The One about Chai Soua Vang December 5th

Last week Chai Soua Vang, a truck driver from Minnesota, was found trespassing on private land while hunting in Wisconsin. Confronted, he turned as if to leave.

Forty yards away he opened fire.

The owner of the land called for help, an act that only increased the scope of the tragedy. When it was over, Vang had taken the lives of six people and wounded two others.

Four of the dead were shot in the back. Of the eight victims, only one was armed.

Of all the tragic tales we hear on the news, this seems to be one of the most cut and dry. Aside from a ludicrous denial that he quickly recanted, the statements of Vang and the survivors agree on the general course of events. Where they differ, forensic evidence refutes Vang. Furthermore, Vang has been cited for trespassing in the past, and was recently investigated – although not charged – with spousal abuse.

Since the shootings Vang has also become a suspect in an unsolved 2001 murder in the area. That victim was also shot in the back.

Which is why I was surprised when a friend said he hoped Vang was acquitted.

Now I make no claim to being the nicest or most inclusive of men, but in my thirty years I have managed to gather a pretty diverse group of friends. They include college graduates and high school dropouts, Christians and a Druid, Republicans and self-proclaimed Socialists.

The friend that hoped for acquittal? A conservative married man in his late thirties who’s a diehard Republican. He’s also a cop.

Not exactly the opinion I expected from him, but the more we talked, the more I realized his opinion wasn’t based on facts or scientific reasoning. It was based on his own emotional response to the situation in the news.

Because among all those other adjectives, my friend is also African-American.

“You don’t understand what it was like for him up there,” he said. “Alone in the woods surrounded by a bunch of angry white guys? How scared do you think he was?”

I asked him how he thought that excused killing six unarmed people. “You think they were so innocent? What do you think they said to him. ‘Please Mr. Asian-American, vacate this land that you are illegally occupying.’ Pu-lease.”

Again, I asked how that excused shooting four people in the back, or stalking and killing the initial survivors for more than a hundred yards in the woods. If it was just plain old fear, be it racially motivated or not, wouldn’t it have been a quick, mindless attack? Why the methodical, coldhearted approach? The man put on camouflage gear in the middle of the attack, for Pete’s sake.

I never got a satisfactory answer. I don’t expect there is one.

I don’t understand this seemingly irresistible temptation to project bias into every situation. And it isn’t a phenomenon limited to race or creed. Gay activists are angry because of a report that perhaps, just perhaps, Matthew Sheppard was murdered for reasons other than his sexuality. I understand his death became their movement’s rallying cry, but what does it say when the loss of a young man’s life becomes less important than a message you wish to send? Regardless of why he died, his death was tragic and wrong.

Maybe I can’t understand this precisely because I’m a white, straight male. But Vang didn’t try to kill all eight people because of color or ethnicity, he did it to assure that there’d be no witnesses left to identify him. He failed.

So should the attempts to pigeonhole everything based on race.

Bunch of Schtuff

First off, if you're visiting courtesy of Blog Explosion, here's the scoop: some of my commentaries are purely political, some are humorous, and some are a mix of both. Take a look around before your thirty seconds are up, and if you don't like the subject of one post, I'd encourage you to take a look at another before you make up your mind.

Secondly, I had some major dental work in the last few days. Sorry for the delay in posting. Friday's post is below.

Third, I've made myself a wish list on Amazon. Not that I expect anything from the casual reader (although it'd be nice) but I figure someone in the family will see this and get an idea of what I want/need . . . before they inevitably buy me socks.

http://amazon.com/gp/registry/2STAM2V4HX4XI

Lastly, in answer to one of the few - the very very very few - comments left on the site: sure, I'd be happy to offer up my views on whatever you like. I have an opinion on most things, and if all else fails I can always make one up. Just drop a note in the comments section, which I'm told is quite nasty to behold, or email me at Slapinions@aol.com and I'll respond in kind.

By the way, some readers have filled me in on how clumbsy and inconvienent the AOL comments section is constructed. For this, I apologize. Given a few more months, I may move this site to a more hospitable locale. Any ideas/preferences between sites like blogger and blogspot and the like? Let me know.

The One about Giambi

So Jason Giambi, All-Star first baseman for the New York Yankees, used performance-enhancing drugs.

That’s an understatement. Giambi injected human growth hormone into his stomach, testosterone into his buttocks, rubbed a steroid cream over his body, took the female fertility drug Clomid, and placed drops of a liquid steroid under his tongue.

If steroids were heroin, this guy would rival Courtney Love.

I feel a bit guilty making fun of Giambi. I’m a big Yankees fan – heck, my son’s nursery’s going to be done in pinstripes. And I love baseball. My senior thesis in college was about baseball. The bookcase in my bedroom has five shelves of baseball books dating back a hundred years. And I dutifully attend my hometown Brewers games, even though they haven’t had a winning season since Lincoln was in office.

But I really, really hope baseball gets screwed on this one.

Why? Because I’m sick of everyone pretending the game’s on the up and up. For ten years we’ve seen players put up numbers that belong in a video game. You know how many times someone hit 50 home runs in a season in all the years before 1995? Eighteen. How many different players have reached that plateau since then? The same number: eighteen. Up until the mid ‘90’s only the occasional freak would hit above .320. Now, for anyone outside the Brewers organization, that’s bare bones adequate.

A juiced ball you say? Smaller parks? I’ll buy it to a point. But in exchange don’t ignore the fact that some of the guys that step to the plate look more like linebackers than baseball players. Yeah, yeah, Sammy, I read your book. You didn’t really grow until you immigrated and had proper American nutrition – you know, McDonald’s, KFC, the sort of places that promote a hundred pounds of new muscle in your twenties.

And Barry Bonds? [full disclosure : I have been accused by some to irrationally despise Barry Bonds. They’re wrong. I don’t think it’s irrational at all.]

Please note that Giambi obtained his drugs directly from Bonds’ personal trainer, the same guy Bonds felt so indispensable that he fought Giants management when they wanted him banned from the locker room.

Until the mid ‘90’s Bonds was a thin, athletic outfielder. One ofthe best players of the era, and a two time MVP, he hit more than 40 home runs in only three of his first fourteen years.

Then, well into his thirties he had a massive growth spurt, emerging as a huge, muscular power hitter. Now I’ve hear this explained away by saying that people naturally get thicker as they get older. Uh, yeah. But for most people I know ‘thicker’ means around the middle and in the caboose, not the biceps and chest. [note to self: If Barry is exonerated, rejoice. In 2.5 years you too will experience naturally induced muscle growth and finally kick the butt of the guy that kicked sand in your face at the beach]

Now what worries me is that MLB is at the mercy of the players union. Players like Bonds can say ‘test me’ all they want, because they know the union won’t allow it. Maybe it’s time MLB said enough. If the union wants to strike, let them. See how much goodwill they generate by striking to avoid a drug test.

Baseball is a game that depends on its statistics and records for continuity, far more than any other sport. Let too many fall courtesy of steroids and the game will be harmed forever.

Without realizing it, Giambi may just save the game he tried to swindle.

The One about A Lack of Ideas - November 27th-28th

And so I sit here, pondering what to write about.

It's not writers block, mind you. I'm woefully familiar with that, and this doesn't come close. I'm not sweating, desperately looking for an excuse to escape the terror of a blank page. I could write, if I had a subject that was up to par.

Unfortunately that's the one thing I seem to be lacking.

Initially, I was going to write about the UN Oil for Food scandal, and the depths to which the UN has sunk under Anan's leadership. Actually, I did write about the UN Oil for Food scandal, but I also accidentally deleted 600 words of said prose. I think I'll tackle the rewrite another day.

I could write about my most recent day of work, which is certainly interesting enough; but the details would probably violate some confidentiality paper my employer had me sign once upon a time. For the time being I'd like to keep my job, thank you.

I could write about taking my kids to see Santa today. There's plenty of material to be found in a half- hour drive in a cold November rainstorm, only to discover Santa was on his lunch hour. I could write that after waiting an hour we finally met Santa - only to have my youngest child, predictably, start crying hysterically. Or about how our camera broke down just when I lined up the kids for the perfect shot.

But I can't. I'm too bitter.

I also have a great idea for a story that involves my wife, but in the aftermath of the Santa debacle we had an argument nastier than the first half -hour of Saving Private Ryan. Despite my misgivings, I guess I'd like to keep her too. So scratch that story idea, at least for now.

I could resort to that bastion of all blog (web log) enthusiasts, the pandering ode to Blog Explosion. I do have my opinions on the web directory, both good and bad. But is it worth a page of what amounts to free advertising for the site? Not today it isn't.

So in the end I'm left with nothing. It worked for Seinfeld, it can work for me.

[As long as we're on the subject of the most over-rated sitcom of our time, let me get something off my chest.

What's the deal with the whole "it's a show about nothing" tag? You hear it everywhere, repeated like it's such an innovative, explosive concept.

News flash: it wasn't a show about nothing. It was a show about a group of friends in New York City and their daily interactions - just like every other show on TV. And do not, kind sir, resort to saying that it was the individual episodes that lacked 'something'. That too is a misnomer. It may not have been the tightest of plots, but every show was about 'something', whether it be volunteering with the elderly or waiting in a Chinese restaurant.

Don't bother arguing. You know I'm right.]

So in the end I'm left alone at the keyboard with a head stuffed with useless, discarded ideas. It isn't the most thrilling way to spend an evening, and it certainly isn't a boost for the self-esteem.

I suppose that by this time tomorrow I'll have a whole bevy of ideas to choose from. It stands to reason, since the only requirement for this gig is a bit of writing ability, a lot of opinions, and of course, an ample dose of bad luck hanging over your head.

Thankfully, I'm blessed with all three.

November 25th - The One about my Kid at Thanksgiving

Yesterday I enjoyed an (early) Thanksgiving meal with an Agnostic-leaning Democrat who called my political views a 'sickness' and announced he would not travel to Texas because, as the Reddest of the Red States, it would make him burn 'like the Devil walking into a church.'.

Ahh. Family.

In truth, it was a pleasant evening. My brother-in-law's comments seemed tongue-in-cheek, his new bride was gracious, and the food was good. (although he chose not to serve turkey. I assume it to be a protest against some policy of Dubya's, but I did not have the heart to inquire.)

The only sore point of the evening was my offspring.

And even that's debatable. There are limits to what you can expect of a three-year old, especially a three-year-old coming off a 'visit to Grandma's' hangover. She was tired, she was frazzled, and she was sitting in front of a place setting worth more than my living room set.

So I should feel grateful she didn't break any dishes, start a food fight, belch, or pick her nose at the table. (well, to be honest, she did pick her nose. And ate it. I'd scold her more for that but it just seems so . . . hypocritical)

I should be grateful that all she did was refuse to eat more than the occasional scrap, claim she was tired and rest her head on my shoulder at the table, things of that nature. Once, she got up from the dinner and wandered off. That's pretty much it. Not even the least of the havoc my three-year old is capable of producing.

No, my problem is that she always - and I stress always - chooses to wig out around people without children of their own.

I am not singling out my in-laws here, for in fact they were gracious and seemed amused. But the fact is, somewhere, maybe buried so deep they don’t even know it's there, is a voice that said "hmph. My kids will have better manners. Don’t they know how to discipline?"

Whereas, if my kids proceeded to set fire to the family dog of another parent (preferably a parent with kids the same age), that same inner voice would be saying "Aww, I remember when little Timmy did that. It seems like only yesterday. They grow up so fast . . ."

Now when I was young and naïve I too believed I would rule as a despot. Mychildren would be seen and not heard, save for when I asked them to bring me the remote or grab me another can from the fridge, at which point they would say, "yes Daddy. Would you like your paper too?"

Sadly, this dream proved unrealistic. You cannot logically convince a four-month old to do your errands, even if the lazy little bugger could walk. And when they are old enough to walk and talk and sit and eat their spinach they are far too bourgeois to submit to serfdom.

A bitter pill to swallow, that one. A bitter, bitter pill. And yet I hold out hope.

Not for my children, you understand. I think they'll turn out just fine.

No, I hold out hope for all those future-parents out there. I sincerely hope that they discover the key to raising the Stepford child, and pass the knowledge on to future generations. But I hope it takes awhile.

Say, long enough for my grandchildren to frustrate their parents.

The One about the NBA - November 23rd

As a rule I don’t watch the NBA. I have nothing against basketball per se, but if I’m going to watch a sport, it’ll be one I could’ve (theoretically) played professionally. I am a 6’3” man with more rolls on my belly than there are Cubs playoff losses. In an ideal world I could have played football, and thanks to John Kruk and Babe Ruth , baseball. But for the viewing pleasure of all, basketball doesn’t even warrant a nod in my fantasies.

Now you know where this is going. The Detroit-Indiana brawl has become a talking point for every media outlet in America. If it’d happened on the day of the election the Presidential results would have rated a paragraph on page three of USA Today.

Such are the interests of Americans.

And all the more power to ‘em, I say. A good ol’ fashioned throw-down between millionaires and their intoxicated fans is a heck of a lot more interesting than say, the latest appropriations bill in Congress.

I’m just surprised no one’s blamed this fracas on Karl Rove. According to the left, it’d be just like him to rig a fight to shift the focus away from his - I mean Bush’s - administration.

[unrelated blurb: for giggles, I rented Bush’s Brain from Blockbuster. Here’s a friendly tip for the propagandists on the left of the aisle: if your going to make a documentary, spend more than $5 on it’s production. And just for aesthetics, interview people who don’t look like rejects from Blind Date. When Karl Rove is the most attractive man in your movie, you’ve done something wrong.]

For those of you in a coma, a decent on-court fight between the Pacers and Pistons took a turn for the worse when a fan threw a cup at Indiana's Ron Artest. He charged into the stands, punching fans along the way.

It got worse from there.

Now Artest is an idiot. This is true if for no other reason than the little voice in his head should have been yelling “lawsuit, lawsuit. Gotta keep my Benjamins” instead of “Kill Bill” or “Jackie Brown” or whatever Tarantino mantra was in charge up there.

(Really, doesn’t Artest watch the NFL? There’s an order to things inthe sports world. If you want someone dead, you wait until after the game and help your friends shoot him. Then you’re acquitted and become a bible-quoting marquee linebacker. Duh.)

But an honest man has to lay some of the blame where it belongs, with the fans. You notice I said ‘a cup’ was thrown at Artest. I didn’t have to specify it’s contents, your mind filled in the blank. (And no Mom, it wasn’t a soda. Go out and see the world already, will ya?)

Anyone who decides to waste half a month of rent on basketball ticket’s is crazy. Someone who does that and then gets so sloshed he won’t remember how he spent his money is a crazy idiot. A guy that does all that and decides it’s a smart idea to throw a cup of beer at a 6’7”, 247 pound man with a violent reputation, well . . .

Maybe Darwin was wrong. Evolution should have weeded that guy out long ago.

And the loon that jumped on the court to continue the fight, only to be laid out on the floor with a single punch? Priceless.

My recommendation: proceed with Artest’s year-long suspension. He deserves it.

And while you’re at it, banish the fans in the front rows to the next WWE event. It’s where they belong.

The One about GOP - Nov 21st

A few weeks ago my wife and I found out we were finally having a baby boy. After a night- long search through online baby name sites, we decided to call him Parker and emailed an announcement. The good news prompted a phone call from my sister-in-law in Texas.

“Congratulations!” she told my wife. “How long ago did Danny come up with that?”

“With what, the name?” my wife replied. “We came up with it together.”

“No, the initials. You know, G-O-P. I figured that had to be his idea.”

For the record, yes, my children’s initials – Grace, Olivia, and Parker – will replicate the honored nickname of the Republican Party.

Also for the record: what kind of a right-wing nut job do you think I am? Of course it wasn’t intentional.

It might have been, had I thought of it, but I didn’t. It’s just a happy accident of fate.

I must say, after examining the evidence, that I’m flattered that people think I could have pulled it off. There’s no way my wife would have bought into it, so I’d have to successfully lobby – three times – for the name of my choice. If successful, I’d still have to hope and pray for the right gender each time. The “O” alone would have stopped me if I’d had a boy back in the day. Oliver? Orlando? Octavian? Ain’t happening.

And what happens if you have a fourth child? What then? Do you just call it quits on the initials, or do you become truly creative? You can’t pluralize ‘GOP’, so by necessity birth control would go out the window. Perhaps a ‘GOP KID’, or ‘GOP STAR’. Maybe you start a new set. For the bi-party couple, might I suggest ‘DEM’ or the ever popular ‘JFK’?

Of course, if you’re planning that far ahead (and can afford that many mouths to feed) you might as well go all out. Why not scrap ‘GOP’ and shoot for ‘REPUBLICAN’?

(Although I admit the ‘U’ would be a stumper. Perhaps a fan of Last of the Mohicans could use ‘Uncas’? Granted, he would be beat up daily on the playground. But, as a Republican, at least he’d be beat up daily at a good private school.)

Not to be outdone, my Mother proved she’s just as good at the ABC’s by questioning my motives on the whole subject. As a lifelong Democrat that still has a crush on Kennedy (John, not Ted. The woman has standards) she took it pretty well. Still, she was relieved to know it wasn’t intentional – which, as the difficult black sheep of the family that I am, made me wish it had been.

Frankly, no one in their right mind strings together sibling’s initials. That someone – much less two people – determined a pattern where it doesn’t exist is just plain loco. That both are related to my children makes me question our gene pool.

Now, not to spoil anyone’s fun, but I’ve had second thoughts about using the name Parker. We chose it for nothing but it’s own sake, but cloaked our decision in references to Robert B. Parker (the author), and of course the one and only Spiderman, Mr. Peter Parker. These references make me question my own contribution to my gene pool.

Besides I like the name and all, but to attach a WASP-ish name like Parker to an eleven letter Polish surname might be over the top. Sort of on the order of someone in Connecticut calling their son ‘Ivanovich Smith’. It fails to ‘roll off the tongue’.

But then again, with my name, what would?

The One about Nothing - Nov 21st

Just for fun I thought I’d end the week with all the pearls of wisdom I’ve gleamed from the net in the last seven days. If you enjoy it, tell me. Maybe I’ll make it a weekly event.

*Apologies: many of these stories were discovered by searching Blog Explosion. As a newbie to the directory I’m a little thrown by the complete absence of a ‘normal’ web address (everything is framed). Therefore I couldn’t pull many of the site names to throw out a hat tip. If someone has a way to do this, let me know *

 

By popular demand, here’s the story of why the Vice President goes by the name “Big” Dick Cheney. When he stopped in this area on a campaign trip, the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel used a photo of him on the front page. Nothing unusual about that. But now that pic has been pulled from MJS’s online archives, and the normally money hungry J won’t sell copies of the photo either.

Why the hush up?

According to the December issue of Milwaukee Magazine, it’s because the Journal noticed that the outline of the Vice President’s penis is clearly visible through his pants . . . and on his thigh, and by his knee . . .

(irrelevant fact: my wife denies that this is possible, because ‘’in her experience’’ Republicans aren’t built that well. This, could of course, be taken as a mandate on my own stature, but I have wiggled out of that logic. I was born and raised a Democrat. Even if her theory is true, I am immune from the end results)

Anyway, a hat tip goes out to Dummocrats.com for the story. Oh, and the pic? I tried and failed to load it here (Tre - I could use some help with graphics) but you can find it here: http://wizbangblog.com/archives/004296.php#004296

 

*************************************

Want a sure sign that the war in Iraq is drawing to a close? Then read this:

PARIS, Nov 18 (AFP) - Three, and possibly four, Frenchmen have been killed in Iraq fighting with insurgents seeking to oust US-led forces in the country, a French official said Thursday.
A 24-year-old Frenchman from Paris identified as Tarek W. was killed on September 17, the official said, speaking on condition of anonymity.
He was the latest addition to a list French authorities have drawn up of French casualties in Iraq,

When you have Frenchman fighting you in the trenches, the war’s all but over. Think I’m being over the top? Then try this out.

Go to google and type in a search for “French military victory’. Then hit the “I’m feeling lucky” link. See what comes up - or doesn’t.

***************************

cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? yaeh and I awlyas thought slpeling was ipmorantt.

**************************************

And now, some boy humor. Top 12 Things Yoda Would Say When Making Love

 

12. Ahhh! Yoda’s little friend you seek!

11. Urm. Put a shield on my saber I must.

10. Feel the force!

9. Foreplay, cuddling. A Jedi craves not these things.

8. Down here I am. Find a ladder I must!

7. Do me or do me not, there is no try.

6. Early must I rise. Leave now you must!

5. You know, this would be a lot more fun without Frank Ozs hand up my
ass.

4. Happens to every guy sometimes this does.

3. When 900 years old you get, Viagra you need too, hmmmm?

2. Ow, ow, OW! On my ear you are!

1. Whos your Jedi Master? Whos your Jedi Master?

Hat tip to http://www.dataste.com/blog/wordpress/wp-trackback.php/71

******************

The FBI is asking for help finding a lost tanker. I doubt it will show up in the Midwest, but just in case . . .

http://www.cnn.com/2004/US/11/12/fuel.tanker/index.html

Hat tip to Drudge.

*********************************************

Last but not least, a news item from this morning. All I can say is, My Man! Can you imagine Jimmy Carter doing this? Hat tip to Little Green Footballs.

Bush Pulls Top Bodyguard From Scuffle

 

SANTIAGO, Chile (AP) -- President Bush stepped into the middle of a confrontation and pulled his lead Secret Service agent away from Chilean security officials who barred his bodyguards from entering an elegant dinner for 21 world leaders Saturday night.

Several Chilean and American agents got into a pushing and shoving match outside the cultural center where the dinner was held. The incident happened after Bush and his wife, Laura, had just posed for pictures on a red carpet with the host of the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation summit, Chilean President Ricardo Lagos and his wife, Luisa Duran.

As Bush stepped inside, Chilean agents closed ranks at the door, blocking the president's agents from following. Stopping for more pictures, Bush noticed the fracas and turned back. He reached through the dispute and pulled his agent from the scrum and into the building.

The president, looking irritated, straightened his shirt cuffs as he went into the dinner. The incident was shown on APEC television.

*****

The print version of this was sooooo much better - describing his motion as something like “casually adjusted his cuff links and strode forward”

 

The One about Morning Radio - Nov 19

C'mon. I can't be the only person that hates all the endless chatter on morning radio, right? Because it's really starting to shake my faith in capitalism. A product that offensive to the consumer should have been kicked to the curb years ago.

Which doesn't explain The View, but still . . .

Just to clarify, I'm not talking about 'talk' radio. This is for two reasons: A) Because I avoid it. Having someone blather on and on about their opinion for hours doesn't appeal to me.

I have a wife for that, thank you.

And B) it's blessedly confined to the AM dial, which hasn't worked in our car since I crushed a Styrofoam cup, sending Sprite into the inner workings of the stereo. (and believe me, my wife went 'talk radio' on me for the rest of that day).

No, I'm talking about the daily, universal pairing of otherwise unemployable DJ's, each compelled to offer me the worst skits, the shallowest news headlines, and no music. No music.

That last part's where I draw the line. If I'm in my car at six in the morning, chances are I'm a wee bit frustrated. Perhaps a little jazz would help relieve my tension. Or, if I choose to vent, some metal or rap. What will not accomplish this is a sixty-year old man playing a phone prank, to be followed by a local version of Stupid Pet Tricks.

And it's true for every radio station, regardless of their format. Oh, there are variations. The tag team of aging hippies at the 'classic rock' station aren't as young and hip as those on 'urban music' scene. And depending on the demographic of the listener, the DJ's will discuss psoriasis, as opposed to say, the clap. But underneath, they're all the same.

I can see how this idea seemed logical in the boardroom. People wake up, they drive to work. What's important to them at that moment? They need to know the time, they want to catch up on the news, they want to know the weather. So how about we give them all this info for four straight hours?

If I may be so bold, here is my retort.

I am already awake, dressed, in the car, and on my way to work. I should know by that point if it's raining or not, and if some is forecast for the afternoon, whoopdeedo. What would you have me do, turn around and go home to grab my galoshes from the closet?

The time? My radio has a clock. So does my wrist, my phone, and every bleeping bank I pass.

The news? This concept, I admit, has value …except for the fact that it's mighty hard to condense a newspaper into the 4.3 seconds allotted for the news. Maybe that's a blessing though. Last week I heard a DJ stop reading a story about a Japanese woman to ask what a kimono was. This, from a man corporate America deemed intelligent enough to helm four hours of discussion a day.

Thank God he didn't stumble over any obscure words, like say . . .hamburger.

(sadly, when I told a friend that story he interrupted to ask me what a kimono was. This leads me to believe that I'm as incredibly bright as I am handsome. For the record, it's a decorative robe of Asian origin.)

I know it's a lost cause, ranking right up there with the 'pro-smoking for children' lobby. But somewhere, someone has to feel the same way.

Is it too much to ask to hear a good NKOTB song in the morning?

Just a little change of pace . . .

Just in case this loads odd for you - because on this end, it either comes up the size of a thumbnail or as super large (like I said, I know zilch about this stuff) here's the link: http://www.uclick.com/client/mij/prc/. You may have to enter the date of this post (11/18/04) if viewing the link after today.