Son of a...

One thing you may or may not know about me:

I have a song in my head.

All the time.

It's not the same song all the time. But it's always there.

Tonight, it's Rebirth Brass Band's "Do Whatch Wanna" which may seem odd, but I was listening to it on the Ipod and it got stuck.

This has been going on as long as I can remember. Wings' "Band on the Run" was a big one for most of the mid-1970s. Almost all of 1980 was spent with AC/DC's "Back in Black."

So, I when I hear a particular song, I tend to have very specific memory. For instance, the aforementioned Band on the Run is riding in a big yellow station wagon on the way to swimming lessons. Joe Jackson's "Steppin' Out," which remains one of my all-time favorite songs, is leaving the locker room at Bell-Herron Middle School and getting on the bus for a junior high basketball game at Sandy Valley. Fleetwood Mac's "Hold Me" is 4-H camp. (Yes, I went to 4-H camp. Shut up.)

And there are times when a song gets stuck. Rush's "La Villa Strangiato," which is a nine-minute instrumental, was firmly in my brain from 1987-1992. At least it seemed that way. It was like the song I would revert to when all other songs were absent.

When that happens I not only hear the song repeatedly, I go back through and do different parts - one time the drums, one time the bass, one time the vocals - it never, ever stops.

This is part of the reason I wear headphones at work a lot. It at least gives me a variation. That, and I can avoid talking to coworkers who want to, you know, uh, chat or something.

Also, I'm easily influenced. I hear a commercial jingle or some horrific piece of Dave Matthews trash - and it can get stuck in there just as easily.

Anyway, you get the gist. This brings me to last Saturday. With the weather getting nicer, I took the old Target-bought bike out for a spin. So, I'm pedaling my fat-ass down the street when I come upon this kid outside playing on the sidewalk. Which is fine. His right, I guess, although I didn't see his parents and I totally could have beat his ass.

But the little shit was singing, very loudly, The Chicken Dance.
there was no reason for him to be singing this. He wasn't at a wedding reception. He was outside, just screwing around.

And for the next 30 minutes I rode a bike and sang the Chicken Dance to myself - over and over and over. Do you know how many times you can sing the Chicken Dance to yourself in 30 minutes? A hell of a lot.

That little shit is getting thumped if I see him again.

Mr. Show - a favorite

Corporetry!

White Guyz


A sea of bald spots and sportcoats
Welcome to the MarriHolidaySuitesInn!

Bob, Tom, Dick, Rick, Rich, Rob, Tim and Dave
Steve, John, Dick, Tom, Ken, Joe, Bob and Bob

Shake Shake Shake
Back pat. Nice tie. Nice tie.
Remember that time?
Oh do I!

ECONOMY!
Grumble, rumble, huff, fist shake, ha-rumph!
Democrats/Republican/Government/Other!

GOLF!
Can't wait. Me either.
I'm bad. I'm worse! No, I am! No, me!
So bad.

OBAMA!
Grumble, rumble, huff, fist shake, ha-rumph!

Industry joke. Chuckle chuckle.
Funny cause it's so so true.

PowerPoint!
Paragraphs so very long.
Bullets are the answer.

Blackberry buzzes.
So important.

Lunch!

A weekend in bulleted form (now with even more bullets!)

What's becoming an annual March trek to NW Indiana was once again a good time had by all as I hung with the Stalters.

- You know it's an odd weekend when your seats at the NHL game are better than your seats at the 13-year old hockey team game.

- My fake nephew Matthew's team lost 3-0, but #61 showed well on the wing.

- Was almost involved in one of those infamous hockey parent brawls. Hockey parents are an, um, interesting bunch.

- I like Blackhawks fans. There was zero heckling for our on-the-glass seats in the United Center, as Hawks fans were far too busy belittling their own team to pay any attention to us. The guy next to me said "I was just in Columbus on business. Nice little college town." Uh, okay dude.

- I stink at Call of Duty. Matthew killed me something like 20 times in a row.

- On a similar note:
I don't need an XBox 360.
I don't need an XBox 360.
I don't need an XBox 360.

I am an adult.

I don't need an XBox 360.




- A word about my fake niece Katy. She's 10 and is playing on the 12 and under indoor girls soccer team. Their opponents on this Saturday night were 14-year olds or as I called them "Gargantuan Towers of Evil." This was like a high school team playing against an NBA team. Ridiculous. That's Katy on the right in the above picture. I was hot they even put this matchup together, but damned if Katy didn't go out there and play her butt off against these 14-year old monsters. Crown Point, Indiana Soccer League, you are dead to me.

- When I asked Katy if some of her fourth grade classmates had cell phones she said "Yes, but that's retarded!"
I agreed wholeheartedly. She was emphatic. "I don't need a phone until seventh grade."

- Finished up with an Italian Beef from Portillos. good stuff.

The Colonel ain't f'in around

This evening, sensing my body was dangerously low in saturated fats and starch, I made a quick trip through the KFC drive thru for dinner.

I was especially thirsty having spent the previous two hours screaming at the television set, which was not coincidentally showing an Ohio State basketball game. The Buckeyes are really talented. They have managed to take one of my favorite sports and completely suck the fun right out of it. That takes effort.

Anywho, I was thirsty. The drink choices on the KFC menu read as such:

Medium
Large
Mega

Small? Fuck that shit, man. The Colonel doesn't offer small. Would you ask Van Halen to "turn it down a notch?" Would you tell Tom Cruise to lightly jog instead of sprint in every movie? Hell no.

Something in me snapped. If the Colonel offered, the Colonel offered for a reason. Was it to test my manhood or maybe my bladder?

Whatever. Bring it, Colonel.

"Mega" I offered up to my highly-skilled KFC employee on the other end of this scintillating conversation.

I waited my turn with a wry grin. Mega, my ass. Did they know who they were messing with? I had taken the the Large, Extra Large, the Biggie, the Gulp, the Big Gulp, the Super Big Gulp. I'd seen a million drinks and I'd, uh, dranked them all.

Finally, I gunned the GTI and raced forward 12 feet to the pick-up window. My highly-trained KFC counterpart handed me original three-piece dinner and gave me a knowing smile.

"It'll be just a second on your drink."

Wait? The food was ready before the drink?
Umm..

I don't know if there is a small industrial-strength crane stored inside every KFC drive-thru window, but there must be, because I don't know how else this pimply-faced, highly-paid KFC employee got the Mega up to the window.

She gripped it with two hands and thrust it through the window.

"Here's your drink."

I couldn't hold it with one hand. Shaquille O'Neal couldn't hold this f'in thing with one hand. It had a handle. I'm not joking. It had a bleeping handle.

Not only wouldn't it fit in my cupholders, I think I heard it laugh when I tried to slip into into the adjustable cupholder. Instead, I placed it into the passenger seat. Immediately, the GTI began listing starboard.

We struggled home. I had to use the handle to lug it inside.

All is not lost friends. I drank and I drank. And then I drank some more.

Four hours later the Mega was beaten.
And I think I am now a diabetic.

Excuse me, friends.
I have to pee. Again.