Happy, Humble, Famous or Rich.

I'm a bit of an Uncle Kracker fan, and think that, from beginning to end, his disc, "No Stranger To Shame," is a pretty good overall musical effort. Maybe a couple hiccups here and there, but fun music with a unique sound, and an occasional message thrown in.

At the end of the disc, he's got a hidden track called, "After School Special," a rap about how he grew up as a dumb school kid and followed his dream, transforming into a millionaire recording artist.

About halfway through the song, there's a verse in which the Voice of Wisdom is talking to Uncle Kracker, describing what his life became when he started getting some money and fame, and the choices he had to make. Every time I hear these lyrics, they make me stop and think:

How many times must I give you your options?
Happy...Humble...Famous...or Rich.
You only get two and only you can pick!

Not the easiest selection to make, is it?...if you only get two.

The two that I imagine most people would be drawn to first would be Happy and Rich. Everyone wants to be Happy, and hey, Rich is always cool, too, right? Many people couldn't care less about Fame, but then there's that other one...Humble. If you're Happy and Rich, then according to those lyrics, you'll be lacking in Humility. Which I can only assume would mean that the people around you would think of you as an arrogant asshole. Not that you would care, because you'd have your Happiness, right? But since you're not Famous, the people you surround yourself with most often would be family and close friends. And do you really want them having that opinion of you?

Let's try to pick two more: the ever-popular cliché, Rich and Famous. Robin Leach made a living showcasing their lifestyles. But as two shining examples, I give you...Britney Spears. And Michael Vick. They're both Rich and Famous. But are either of them Happy lately? Or Humble? (how 'bout stooopid? or crazy?)

I would very quickly dismiss Rich and Famous. I've gotta work some Happy in there somehow. Which means my options have been diminished greatly. I'm left with Happy and Humble, Happy and Famous, or Happy and Rich.

I don't want to be Famous. I don't think I'd handle it well. And it matters to me what family and friends think of me. So I guess I need a dose of Humble to counteract any assholeness that may occur. My options have apparently been set...Happy, and Humble. One thing I sort of assume as a given is that if you're Happy, you're not faced with too many financial worries and struggles. So while you may not be Rich, you're probably doing pretty well. And that's good enough for me.

Who's got some other combination of two of the four that you'd choose? And what led you to make your decision on those two? Share some different perspectives.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to Humbly drive to the corner convenience store and buy a Powerball ticket. Because winning $245 million on Wednesday night would make me, umm...Happy.

"Sometimes I feel like somethin' is gone here,

somethin' is wrong here, I don't belong here.

Sometimes I feel like a stranger in town,

and I've lost what I've found.

It'll all turn around."

—Uncle Kracker, "In A Little While"

The Writing's On The Wall...But Can You Read It?

I was skimming one of Mark Cuban's blog entries the other day, and found myself nodding my head, totally able to relate.

Of course, I do this often when I read his blog, because Cuban and I have so many similarities: We've got approximately the same net worth, give or take about nine zeros. He owns a basketball team; I own a basketball. He's the co-founder of HDNet; I enjoy surfing the Net. He's a technological genius; I own a basketball.

If you haven't already clicked over to it, the title of his blog post was, "I Forgot How To Write!" where he lamented his bad fortune when he was forced to take notes longhand—that's right, pen and paper style—in a meeting because he didn't have anything with a keyboard near him.

Relying so heavily on PDAs and laptops and other devices with keypads, Cuban literally found it difficult to scribble one letter after another.

While I don't have as many funky gadgets as he does, I've been in exactly the same boat when trying to write cursive letters. Obviously, a keyboard is my first option, both at work and at home, but I don't have a laptop (yet), so I'm not exactly mobile in that regard.

For as many years as I can remember, when I put pen to paper, I almost always print. I'm one of those people with the small-caps style of printing, and I'm pretty happy with my printing. It's always legible, looks pretty neat most of the time, and I can move the pen across the paper at a decent clip.

There are times, however, when cursive writing is the path best attempted, if you've got pages of stuff to write, for instance. And every time I try to write, instead of print, I fumble my way through the letters, improvising on some strokes, cheating on others and generally getting a rather sloppy page. Sometimes it's downright hideous. It didn't used to be so bad. (and, no, the handwriting sample isn't mine. I was too lazy to write one out, take a photo, crop it and upload it...so I just searched for one instead.)

A buddy and I started using the small caps printing style way back in middle school, so I haven't had a lot of practice with cursive writing since then. Some, but not a lot. And lately...even less than that. And it shows.

I'm not saying I want to go back and re-learn cursive writing and practice it until my pages flow. I'll always opt for a keyboard, and for the small caps. But to quote Mr. Cuban, "I forgot how to write!" So sad.

My mom's got nearly flawless penmanship, and if you were ever to get a handwritten letter from her, you'd think you just opened to page 36 in a penmanship textbook. It's that good. And when my dad reaches for a pen, he produces really cool-looking small caps. I used to be able to do both of them fairly well, but I liked the look of the small caps a lot better, so I stuck with that.

And I've found that the skill I haven't used for so many years, has nearly disappeared. Maybe I need to enroll in an elementary class this fall.

But I don't think I'd fit in the desk.

"Letter writing is the only device for

combining solitude with good company."

—Lord Byron

Don't Expect Frost, or Kipling. Or Seuss.

This is truly a "squib" of a topic, but I really wanted to bring that header back to my blog. It's been gone for far too many Sundays. Who knows when it may show its face again? I'm hoping for next Sunday, but that might be optimistic.

And I wanted to give a blog entry like this a try. Here's the backstory: Scattered across the Internets, I've discovered some bloggers and other creative sites that boast samples of "Spam Haiku," or poetry created totally out of spam subject lines or body copy. I always thought that was a clever idea. So I gathered all of my spam subject lines and wrote them out into a list, and thought I might try to rearrange them into something resembling a poem. (no rhyming, unless I get lucky...and no syllable counting, at least for this experiment. while haiku might be a more inspired way to display spam, I'm too lazy to count three lines of five, seven and five syllables. consider this spam freeverse, if you will.)

Each line of the poem was a spam subject line...unedited, uncensored, untouched. And minimal punctuation. I feel like freaking e.e. cummings. Except, you know, with spam. And bad.

Hello, my dearest friend

How things looking

Feeling cold inside out

Things getting better

Time for change

Have u heard that

These positions will help you reach your peak

Think i can help you with this

You have to get your horse going

goon

Good girls love bad boys

Is this right

What are your thoughts

U know what i think

Hey man, stop throwing away your money

Stop waiting

Gloria sent you a zzwrong.hk! Greeting

Did you get this, buddy

She will love you more than any other guy

frisky

Great stuff. Love it

Bet this is the one

Make her worship you

We provide you a real advantage to turn her on

Go magnify yourselves atlantica

At loneliness in moorefield

IF YOU DO VENTURE OUT ONTO THE LAKES

Don't get left behind

If you go for the sun

Help is on the way

Can you help

Thx for all ur help

Hope you can make better

Can't wait anymore

The death of the bicycle has had a tremendous effect on blackman

The definition of Freudian slip

For this sahara

lowly tape recorder

Saw them all

In supermarket

%START_WORD a coffeyville

This is great. Count on it

You've received a postcard from a School mate!

But he's loyal to George Bush, and that's key

I know I'll take flack for it — but I liked it

Crazy stuff

When will this finish

— • — • —

Uhh...I'm guessing this will finish right about here. I think I've figured out the reason why others have used the haiku format for this. Because after seventeen syllables it gets pretty damn boring.

Spam poetry is best taken in small doses. Or perhaps...no doses at all. I apologize for wasting your valuable Sunday minutes.

Here's a haiku to finish up:

No regrets. Great choice

Just wanted to drop a line

Ladies will love you

"To be nobody but yourself in a world

which is doing its best day and night

to make you like everybody else

means to fight the hardest battle

which any human being can fight and

never stop fighting."

—e.e. cummings

It's Like Plastic Gold!

You know what’s almost more fun than using a free Barnes & Noble gift card?

Sometimes...not using it.

I recently received one of these cards, which, in my eyes, always looks more attractive than a gold brick or the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. I mean...don’t people realize that this thin rectangular card entitles the owner to...*gasp!*...free books?

Could there be anything better? I think not.

Anyway, the day after I received the card, I had a trip scheduled to Green Bay for a different purpose, so I stowed the card in my wallet to have at the ready in the event that I stopped to browse. Who was I kidding?...I purposely left my entire afternoon free so I’d have several uninterrupted hours.

Those gift cards never last too long in my possession, and during my time at the bookstore, I found a small semi load of books that I’d love to add to my collection.

As I wandered the aisles, though, a thought crossed my mind and the more I pondered it, the smarter it started to sound.

I had another excursion planned the very next day down to Milwaukee, where they build some of the Barneses a little bigger. So I decided to to keep my gift card securely tucked in my back pocket, and would hit the road a couple hours earlier than planned the next day to do some more book browsing.

As I walked out the door of the Green Bay store, I thought to myself, “All that picking and planning over which books to buy, salivating over this one and that...and now I get to do it all again tomorrow, too!”

I was stretching the value of my gift without too much effort. Granted, I didn’t have any new books in my hands, but the idea of new books was still fresh and real.

The next day I walked into my idea of heaven on earth and began my routine all over again...checking the bargain shelves, wandering among the classics, perusing the tables set out specifically for “great summer reads” to see what knowledgeable book people are recommending.

And then, according to plan, I made my way over to the “Writing/Reference” section, and knew that this is where I would surrender my gift card in exchange for books on the writing craft.

Many of my gift cards are spent in this section, and my bookshelves overflow with volumes on creativity and fiction writing and tips on writing memoirs and how to overcome writer’s block.

You know those writers you read about who spend more time reading about writing than they actually do writing? That would be yours truly.

I selected a book dedicated to getting you writing and keeping you writing, another that called itself a writer’s portable therapist (no jokes from the peanut gallery about how I should have opted for the unabridged encyclopedic version instead), a small volume by Ray Bradbury with his thoughts on the writing life, and an entertaining dictionary of sorts called, “Word Nerd.”

As I placed my four books on the counter by the saleslady, she shuffled through them and gave me a smile, saying, “These look like some fun books!”

I quietly remarked about it being one of my favorite subjects.

And as she rang me up and tried to sell me on becoming a book club member (which she did; guess that means I’ll have to spend more time at Barnes!), she commented, “Well, when you’re a famous writer you’ll have to come back here and do a reading for us.”

That line made me laugh, and I said, “It’s a date. I’ll mark it on my calendar.”

So now I’ve got my first gig. All I’ve got to take care of is the “getting famous” part.

Hmm...does anyone know any good books on how to write?

“When you write down your life,

every page should contain something

no one has ever heard about.”
—Elias Canetti

Drunken Strangers: A WWYD Quiz

So I'm driving along the lakeshore on my way home a few nights back, and the moon is about as full and as bright as I've seen it in a long, long time. If you don't already know this about me, I'm mesmerized by the moon and the stars. I hope to one day own lakefront (seafront?) property on the Sea of Tranquility.

Seeing it shimmering off of Lake Michigan, I decided to try my luck at some nighttime photography, already resigned to the fact that I don't have the skills...and perhaps not the camera...necessary to figure out the correct camera settings to capture on a memory card what I'm absorbing in person.

(want proof? completely embarrassing sample of "moonlit lake" appears to the right. I promise there's a lake out there somewhere. you just can't, umm, see it. this image is sooo not copyrighted. please, go ahead...steal it. and replace it with a better one.)

I pulled into a wayside along the lake, and snapped a few shots, fooling around with the camera's scene modes and its manual settings, adding the flash for a few shots to get the weeds and rocks along the shore in a couple of the photos. Not expecting much, but finished with my experiment, I turned to walk back to my car, and noticed someone else in the parking lot, maybe 50 feet to my right.

As I got to my car door, that someone spoke up: "Sir...excuse me, sir, could you help me?" asked a middle-aged woman walking slowly in my direction.

"Um, what do you need?" I replied.

"Could you help me find my Saturn?"

"Your...what??"
(after just having the moon on my brain for the last 15 minutes, I thought maybe she was an extraterrestrial trying to find her way to her home planet.)

"Could you..." **stumble — shuffling of feet — more with the stumbling** "...I'm drunk. I'm sorry, I'm drunk. My car. It's a Saturn."

"Uhh. Where did you leave it?"

"Well, I was just walking down there, and I thought I left it here and was in the right place, but now I can't seem to find it," was her answer. [sober ed. note: the "down there" to which she was referring is a trail that runs along the lakeshore, several feet from the waysides and rest stops along the highway.]

"Did you check the other waysides?" There was another one a short walk up the trail.

"I thought I did, but...maybe I'm just mixed up," she said.

Unsure of where her car was, or if she was even wandering the correct Great Lake, I decided that she was not going to get in my car, or else I might not get her out without her passing out, puking, or worse...stabbing me in the neck with her car keys and driving off without leaving a trace of evidence.

I could envision the headlines already, after investigators checked the SD card in my camera for clues: "Amateur Photographer, Unable to Comprehend f-stops, Ends Life Under Fuzzy Glow of Moonlight."

"Sorry, but I don't think I can help you," I told the woman.

"Thaaanks, dude!" was her sarcastic reply as she stepped almost immediately to her left and stumbled back toward the trail.

I got in my car and pulled out onto the road, and drove to the wayside about a quarter mile away. Sure enough, there in the parking lot was a gray Saturn, with Indiana license plates.

Having a bit of fun with this adventure, I drove back to where I'd originally found Ms. Stumbledrunk, not sure what action I'd take, but at least hoping to inform her where her car was located. She was nowhere in sight, however, and I wasn't feeling generous enough to go hiking the trail looking for her.

And as I slowly circled the parking lot, I thought it was probably best that I didn't find her. She wasn't in any shape to walk, much less drive.

So that's where the story ended, and I didn't make any more wayside pit stops on my drive home.

I hope she found her way back to Saturn, and enjoyed the view of the moon along the way.

— • — • —

Here's the quiz part: What Would You Do? How much help would you have given this stumbling drunk stranger? Which one of the following would mostly likely have been your response:

"Lady, go sleep it off on the grass. You'll find your car when you sober up."

— or —

"Sure, get in. I have nothing better to do than drive around aimlessly, chauffeuring some drunk who barely knows what planet she's on, much less what planet she's from."

— or —

"Do you happen to have a tripod handy? And......if I go with an f2.8 and a shutter speed of maybe 1/4 of a second, will that give me at least a couple ripples on the lake when I open this up in Photoshop?"

"The scientific theory that I like best

is that the rings of Saturn are composed

entirely of lost airline luggage."

—Mark Russell

How To Meet Someone New

Sometimes I long for the days of being 5 years old, when life was simple and making new friends took all of about two minutes.

A couple Saturdays ago I rode along with my parents and my niece, Grace, to the EAA AirVenture show in Oshkosh, where we’d be meeting my sister and brother-in-law later in the day.

We found a shade tree just outside the grounds and set up some chairs to watch the nonstop aerial shows the dozens of planes were putting on.

It didn’t take long, and Gracie was getting to know the lady next to us who was also enjoying the shade and the air show.

Then, during one of a few scheduled bathroom breaks in which Grandma and Gracie were gone, a little girl and her younger brother came to sit down about three feet away from me, the girl setting up a fold-out lounge chair and commenting to no one in particular, “I think I’ll sit...right...here.”

I smiled at her but didn’t say anything, and turned back to watch the planes, anxious to see Grace’s reaction when she came back to our spot in the shade.

And sure enough, it didn’t disappoint. Uncles and grandparents and new older lady friends are all well and good, but other little kids are always much more important to little kids.


Gracie was in full jabber mode as she walked with Grandma, but when she saw the two newcomers to my left, the conversation ceased and she stopped in her tracks to survey the situation.

I was sprawled out on the grass with my legs extended, and she came and stood alongside me, her feet tucked under my right leg, silent and staring for about a minute. Then, she stepped over my legs and stood and stared some more. Another minute or so, and she sat down on the ground and nestled against my arm, still observing, but also safely resting against “familiar territory.”

A couple minutes later, she scooted along the ground to move closer to her peers, and I was no longer necessary. I’d served my purpose as a couple-stage buffer, but now Grace felt brave enough to invite herself into the conversation that the girl and her brother were having, nodding and saying, “yeah,” and “mm hmm.”

When a plane came in for a landing along the runway nearest to us, the little girl said out loud, “Wow, that’s a biiigg plane!!” and Gracie answered back with, “Yeahhh, that is a big one!” and voila!...a new friend was made, and the conversation continued.


With a little bit of eavesdropping on my part, I was entertained for a good hour with some very random snippets of getting-to-know-you conversation.

“I’m 5,” said Grace. “How old are you?”

“I’m 4, and a haaalf!” replied the girl.

“Well I’m older than you.”

“I know.”

“You look like you’re 3.”

“No, I doh-uuun’t.” (don’t you just love it how little kids can take a one-syllable word and stretch it out into a really long two?)

On the EAA grounds, some smoke bombs were being set off as planes flew by to give the effect of a wartime demonstration, and that also became a topic of conversation.

“Are you scared of the bombs and the smoke out there? I’m not,” said Grace.

“I’m not, either,” answered the little girl.

“Do you like shrimp?” asked Grace.

I didn’t hear the answer to that one. And did I mention these bytes of conversation were, um, random? Yeah.

During a short lull of silence, the girl blurted out, “I’m Bailey!!”

“That’s your name? My name’s Grace.”

The rest of their time together was spent running races to see who was faster, and sharing grapes. And when Bailey had to leave, the older people once again became a little more interesting.

I like to think I learned a little something about interpersonal communication skills, and might have to test it out among the older crowd in a barroom environment.

“I’m 38, how old are you? You look like you’re 3.”

And of course the one to catch 'em off guard: “Do you like shrimp?”

Think that’ll get me a phone number?

“He had occasional flashes of silence
that made his conversation
perfectly delightful.”
—Sydney Smith

No Gifts, Please

A year ago today, I sat down with a bunch of jumbled ideas in my head, connected a few dots, filled in a few holes and and knitted together my very first blog entry. I've been told, and I'm not sure that I can disagree, that the first one still qualifies as my best effort to date. Considering I've written, what...nine posts in the last year? (give or take one or two)...I didn't give myself much of a chance to top that intro, did I?

I've read many different blogs over the past several years, and have seen some of them mention their one- or two- or five-year blogiversaries. I wasn't sure if I was going to do the same when mine came around, because let's be honest...it's been a rather unceremonious year. (which is why, when I went searching for a pic to add to this post, I immediately chose the badly drawn slice of cake instead of a high-res photo of a perfectly baked, immaculately frosted whole. I don't deserve it.)

When I signed up for my Blogger account, I did it with a few layers of uncertainty as to whether I'd keep it up. A year later, I can say I stuck with it...sort of. I've had the occasional flurry of two or three posts in a week, but for the most part it's been once a week, or worse.

Turns out...and this is the part that I'm still trying to process..."blog" is a verb. (fuckin' action words.)

And here I thought a blog was just something to have to make you look cool so you could say things like, "Hey, go check out my blog." or "I really tell it like it is on my blog." or "They cancelled my blog!!"

Not true. You actually have to work at a blog. You've gotta, um, blog. (see? I told you it was a verb.)

I tried to coerce myself when the new year rolled around to pay more attention to this thing. I set goals. And quickly dismissed them. I gave myself pep talks: "blahblahblah post more often blahblahblah write better blahblahblah getcher ass off that damn couch blah. blah blah.

I spent (and spend) more time reading other people's blogs than working on my own. And in an odd twist, I found myself reading more and more blogs about...blogging. Trying to find a spark or a tip or an "aha!!" to get me motivated.

I read just about everywhere that most good bloggers use, or should use, WordPress. So my neurotic self immediately concluded, "I might not be a good blogger, but if I start using WordPress...ohhhh boy, I'll be more motivated and my blog will be cooler and I'm gonna get better before the ink on my registration page is even dry." This actually stuck in my head for longer than I care to admit. You'll notice, however, that my blogiversary has passed and I've still got a Blogger address. Because I sorta stepped outside myself, shook some sense into myself and said, "Dude!! First concentrate on the blogging part of it...then, if you get a handle on that, then you can go where the cool people blog." (apparently, I spoke to myself using lots of italics.)

The bottom line to this big long one-year-inspired rant is that I enjoy coming here. I'd miss it if I deleted it. I'd just like to discipline myself to come here on a slightly more consistent basis.

It's not that I'm gonna make a big pile of money if I start posting four times a week, and I'm not going to suddenly draw in hundreds upon hundreds of new readers. But there's something satisfying, often therapeutic, about the writing process.

A blog is a unique animal. You can come here, post a few words and a link, and call it a day. If you're feeling particularly whiny, but not particularly motivated, you can log in, say, "My feet hurt. Time for some new shoes." and hit Publish. Done. Or, you can go the route that I seem to take most often, which is to ramble for six or seven thousand words, not knowing when to quit. You can say "fuck" whenever you want, and not worry about censors. That doesn't go over too well in a community newspaper column. (not that I've tried.) And I don't care what anyone says...it's a great word. A versatile word. A powerful word.

I have no idea what my second year will hold, but I hope it delivers more words. And who knows?...maybe for my second blogiversary, I'll announce that I'm moving to WordPress. Meanwhile, I'll try to heed the mantra I learned many many years ago, from one of my favorite teachers: Just write. Just write. Just write.

"Anyone who says he wants to be

a writer and isn't writing, doesn't."

—Ernest Hemingway

Bluue Seventeeen. Bluue Seventeeen. Hut...Hut...

I bought my second football magazine today, after buying my first one a couple weeks ago. The buzz surrounding the upcoming football season is in full swing, on the Internets, on local news channels and cable sports talk shows. All the NFL players are safely tucked into their training camps (sans the prima donna holdouts, of course), having nightmares of the two-a-days to come, and all I can say is I am......ready..for some..football.

This is my favorite time of the year...when I get anxious to send out my first football e-mail to a group of buddies who took my money last year, after having me take it from them the year before (who knows what this season will bring?); when the optimism surrounding Detroit Lions training camp is almost worth buying into (I know I shouldn't say this, because I say it every year, but...they could really be on to something this year!); and when you just never know which team will emerge, Saints-like, and be the big surprise of the league.

As the pre-pre-season gets underway, here are a few early thoughts that have been rolling around in my head as I wait for the kickoff of the regular season:

• Go Lions!!

• I realize that Joe Thomas is supposed to be the greatest thing to come out of college since sliced bread (which earned an MFA in yeast at High-Rise University), and I'm happy for the whole Wisconsin-boy-makes-good story, but more than FORTY-TWO million over five years?? With 22 or 23 million guaranteed? Two words...Tony. Mandarich.

• Joey Harrington just can't seem to find a clipboard to hold anywhere these days. After being shown the door in Detroit, he went to Miami where he expected to back up Daunte Culpepper. Instead...he started 11 games, performing well in about two and a half quarters of those games. Sent packing again, he signed with Atlanta, securing a position on the sidelines behind Michael Vick. (has anyone heard anything about him these days?) With Vick appearing to have other plans for about the next, oh, six years or so...Harrington once again finds himself a starter.

• Uhh...Go Lions!!

• Randy Moss will have a spectacular season, and will catch many, many touchdowns. Terrell Owens will be boorish, obnoxious, attention-starved, and will be outplayed by teammate Terry Glenn. (A couple of the football magazines I paged through have the Cowboys pegged as the runner-up in the Super Bowl. Am I missing something? With Wade Phillips as coach??)

• In an attempt to instill more confidence in the locker room, Lions signal-caller Jon Kitna has been spouting to the media that his team will win 10-plus games this season. And wide receiver Mike Furrey is echoing those statements, saying "on paper, we should win 10, 11 games, easy." (Umm...you don't put on pads and helmets and cleats to go and play pro football games on paper, Mr. Furrey.) Kitna also has been throwing around a crazy number when asked about the potential of his wide receiving corps this year, with Furrey, Roy Williams and draft-day stud, Calvin Johnson...saying he might throw 50 touchdowns this season. (Peyton Manning's single-sesaon record is 49. Last I checked, Jon Kitna is no Peyton Manning.)

• So...Go Lions! Yeah, go away from all those microphones and stop talking like fuckin' idiots, and concentrate instead on a nice, respectable 9-7 record, which just might get you into the playoffs in the NFC.

I am soooo ready for some football.

"The place where

optimism flourishes most

is in the lunatic asylum."

—Havelock Ellis

It's ridiculous. And disgusting. (says you!)

Apparently, the Bratwurst Capital of America has suddenly gotten this urge to change its image and be more, um, health-conscious. Because the professional brat-eating contest held in Sheboygan the past couple years has been nixed from this year’s list of activities.

The people at Johnsonville Sausage, the main sponsor of the popular Brat Days event held in Sheboygan in early August, declined to say why it would no longer sponsor the brat-eating contest, but it’s certain that criticism from city residents weighed heavily on this decision.

Several citizens opposed to the contest called it a disgusting event that promoted gluttony, and reflected poorly on the city.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe the bratwurst has ever been mistaken for a bran muffin in terms of leading the health food revolution.

It's a pretty simple concept: if the idea of seeing several dozen brats consumed in a handful of minutes doesn't appeal to you, then don't go to the park that day, and don't turn on ESPN during the broadcast. Is that difficult?

The amateur brat-eating contest, which has been going on for more than 50 years, will continue to be held. This kind of logic leads me to believe that if you’re a slow glutton, then it’s OK. But if you’re a big enough glutton that you can make a living at it and bring national attention to yourself, then you’re disgusting.

Incidentally, the winner in 2005 was a 105-pound woman, and last year’s champion was wildly popular professional eater, Takeru Kobayashi, who has muscles on top of his muscles, he’s so ripped. Two prime examples of gluttons if ever there were any.

The professional contest last year drew thousands of fans, and camera crews from ESPN, which broadcast the event on its network. I doubt that the amateurs will create such a buzz.

I was in the crowd last year, among the boom cameras and broadcasters for the worldwide leader in sports, and my opinion is that any exposure that brings that much good-natured attention to little old Sheboygan, Wisconsin, can only be a positive thing.

The president of the International Federation of Competitive Eating expressed his surprise and disappointment that the event had been pulled, saying it would have been a big draw and they would have loved to have been there.

Earlier this month, longtime champion Kobayashi was upset by American eater Joey Chestnut in the most famous contest on the IFOCE slate, the Fourth of July hot dog-eating contest in Coney Island, New York, when Chestnut downed 66 hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes to Kobayashi’s 63.

The brats would have provided a great stage for a rematch.

A retired city attorney from Sheboygan was one of the most vocal and outspoken critics of the event, saying that when someone downs 58 brats in 10 minutes, which was last year’s winning mark, it proves the whole thing is ridiculous.

Ridiculous? It’s competitive eating!! Of course it’s ridiculous! These are people who eat mayonnaise and oysters and jalapeño peppers for kicks. And, for a paycheck.

But after the contest was over last year and the thrill of the ESPN cameras panning the crowd had died down, the crowd dispersed and enjoyed a brat or two themselves, along with some beverages. (I won’t say what kind of beverages, or it might give people across the nation the impression that folks from Wisconsin like to drink beer.)

I spent the rest of the day with family and friends on the Brat Days grounds, riding a few rides with my nephews, playing a few games and listening to music, having one of the most enjoyable days of my summer.

This year, Johnsonville will not sell me any food and beverage tickets at Brat Days, because I won’t be there. (which kinda stings a little, because the musical entertainment on Saturday night is Soul Asylum, a band I'd very much enjoy seeing for such a reasonable admission cost.) And I doubt ESPN will show up, either.

I have a feeling I'll be a big fan of Cher-Make brats for a while. And Usinger's. Or maybe I'll go on a sudden health food kick.

Brats and beer, people. Sometimes...you gotta dance with the girl that brung ya, you know?

(I bet the Sheboygan critics will next try to get the seventh-inning stretch removed from baseball. Or Santa fired from Christmas.)

“No man in the world has more courage

than the man who can stop eating

after one peanut.”
—Channing Pollock

Too. Much. Music. (Is there such a thing?)

So what's that saying about "best-laid plans"?

Mine were kind of altered, again and again, a couple Sundays ago when I went to Summerfest, and as it turned out, I wouldn't change a thing.

One of my goals for the day was to hear some good gospel music (shut up), as they had several groups scheduled on one of the stages. After my other gospel experience, I was curious to see what kind of performances Summerfest could pull in.

Not wanting to subject friends and family to my obsession with gospel music, I made my trip to the world's biggest music festival a solo one. I don't know if I should plant a closed fist upon my forehead with thumb and forefinger fully extended, and declare myself a "Big L" loooooser for going to Summerfest alone. But there. I admit it. I did. (and shhh, don't tell anybody, but...I've done it before, too.)

The gospel celebration was supposed to start at 3:00, but nobody came on stage until nearly 3:30, and they started off with a big long intro about upcoming events and who was in the crowd and backstage. After not hearing any music for quite a while, I walked away to find something, anything, musical at the popular music fest.

I wandered over to listen to Road Trip, an area cover band, for a couple songs, and then went back to the gospel stage, where this time they were handing out awards to several, umm, award-winning dignitaries, I'm guessing. I didn't stay long, and was starting to wonder if my gospel search would produce exactly zero "Hallelujah"s and "Aaaamen!!"s.

My next distraction was a two-man group called Fever Marlene, a couple 20-something guys up on a nearly bare stage...probably not destined for greatness, but for just a drummer and a guitarist, they held their own. Entertaining for a few songs.

As I walked back over to the gospel stage...again...I heard something this time, from yards away. They were singing!! Not just singing...but singing and clapping and swaying and nearly lifting the roof off of the place. I was getting my gospel fix. Maybe not three hours worth like I thought I might. (I wouldn't have hung around for three hours anyway.) A good solid hour of house-rockin' gospel, and the trip was worth it.

Another band I was anxious to see was the Eddie Butts Band. I'd seen 'em once, and they're a totally funky R&B kinda band, with Eddie as the way-too-talented drummer. But the tent they played in was pretty packed, with no seats available. I'd put on a few miles walking, and was looking for a seat. So after one song, I told myself that I'd "seen" Eddie Butts, and went to find a less popular stage.

Cult phenomenon Pat McCurdy was playing on the Harley stage, so I figured I'd stop and watch him for a while. But the Harley stage was packed to the gills with guys in Harley gear and bandanas and leather jackets. I'm assuming they were waiting for the upcoming country act, Big & Rich. And I was sooo curious to see how a crowd like that would react to Pat...a single performer, his guitar, and some catchy ditties. I hope for his sake he won 'em over, cuz Pat's cool like that. I didn't stick around, opting instead for a walk to the next stage, hoping to find a seat.

Here's where I struck gold! The bleachers by the Miller Lite stage were barely half full, so I grabbed a soda, sat down, stretched out, and thought to myself how old I must be, if I was worn out and contemplating going home at 8:30. The latenight side stage act that I wanted to see was Sister Hazel. I was at the right stage. All I had to do was make it through some Bob Schneider guy I'd never heard of, and Sister Hazel was up next. However, that meant leaving the grounds close to midnight, getting home after 1:00, and going to work the next day. If I stayed.

I was starting to talk myself into heading toward my car, when Bob Schneider came onstage. People stood on the bleachers and cheered, and he started with kind of a slow, country-ish song. Easy on the ears, with some talent behind it. His second song was about the same pace, and I got a little curious, so I stepped up on the bleachers and made my way to the closest open spot, about a dozen rows back.

Then he started rockin' a little bit more, and went through songs in his set list that included a salsa kinda thing, some hip-hop/rap kinda funk, straight-on rock 'n' roll, and everything in between. Granted, it may have sounded like he was a bit confused as to what kind of singer/songwriter, but everything he did was pretty well done, and he made a new fan.

Well...more than one. Because after the show over by the merch tent, he came over to pose for pictures and sign autographs. And the girlies went wild for him, all cool in his Ray Bans (it was almost 10 at night, but I'm pretty sure those were to hide his over-baked eyes) and his two-day scruff. One of the girls waiting in line was hoping to get him to sign her breasteses. Ahhh, the life of a rock star.

They recorded that night's performance and burned copies immediately after, so now I'm not only a fan, but I have Bob Schneider in my CD collection as well.

The time spent waiting for my CD was just about the time it took for Sister Hazel to set up and come onstage. I've seen them twice before (once at a county fair without their lead singer, even...he missed his plane), and they're awesome musically in concert. So I stayed. They rocked. I got home late. It was sooo worth it.

I guess I'm not so old after all.

— • — • —

So that got to be a little long and drawn out, didn't it? Turned into a "here's what I did, and here's what I thought" post, as one of my critics has termed it. Sorry. I can talk about music all day, and Summerfest deserves all the exposure it can get, because there's really nothing like it.

But down here, maybe I'll throw out a little question to ponder: How many of you are inclined to do things like that on your own, and who would rather skip those events if there's not someone to go with?...Concerts? Sporting events? Movies? Meals in restaurants?

Several years ago, Counting Crows played in a gymnasium on the UW-Stevens Point campus, of all places. And on a weeknight. And guess who took off work to attend? Alone.

I don't go to too many movies in the theater, but I'm not averse to seeing a movie by myself. And seeing as how I only have three friends (two of whom are imaginary), sometimes they're not available. (and I'll be damned if I'm gonna pay $8.50 for my imaginary pals to sit in a movie theater.)

In the movie Hope Floats, Harry Connick Jr. was eating in a restaurant by himself when Sandra Bullock came in and sat down at a table alone as well. He started to have this dialogue with her about how it takes a brave person to eat by themselves. How you've got to make it look like it's by choice...like you're mysterious. (or something close to that. I don't have the movie in front of me.)

Is it really such a horrible thought to do these things alone? Anyone?

"When I die, I want people to

play my music, go wild and freak out

and do anything they want to do."

—Jimi Hendrix

O'er The Land Of The Free...

I've decided to salute this great nation on its Independence Day with the biggest symbol of freedom I could find. And I bet you can't find one any bigger. (flagpole-wise, that is.)

All it took was a quick jaunt down the Interstate, because the photo you see is the tallest free-standing flagpole in the whole entire country, with a big mother of an Old Glory fluttering atop it. (amateur photograph taken by this blog's owner. if I would have had a ladder, or perhaps a helicopter, I could have gotten a more exciting angle.)

Those of you who live in this area, or throughout the state of Wisconsin, have no doubt seen this flag rippling in the breeze as you've driven on I-43 past Sheboygan. And those of you who've visited this blog in the past from Poland or Belgium or Mexico or Egypt or China or Taiwan or Turkey (aren't stat counters great?) or Singapore or Uruguay or the United Kingdom or Spain...I'm sorry you accidentally clicked on the wrong link, but thanks for spending a brief zero minutes at Ton-Fifty-ONE.

The flag and its pole were erected in 2005 by an insurance company called Acuity, after another flag it had displayed was toppled by high winds and a design flaw. When discussion began about replacing it, the talks grew big. Very big.

The flagpole is 338 feet tall...the tallest in the nation, and more than twice as tall as the previous pole at 150 feet. It is 6 feet wide at the base and weighs 65 tons, and is sunk into a 550-ton block of concrete that is 40 feet deep, 8 feet wide and reinforced by steel rods.

The flag is 7,200 square feet, or 120-by-60, which is four times the size of the original flag. Each star is 4 feet high, and each stripe is 4 1/2 feet wide. The flag weighs 300 pounds.

More info about the flag can be found here, and here.

It's awe-inspiring every time I drive past it, because it seems as though you could drive five miles in the time it takes for one slow, lazy ripple to make its way from the end that's tethered to the pole, across its vast canvas and off the edge of the stripes on the far end.

And while I shouldn't promote unsafe driving habits here, I will admit to gazing up through my moonroof at night as I drive past, the flag illuminated by a circle of kabillion-candlepower spotlights aimed at it from the ground.

Ya done good, Acuity.

Happy Fourth of July, everyone.

"It is very easy in the world

to live by the opinion of the world.

It is very easy in solitude to be

self-centered. But the finished man is

he who in the midst of the crowd

keeps with perfect sweetness
the independence of solitude."

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

A Wise Man In His Own Right

There’s a guy by the name of Hesiod whom I stumbled upon several months ago...a self-proclaimed farmer in Greece, but more historically a writer, poet and philosopher.

Hesiod lived and wrote and philosophized a long, lonngg time ago, in the eighth century B.C. (before croissants). His two known written works discuss the five ages of time, pagan ethics and present the descent of the gods.

Pretty heavy stuff, but his writings have had an impact on modern thinkers.

Now, I didn’t go searching for him because I tout myself as a great modern thinker or because I obsess over Greek mythology. However, if you want to believe either of those excuses, please feel free. They sound more studious than the reason I’m about to share with you.

I found him and one of his ideas on a calendar I had, a calendar published by the Old Farmer’s Almanac, with quips and quotes and “sage advice,” as they call it, for each day of the year.

For instance, throughout the months you find that to avoid a double chin, you shouldn’t sleep on plump pillows. (Staying away from that third and fourth slice of pizza may help as well, but I’m not as smart as the Farmer’s Almanac people.)

On another day, quoting George Washington’s “Rules of Civility,” we learn to “shift not yourself in the sight of others nor gnaw your nails.”

This is good, usable everyday stuff!


Anyway, on one particular day of the year, I came across a bit of history that noted, “according to Hesiod, a wise man is born on this day.” (You all see where this is headed, don’t you?)

Those words filled the square that was my birthday, and without knowing even one other thing about Hesiod, he became instantly insightful and intelligent in my eyes and one of my bestest friends.

I did a little more research into his theory, to see if maybe he was referring to someone else born on the same day as me. There are, after all, quite a good number of years between Hesiod’s day and mine.

I found people like John Goodman, who makes a great second generation Blues Brother, but also had to be Roseanne’s husband on TV; and Beach Boy Brian Wilson, who wrote a lot of beachin’ surf songs, but later couldn’t muster the courage to step outside of his bedroom for however many years.

Lionel Richie and Cyndi Lauper also made the list, and I stopped shortly thereafter for fear of running into a great British leader or some NASA scientist.

Well...I won’t include the exact date of my birthday here, because I’m not trying to guilt-trip everyone into sending me birthday wishes and gifts. (Hint: it’s sometime during the first eleven months of the year.) I like to let my birthday pass as quietly as possible each year.

Donations of cash money are cheerfully accepted year-round, however.

“There is still no cure

for the common birthday.”

—John Glenn

You Can Make Millions!!

Do you make $1,000 every day? If not, call 1-800-IMA-SUKR and find out how you can!! And if you call in the next 10 minutes, you’ll receive a free hula hoop! Hurry!! Don’t wait!! The longer you wait, the less time you’ll have to make piles and piles of cash!!!

Ah, the get-rich-quick scam. It’s been around forever, in all shapes and sizes and forms. Many of them can be spotted a mile away, distinguished by their too-good-to-be-trueness and their excessive use of the exclamation point.

I’ve seen more than my share of them in newspapers and magazines, and have been up during the wee hours of the night to see the infomercials on TV.

Some claim that if you have the basic skills to stuff an envelope, that you’ve got what it takes to start your own home-based business, and soon the money will be piling up.

One of my favorites is when an ad starts out, “Do you own a personal computer? Don’t just let it sit there. Put it to work for you!”

I own a personal computer. I’m clacking keyboard keys on it right now. And my post office box isn’t overflowing with five-figure checks. What am I doing wrong??

Others that pop up almost everywhere include vending machine routes from which you can make thousands upon thousands, and the ever-popular no-money-down real estate programs.

Buy this mansion with only the change you find under your couch cushions!, the 3:30 a.m. infomercial reports.

I thought maybe I’d give that a try, but...I couldn’t even afford to buy an outhouse, much less an actual residence with indoor plumbing. So I instead went back to my computer and tried to put it to work. For me.

Probably the most famous—or perhaps infamous—of the scam artists, is Don Lapre, who’s been on TV ever since he took overacting lessons from William Shatner. That boy must have watched a lot of Star Trek when he was younger.

You know the guy: he made millions out of his tiny one-bedroom apartment placing small classified ads in newspapers across America, yadda yadda yadda. And he came on TV to tell us all about it, emphasizing every...other...word...along the way.

He was always just vague enough while describing his system so that he didn’t have to actually say anything, but sent camera close-ups slowly scrolling over income checks for seventy-five grand and up.

You, too, can do this working just a couple hours a day!

And the title of his system? “Making Money,” of course. All you had to do was send him forty bucks and he’d show you how. Meanwhile...he just made forty bucks.

If you google his name, the first page of results is so saturated with words like “be wary” and “rip off” and “have you been fooled by Don Lapre?” that it paints a clear picture of the worth of his brilliant scam...uhh, scheme.

After latenight viewers tired of his “tiny classified ads” script, he freshened it up a bit with an idea for a business running your own Web site, and then quickly moved on to pushing vitamins. Not just any vitamin, mind you...but the Greatest Vitamin In The World! (say that like James T. Kirk would, and the dramatic effect will ooooze from the words.)

So Don Lapre made his money...forty dollars at a time. Who knows? Maybe the guy's really only worth like a hundred sixty bucks. And I doubt any of his protégés are cashing big checks and sailing away on their yachts.

But I’ll keep watching for his next big idea, and be sure to read the fine print at the bottom of the TV screen before I pick up my phone to order.

Seeing as how I can’t find an infomercial on any of my channels, I better get to bed. I’ve got to go to work in the morning.

Unless...does anybody need any envelopes stuffed? Or have the next great money-maker involving seven hours of TV watching a day?

“I do want to get rich

but I never want to do

what there is to do

to get rich.”
—Gertrude Stein

Are You Ready For Some...More B-Grade Football??

I need to start here at the top by saying that I like Mark Cuban.

While I fully realize that the outspoken billionaire owner of the NBA’s Dallas Mavericks can rub many people the wrong way...often on an hourly basis...I have a great deal of respect for him.

I don’t always agree with everything he says. But I like him.

Sure, he's got an ego, and yes, he can be rather eccentric. But did I mention he's a freaking billionaire?? Self-made? That's more money than Dudley Moore's character in Arthur was going to give up to spend the rest of his life with Liza Minnelli's character. (however, that's back when Liza was kind of attractive and had some spunk...not the total wack-job Liza of today.) Let's put a billion dollars in your pocket and see if you don't become even slightly affected by your new change in lifestyle.

With that being said, I think he’s flipped his lid. (Cuban....not Arthur.) (Can you tell in the photo on the right how distraught he is at my opinion of him?)

Cuban is part of a group that is trying to build a football league that would rival the NFL. The United Football League, still in its earliest stages of development, is trying to field teams in eight cities that have no NFL franchises, and Cuban has already signed on to become a team owner.

The UFL would play its games on Friday nights, so as not to conflict with the NFL schedule, and the founders are counting on the league being profitable after five years.

The initial investment per team is only $30 million, a mere pittance for someone who has more money than all the countries in the southern hemisphere combined. So I don’t fault Cuban for throwing some money out there to give this thing a go.

And with his fresh-thinking perspective, he could help to make the UFL a more substantial alternative to the NFL than some of its previous competitors, such as the United States Football League, the World Football League, and the XFL, none of which lasted longer than three seasons. The XFL lasted just three months.

But the way he’s marketing his new business venture to the media is what makes me think he should stick to dot-coms for fortune building, and basketball teams for recreation.

Cuban told the Associated Press that it was a pretty simple concept. “We think there is more demand for pro football than supply,” he said.

That part makes sense. Many people I know are football junkies, and more football would be a wonderful thing. More N...F...L football, if you please. I didn’t watch more than five minutes of the XFL after it was created before seeing that the only similarities it shared with the NFL were that the players wore shoulder pads and helmets and the ball was brown and oblong. End of story. End of new football league.

The UFL is being founded by investment banker Bill Hambrecht and Google Inc. executive Tim Armstrong, who have each pledged $2 million to start the league.

OK, so that gives it a little bit more respectability, because it seems that everything related in any way to Google turns to gold. Throw in an eccentric but über-intelligent businessman like Cuban, and you almost want to cheer a little for the league to get its feet under it and have a chance.

Cuban goes a little overboard on his blog when he talks about the fledgling new football league, saying, “There is obviously demand for top-level professional football. That is exactly what the UFL hopes to be someday, an equal to the NFL, if not more.”

If not more, he says.

I applaud his grit and determination, but that’s like me saying that I hope to be as rich as Mark Cuban someday, if not richer.

The league currently has no other prospective team owners, and if it does get off the ground, I don’t see it ever reaching it’s magical five-year anniversary.

But maybe I’ll buy a hat with Cuban’s team logo on it, if I can find one, to show my support.

I’ll wear it under my Detroit Lions hat.

“Football combines the two

worst features of American life.

It is violence punctuated by

committee meetings.”
—George F. Will

The Downfall Blue Book Exam

When I saw Matchbox 20 several years ago, they had a very simple, understated stage setup...a few speaker towers here and there, and whatever instruments were necessary, and not much else.

But they had three long vertical video screens behind the stage, and flashed patterns and graphics and other such stuff on them like many bands do at concerts. During "Downfall," they did something a little different, and it stuck with me. There were big bright flashes of light on the screens, that quickly zoomed out to reveal a question that stayed for a few seconds and then vanished. And then...another bright light came, and another super fast zoom to show another question. This went on throughout the song.

It was pretty powerful. The one thing I missed from that song, though, was the Gospel choir that backs up Rob Thomas about halfway through. If they could have gotten a big production choir like that together, it would have blown me away. I realize that's a bit tough to do during a tour...pack a dozen or so gospel singers.

Anyway. Back to the questions. I searched around on a forum site a day or two after the show, and found that someone had copied the questions and posted them. The presentation probably loses a bit of its luster without the screens and the light flashes. But I thought they might be fun to answer. Some of them can be simple yes-or-no questions, and others...well, they might take a little more time.


Are you happy?
An easy one to start with, right? Sooo simple. Or, is it? My answer: on a scale of one to ten, one being least happy and ten being most happy, I'm probably about a 3.749. Bump that up to a 4.312 on weekends. And an 8 whenever I'm in Vegas.

What do you love?
This question should be constantly revisited and added to and edited and revised. I love music...I love people who can make me laugh...I love condiments...I love the power of the written word...I love family and good friends...I'd love to spend the time it would take to give much deeper, sexier answers than the ones I just gave.

Do you trust your friends?
Most of them, yes.

...your family?
Implicitly.

...your political leaders?
Fuuuuck no! No matter from which side of the aisle they spout their promises.

Do you trust the media?
Only Nancy Grace. Everyone else I'm a bit leery of. (no, I don't trust the media. all the no-spin zones out there have whirlwinds of spin. And Nancy Grace? someone pleeeease get her off the air.)

Do you trust yourself?
Much of the time, yes.

Do you trust your pets?
No pets to trust or distrust.

Do you care to dance?
I DO care to dance, and I've got rhythm and everything! But often, I'm too self-conscious to let myself go and be a dork out on the dance floor. What's that famous saying, "Dance like nobody is watching, and love like it's never going to hurt."? I probably need to take a lesson from that quote. Many other brilliant minds have also spoken up on the topic of dance..."We should consider every day lost in which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh."--Nietzsche. "Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who did not hear the music."--Angela Monet. "Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance."--Dave Barry. "The man that can't dance thinks the band is no good."--unattributed. "We're fools whether we dance or not. We might as well dance."--unattributed.

What do you believe?
I believe in karma...I believe in good people...I believe a beer with too much hops is a bad beer...I believe the Lions just might be better than the Packers this year (but I believe that every freakin' year)...

Do you believe in yourself?
Ahh, don't you love introspection? (yeah...neither do I.) Yes, I believe in myself. No, I don't believe in myself as much as I should.

What's on your mind?
Why I don't write more often, when I enjoy it as much as I do...where I'll be a year from now...Willie Nelson is always on my mind...FRIDAAAAY is on my mind...and so is sleep.

Did you see that?
I see a lot of things. I like to consider myself a pretty keen observer and a rather perceptive person.

:-)
What's so funny?
I assume this question pertains to the little smiley face thingie that flashed on the screen during the concert, but I'll answer it with people who are always funny to me: Dave Barry, Steve Martin, Al Franken, David Sedaris, Ellen DeGeneres, Adam Sandler...many more (as soon as I move on from this question I'll think of them). From my little sidebar blog category...she's so funny. And he's so funny.

Do you mean what you say?
I make a conscious effort to try to mean what I say. I hate insincerity, and I think it's so easy to spot. If you don't mean what you say...don't say anything. Pretty simple.

What are you waiting for?
This question made me chuckle a little more than the first time I ran down this list and tried to answer them...because since then, I got a refrigerator magnet from a friend with the exact same question on it. Kinda like a subtle drive-in-the-ass hint, I'm guessing. And I appreciated it greatly. So.......what am I waiting for. I'm waiting for the girl of my dreams to ring my doorbell and tell me she can't live without me...I'm waiting for it to rain money...and apparently, I'm waiting for my life to pass me by.

Who are you most yourself with?
Myself. (is that a cop-out answer? yep, it is. fine...I'll delve a little deeper.) A buddy with whom I shoot darts...a buddy with whom I do a fair share of concert-hopping...my sisters...V.

What's going on?
Often times, not enough to keep me entertained or interested. (and who's fault is that?)

Are you different when you are alone?
Yes.

Do you like your life?
What the fuck are you trying to do, Matchbox 20 people...get me all depressed and shit? Geeeez. The answer is sometimes, ok? I like my life sometimes.

Do you count your blessings?
For all the pissing and moaning I do in some of these questions, the answer to this question is a resounding "yes". I know in the grand scheme of it all, I'm pretty lucky.

Do you know how to be silent?
All too often.

What are you scared of?
Being misunderstood. I don't think I make the greatest first impression. (and we've all heard how many chances you get to make one of those.) I think maybe I make a better third or fourth or seventeenth impression. But by then...it can be too late, can't it?

Was it as bad as you feared?
For the most part, nothing's as bad as people fear. I think anxiety takes hold and messes with people's heads, and when it's over you look back and realize that whatever it was...wasn't so bad.

Are you more than you think you are?
(this one's easy. three simple words, and lots of dots.)
so............much............more.


Anybody else wanna share?

"But some things in this world

Man, they don't make sense.

Some things you don't leave

until they leave you."

—Bright Lights, Matchbox 20