the question of the day.

Michael Keaton has got nothing on me.

Ahh spring. Birds chirping, sun shining, the squirrel in my back yard plotting his next takeover, and all my friends on Facebook posting pictures of their spring break from one tropical paradise to another. Bastards. Like I would take up that much room. (It should be noted that my last post was just after the Superbowl, hence Webster is now putting the Guitarman's picture next to the definition of "sloth".) I could be on some sunny beach with a Pina Colada in one hand and a fishing rod in another. But I have to be here. You see, spring brings another joy of the season, basketball.

Or should I say driving to basketball. And compounding the myriad of tournaments and practices, a new contender has thrown its' hat into the ring. Tennis. So lets do the math. 2 kids. 3 teams. An average of 6 days a week will be devoted to sports of some kind. Gas hitting $5 by summer. I think I need a second job. BUT! I think I have it all figured out, and I can say it all in one word. Cloning.

If I could clone myself, I could finally be everywhere at once. At a first rough guess, I think 3 of me would do the trick. One to stay at work, bringing home the bacon. (Not the thick juicy slabs of the good stuff, the wispy little fillets from Oscar Meyer is more like it) Then helping out around the house, while GM #2 whisks young brooding teen #1 to his basketball matches on the weekends, helping out at practices twice a week, AND following the team bus to all of his tennis matches. I am not sure how HE is going to be able to pull it all off, so maybe I need to clone him too while I am at it. Then GM #3 should be free to take young brooding teen #2 to all of HER weekend basketball matches and HER 2 a week practices. I guess 3 wouldn't quite do it.

Another me to devote some time to the band(s), you know, actually having time to practice, call bars for potential gigs, not to mention the schlepping of the gear all weekend long. And then of course all of this spring break nonsense. If I can just slip away un-noticed for a week to 10 days, I could come back refreshed and ready to charge headlong into the tsunami of sports that await my return. So that's 5, I think. Maybe I should add one more for good measure. GM #6 could be there just in case one of the other 5 collapses from exhaustion.