Oooky Spooky. Yay for Halloween!

Halloween. Candy, children, candy-coated children, ghost, and ghouls alike. What a spectacular holiday. This year I wore a lovely powder blue jacket sporting little black birds who were eating my flesh. Yes Tippi Hedren, Hitchcock-blond and animal loving activist, they ate my face and left me torn and bruised. I love dressing up as old Hollywood for Halloween.

http://www.frospubngrub.com/

This year I ventured to a bar by the name of Fro's with T in da Hood and her husband, Mr. Hood, to enjoy the festivities and mirth. I, being from the big city, was scared of the small town doings and wasn't sure if I would make it out alive. It was scary. There were she-beasts,

convicts, zombies, and swampmen drinking poison and cackling through the evening. Luckily, there was some magical free pizza to keep me occupied as the goblins concocted a plan to eat me alive. As the evening progressed, I too realized that I was being mesmerized by the flashing lights and cocktails. Would I make it through the night? Woahahahaha cackle cackle.....

ewww. leftovers again. dardnit roseanne!

Hooked on classics.....like Xanadu

Okay, I'm no Olivia Newton-John. But I found my mom's Hooked on Classics CD and laughed out loud for a minute. Imagine the classics on a synthesizer pumping full of adrenaline and maxed out on psychotropics. This is what I'm dealing with. As a child, I was dead convinced that this was the music that the Special Olympics used to inspire runners. Well, here are my special dance Olympics, Xanadu-style.

Sorry for the Quasi Moto Hunchback dancing moves ~ I'm no Napoleon Dynamite.

Stress = Funny Strange

Stress does funny things to me when I am stressed out. I have really bizarre dreams and my body does amazingly cruel things to me. You don't want to know. I don't want to know.


Anyway. I had a dream last night that an ASPCA volunteer called and b*tched me out because I didn't have dog toys in my front yard and that I should walk Ellie to work to get her some exercise. I hung up the phone on her in the dream and I woke up really angry. Ellie has tons of toys and love. She does need more exercise though, but not walking all the way to Davenport. Now I feel like a bad mommie. Look at that cutie pie all dressed up in green corduroy jacket. puppy : )

I also had a dream that Paris Hilton was setting me up by placing her fancy solid gold pen in my coat pocket and telling police that I stole it from her because I told her that she should go to college and finish because she is a f*cking Hilton and acting like a dumb b*tch.

So on that strange note, I leave you wish this little nugget that represents what I feel inside.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmWK6xHjByE

Robin Hood, the Real Story, the Rhythm and the Rhyme

I spy, with my little eye, Sheriff Kanye running off with Taylor Swift's VMA Moonman with Vanilla Ice trying to bust a cap in his ass. Then I spy Obama in the Sherwood Hood with his wife Maid Michelle and his trusty pal Skippy Biden righting the wrongs of our financial past (shame shame PJ and W.) without missing a beat by sharing with the media that Kanye West is in fact, a "jackass." Meanwhile, we remember The Notorious B.I.G. and his mentorship of Diddy and Mase (the Ecclesiastic Bombastic) who, through their Bad Boy ways, have saved the day via the rhythm and the rhyme. And Miley is there too, just because, she always there, constantly, all the time.


Hey Mr. Tambourine Man, play this song for me......please click on the sidebar YouTube for Ice Ice Baby (blue with words) for the full experience.

Yo Robin Hood, let's kick it

Tax this, baby
Tax this, baby

All right halt, congregate, and listen
Hood is back from the Sherwood convention
Marion grabs a hold of him tightly
She keeps it fresh by both mourn’ and nightly
Will she ever stop, yo, Hood don't know
John’s stealin’ some tax so he be rich fo sho
To the extreme, Prince steal like a vandal
Light up the woods, Marion wax him wit a handle
Drink, find Nottingham and go boom
Robin busted heads to get to Marion, zoom
Drunkly, Kanye’s plays a dope in lieu of a melody
If you ain’t pay taxes, Prince lay you down with a felony
Love it or leave it, you better be pay
Lucky for ya’ll Hood hits bull's eye cause he don't play
If there was a problem, yo Hood will solve it
Check out this mix as the Ecclesiastic Bombastic revolves it


Drink this, baby
Drink this, baby

Now that the Hood be jumpin’
With the woods tricked out and the ale is pumpin'
Quick to get drunk, ain’t no point in fakin’
Tuck’s spinnin’ them beats, don’t be forsakin’
Throwing back, to get drunk and nimble
Tuck go crazy when he see holy symbol
And a hi-hat, with a Bishop mojo
Marion’s bouncin’, no Hood, time to go solo
Rollin' in her horse and bug
With her hair done up so that it don’t show
Taylor was waiting, wishing MTV were on standby
Did Kanye stop, no, must have been high
She kept on chillin' till he stopped
She busted a tear and headed to Miley Cyrus’ block
V-M-A’s dead
Yo, so she continued to “Oh, wait, hey, Nottingham Avenue!”
Taylor was hot and downed some Bellini’s
Beyonce even said Kanye’s a meanie
Jealous, cause’ all he does is whine
Diddy shook his head, said Bad Boy ain’t mine
Reading, Bush was out on the mall
Cheney’s a chump acting ill; he’s out, no more Inauguration Balls
Tambourine man, rang out like a bell
Mase came back to the biz so that he could sell
Falling, on the market real fast
Jumped in my carriage, horse had some gas
Rickshaw to rickshaw, the dirt road was packed
I'm trying to get away for my afternoon snack
Sheriff on the scene you know what I mean
He passed me up, confronted all the ale fiends
If there was a problem, yo Hood will solve it
Check out this mix as the Ecclesiastic Bombastic revolves it

Smoke this, baby
Smoke this, baby

Take heed, 'cause BIG’s a lyrical poet
Nottingham on the scene just in case you didn't know it
The town that created all the bass sound
Archers shoot and spear holes in the ground
'Cause Diddy’s white parties are a hell of a thrill
Feasible feasts, Thanksgiving, a vision and feel
Plotted and formed
Bad Boy, a hell of a concept
We make it hype and you want to get wit this
Mase wear himself a fade, slice like a ninja
Cut like a razor blade so fast other Friars say damn
If my rhyme was an ale, I'd sell it by the pint
Keep my composure, cutting Guantanamo loose
Magnetized by the Maid, while I drink pimp juice
If there was a problem, yo Hood will solve it
Check out this mix as the Ecclesiastic Bombastic revolves it


Tax this, baby –vanilla-
Tax this, baby (oh-oh) –chocolate-
Drink this, baby –hazelnut-
Drink this, baby vanilla ice
Yo Hood, let's get out of here
Word to your Motha’
Drink this, baby too cold
Drink this, baby too cold too cold (x2)
Drink this, baby

Crank Dis

I have cracked the code ladies and gents. This is why America's youth has gone retarded. Luckily there is a silver lining coming straight to you via my favorite little haunt called the Bier Stube. This is the place where magical dreams can come true on any open-mic-night with two white boys, some beer, a video camera, and some Spike Jonze-like inspirations, thus creating such a gem. Enjoy.

Soulja Boy Off In This Hoe Watch Me Crank It Watch Me Roll Watch Me Crank Dat Soulja Boy Then Super Man Dat Hoe Now Watch Me Yuuuuuaaaaaa! (Crank Dat Soulja Boy)

Birthday Weekend Extravaganza with Guest Blogger Dirty Blonde

Hello kids. Sorry about the delay. Been sick and recovering from last weeks events down in the Paign. So I did it. I desecrated my body as Vern would say, no longer allowed to be buried in an Orthodox Jewish cemetery, and got myself some ink.

feed the birds toppins a bag

Moving on. So I got the ink by myself for about a half hour until Dirty Blonde and C to the OC showed up to mock me and chat with the owner/artists who must have been having Vaudeville day at the shop because they were all wearing vests, suspenders, and they gelled their mustaches just right for my visit. Hmmm.


So we venture back to E and Papa Joe's and prepare (via adult beverages) for the night's outing. Everyone is talks and smiles and I am happy to be away on a vacay on this day....oh wait, is that cake? It is f*cking cold outside, which means that we inevitably decide to sit outside as it is the only place available at the Brewery where of course they still aren't brewing any beer. Thanks Blind Pig. More like Thirsty Beaver. Whatever.




Insert guest blog: Thanks to Dirty Blonde, here is a vignette of what went down:


"Games you played when you went to slumber parties: Truth or Dare, I never have I ever…, etc.




For J’s birthday, the weather was a titty bit nipply. I think I could have cut glass with mine and it took me two days to defrost from that night. When I get cold, I get sleepy. To keep the evening fun and exciting, we decided to resort back to the slumber party games. What makes it more fun doing it at a bar is there are more people around to get involved in the dares and/or increase the embarrassment. We decided to play Truth or Dare first with a clause that you can’t pick Truth. Ted had to drop “trou” meaning he had to drop his pants to his ankles, in freezing cold weather mind you. I had to give some married guy a violet and say a poem the married guy released the flower like I handed him a dirty Kleenex, so funny. I also had to pull a Joey Tribiani “Hey, how you doin’?” Followed by the stupidest pick up line in the world, “What’s your sign?” Of course, the first guy I approached took all the fun out of this one. I got out the “Hey, how you doin’?” He replied, you could tell this guy has barely ever spoken to a girl before, for a second, I thought he might pee his pants. Then I asked him, “What’s your sign?” He turns to his two friends, other guys mind you, and asked them what his sign was. WTF? After about two- to five-minutes, we figure out he’s an Aries. Way too much work for a Dare! Shot time!!! Apparently, I scared the guys off, I wasn’t even inside the door to go get shots when they took off in the other directions. They had to go get reinforcements. So funny."






Here are some snapshots of J hugging strangers via the DARE.

The next day was nicely punctuated by brunch at Silvercreek, where a group of friends realized that you can in fact, eat your weight in delightful, gourmet brunch fare. So E, Papa Joe, C to the OC, Mr. Orange County, Dirty Blonde, Ted, Jilly Bean and I join together before I hit the road. And to the mimosas....here's one for the road.

misREPRESENT in da Hood

Okay, so I am putting a disclaimer on this blog that I in no way under any circumstance endorse the imagery and/or symbolism of this picture. I am merely stating a visual fact of something that I saw today that was eerily odd.

So as some of you know, I am a counselor at a treatment facility. I teach kids skills. Not nunchuck skills, though I often wish I knew how, or computer hacking skills. I'm more a teacher of coping skills and anger management type things. Stop laughing, I already get the irony. Those who can't do blah blah blah.

I came into work today and it was business as usual. Some kids screaming, others begging to talk to me to escape the insanity, some wishing kind birthday greetings, etc. I love working with teenagers because it's never boring and I feel like I'm 15 on a good day.

Well, I saw one of my friends/coworker - T in da Hood's arms today. She was in restraint with a non complacent client last week who was trying to go on run (don't worry, we don't hurt the kids, they just hurt us) and she inevitably got punched in the arm. Nothing new. But the bruise tells a different story.

Now I'm not one of those "I saw Jesus in my toast this morning" folks, but that bruise looks an awful lot like a swastika to me.


Now I have seen bite mark scars, cuts, and a finger that was reattached from accidentally getting cut off in the magnetic door when placing a kid in a control room (for threatening a peer or staff with a weapon mind you); but my friend kinda looks like she was hit by Hitler himself. That is just messed up. Obviously unintentional on the client's end of things. I'm sure if this particular child had any say in the matter, this child would have tried to represent Gucci Mane's double G's.


Personally, I am against tagging people via the punch. I much prefer pretty ink done by real artist who aim to represent peaceful things like T in da Hood's actual tattoo placed right above this not-so-pleasant bruise.

On the Eve of Twenty Eight

So twenty-eight years old. It's heading around the bend. Just like the car with the two little old ladies yesterday driving down a one lane highway the wrong way with cement highway dividers hugging the tiny lane who almost hit me head on. I survived. I have had this weird thing about 27. Now I am no musician, so I'm not part of the 27 club or anything; maybe it's that stupid Katherine Heigl single forever movie revolving around those 27 dresses. Hmmmm. 28 should be better though.

Then reality set in. I went to Chili's the other night with some co-workers and saw something equally amusing and horrifying.



This may very well be as good as it gets. Obviously a man of many interests, I find the dichotomy of the Southern pride married to the misogynistic images of the Playboy Bunny, Slutty Girl Pinups, and the big ole' 69 charming. But I digress. I sit here in my swivel chair and pause. Although covered up for the sake of his privacy (which he doesn't exactly have on his own accord), I notice that he is willing to put himself out there, name, number, address and all. Maybe I should do the same. 28 isn't exactly young, nor is it old. Maybe this Prince Charming has a sticker fetish. Maybe he doesn't realize that he lives in a previous Union state and that the Union won. I mean, Illinois spawned Lincoln and a black President. Hmmmm. Maybe he believes that stars and bars represents to him falling out of a chair and hitting his head dizzy-style while at his local tavern. Maybe he believes that Stars and Bars is the name of a Paris Hilton's memoirs from prison. Belch. If he can crack open a can of PBR and settle into this crazy ride, then so can I. This is the year. 28. Good old 28.

Thank you Linus for paving the path.....

So I get told all the time that my "security blanket," which is not in fact a blanket at all, is in fact a small pink pillow named Pelle (pronounced Pell E). They all say it's ridiculous and I am too old. Well, as it happens, Pelle has provided me with much comfort and amusement to me, my family, and my friends throughout the years. And all you haters out there have your thing. Countless teddies, Frankie's, ba's, doggies, bunnies, ribbon wubbies, and the silky edges of blankets. You know who you are!

Pelle is an anomaly all his own. I would compare him to George Foreman's children, in the sense that this one right here is actually Pelle the 13th or something like that. He began as a blue pillow in my crib and evolved from my mom's nightgown that was made of a silky man-made fabric that reeked on middle class America. She ran out of blue somewhere around 6th grade and then he became pink. Through the years he has been fat, skinny, with fluff, without fluff, turned into a Travel Pelle for big adventures like going to Europe or anywhere where some mean person would lose my luggage. He now travels in my carry-on purse at all times. Nobody's taking my Pelle.

The fact of the matter is, he has been swiped before. My sister once stuck him in the freezer and she has repeatedly taken him when I wasn't looking and put it down her shirt, fully knowing I wasn't going down that road. I would scream and complain until my mom yelled at us. This was last week.

I have two dogs, Ellie (a beagle mix) and Tinkie (a Shetland sheepdog). Both of them are often on the prowl, Snoopy-style, trying to steal my Pelle. Envy is their sin. Sometimes I'll shove him under their little head's while they nap, but most of the time he's mine, mine, MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!






So I thank you Linus van Pelt, for paving the way for me to be open in confronting my needs for a security blanket and countless hours of amusement for the people in my life. He will be with me someday, under my head, in my final resting place. The man I marry will just have to understand that I am weird and that Pelle is part of the deal, just like Ellie Moosebutt. No Pelle, no dice.

If you are in Greece and you say "it's Greek to me," the locals reply, "Δεν βρέθηκαν λέξεις," which means f*cking moron

So I went to meet up with my friend S and K at the "My Big Fat Greek Festival" tonight. I love Greek food, the funny costumes, the kick dancing and yelling OPA at the top of your lungs after you have no doubtedly hit the bottle of wine. What I didn't know what that S's lil' sister, let's call her LaLa, would be in town for festivities. LaLa is shiz-nittle-bam-snip-snap-sack. When we saw some kids getting their faces painted, I suggested she get hers done, her response was

"HELL YEAH!" So I painted this seahorse on her face.

I immediately decide that I should quit my job and become a carny who paints children's faces and sings theme songs at the top of my lungs, like from Full House and stupid shitty shows like that. "When you're drunk out there and feel all alone, your sober roommate will carry you home. Beer is....Everywhere you look. (Chipa-Dee-Ba-Ba-Dow)" Thank you Uncle Jesse.


Okay, so the night progresses and we end up going to downtown Rock Island to Steve's Old Time Tap for a beer and some chat. I forgot about LaLa out and about and downtown. Not ten minutes into sitting down, we are having a really super deep conversation about Beyonce's fake ass. Butt pads. Foamy butt pads. Hemorrhoid pillows to enhance her curves. Jay-Z's all snuggling up to her butt at night, thinking it's his pillow, and then she farts, and then he realizes pillows don't fart and he's all like "Damn girl. Why you gotta' be eatin' that shit that makes you all (insert fart noise from Jay-Z sticking his tongue out and vibrating it between his lips).

Direct quotation shouted out from LaLa to random people passing by on the sidewalk:


"Beyonce wears ass pads! My friend saw her live in NY and they were sticking out of her leotard...Everyone thinks her ass is real, but it's a damn sham!"

Visual aide:


Well naughty girl, this one's for you. www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3wtt8yRxYU

Doing Laundry at Mom and Dad's

There are many ways to make laundry more enjoyable. You could have conversations with other people, listen to music, secretly videotape your sister, your mother, and yourself in a little bit I call......

"Put the laundry in the basket."

Memory Lane

Warning: What you are about to read is something that occurred once in my teenage years and again post college. I do not want to endorse such an act, however, if you so choose to.....don't say I led you down this hilarious path of destruction.

1999 was the year. I was hanging out with my friends from school and some other boys from Moline High School. They were, shall we say, a bunch of professional assholes whose soul goal in life was to terrorize whomever came into their path with their special brand of humor. So a large group of us is sitting in the basement of a guy's house and someone drops the unholiest of ideas. The Poo Dollar. What do you ask is a poo dollar: It is a dollar bill which someone has smeared poop on one side and left the other clean so that the poopy side can be placed down on the sidewalk for an unsuspecting, greedy stranger to pick up and be horrified.

FYI....the below story is the shit.


Flash into the future. So while living in St. Louis, me, J#2, and J#3 are sitting around the living room sharing stories and good times when I unleash this little gem of a story. Immediately J#3 says "We have to do it!" J#2 is hesitant and says "No." J#3 is persistent and can bring something up until you want to do it just to get her to stop asking. Me, J#1 in this case, decides it must be done for sociological purposes. So the dollar is volunteered, prepared, and placed in a plastic baggy.



First outing: We attempt a Schnuck's parking lot in South County, only to find that people here are not that greedy. Not even by the cart corral. Hmmm. We try Home Depot. Apparently these people are already knee deep in manure and too focused on that to care about our lonely poo dollar.

Transportation and thoughts. Where to go. In a last stitch effort, we decide that certainly someone at the Walgreen's down the street from our apartment on Lindell would be the place for a pickup. Hot damn, we were right about that.

First guy pull up and parks in the handicapped space, not handicapped mind you, sees the poo dollar and reaches for it. He starts walking into the store and realizes that somethings wrong. What could it be? He goes into the store after dropping it smelling his hand and making a stink face. When he comes back out he says something to the poo dollar, as if it had any choice in the matter.

Next contender, also male, drives up to spot near entrance. Poo dollar has been placed poo down to conceal. He goes for it and picks it up to fling it in his car. He has this look of "I just scored a free dollar. Hells Yeah!" Then his face turns. The man realizes that there is something smelly going on. A face of disgust. He reaches into his car and throws it back on the ground and starts to stomp on it, as if to punish it. Meanwhile, back at the post in the car, we three are dying laughing. I mean, tears, difficulty breathing, and us trying to hide and look inconspicuous so as to not get caught.

Okay. So the last "taking" is the whole enchilada. A garbage truck pull into Walgreen's. A large man, kinda dirty, presumably smelly, jumps out and walks towards the entrance. He parks behind us. The man sees the dollar and jackpot, he picks it up. He too has that look of esctasy that can only come from two things, and this one is free money. (This is where things get tricky because we can no longer control our laughter at this point and I'm about to pee my pants.) The man realizes that he has been poo dollared and he looks pissed, and then he looks around the parking lot, see us, and starts walking to his truck. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. J#2 puts the car in gear and jets out. The guy is chasing us in his garbage truck. We are screaming and laughing and in tears at this point. J#2 is weaving in and out through the one ways in our neighborhood trying to lose him. J#3 looks like she is going to pass out from laughing and from excitement. We make it home safely finally, no garbage truck man in sight. Possibly one of the most, if not most, funniest things I have ever been a part of.

Visual aide: www.youtube.com/watch?v=vyqWq67kIBY

Seriously, I don't care who you are, if you judge. If you would have been there, you would have needed your inhaler. Cheers!

I Hope They Serve Beer With T Max

I recently read this fantastic little book called I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. I happened upon this book in a sea of Oprah recommendations when I was in the Denver airport at the very last terminal with only one tiny book outlet. I like beer and I am a jackass, so I thought this would be a riot. It was. It was an inappropriate riot, but a good read while waiting to fly away back to Moline, Il.

Well, I found out later that this book was being developed into a movie (see video at right to get an idea of what I am talking about) and that this guy, Tucker Max, was the biggest asshole in the universe. This was confirmed by a friend who had actually met him. I admired his putting his assholeyness out there like that, but I still couldn't shake how offended that I was probably either a One Star (aka common stock pig) or a Two Star (aka respectable pig) on the Tucker Max Female Rating System.

So I did what any respectable pig would do in this situation.

"I do wish I could blog longer, but..... I'm having an old friend for dinner."

Rub-a-dub-dub, I'm in the recession tub

Remember as a kid when they told you to save water. You know, like the whales were going to end up in a desolate, dried-up ocean if you ran the faucet too long while brushing your teeth. Well today I was thinking about those whales, the ones I killed as a kid because I needed to play in the sprinkler system, wagging my tongue in the water as to signify my liquid wealth. Ah summer.


Well, I decided that this extravagance has to stop. It's a recession dammit. I mean, seriously, they took a whole slice of cheese off of the Dollar Menu double cheeseburger and now it's the "McDouble"; sounds like McBullshit to me.


Back to the water situation. So we use something like 42 gallons for one shower. Then it got me thinking. I have this big mass of water in my backyard. Sure, it's usually used for swimming, but tomato/tamato. I'm going to save those whales dammit and wash my hair just like Aphrodite in my very own recession tub. Now my hairdresser would probably advice me against this (as she just dyed my hair), but it's for the whales and like hermit crabs or whatever.

you're not in the right VERNacular

On this holiday weekend, I thought I would drop off little bits of Vern's wisdom for you to pick up Hansel-Gretel style.


one of the advice relics from the basement

From the man cloaked in the blue robe.........


"You're not in the right vernacular." ~ spoken possibly just to hear his own name, and also to indicate that the conversational language has gotten too fancy at the dinner table. words struck from conversation include rhetorical, serotonin, and turgid.

"Ma, this is enough food to feed an army." ~ could indicate one tablespoon of mash potatoes or an entire plate of spaghetti. same verbal measurement anytime. also confusing because he is speaking to his wife.

"You have a champagne appetite and a beer pocketbook." ~ financial advice. could indicate daughters have spent money on a value meal at McDonald's or a bought a $300 purse. doesn't matter.

"Lights on, nobody's home." ~ euphemism for stupid. always used in context for cousin Normy, who I have been taught from early childhood to avoid in public. earliest memory includes running out of a Walgreen's in the mall during Christmas time, leaving our purchases to avoid awkward conversation about chickens or toupees.

"Elevator doesn't go all the way to the top." ~ see above

"Are you eating again?" ~ spoken during any meal. could be first meal of the day or last. same response.

"You can't beat kids. You can, but it doesn't do any good." ~ anti-child abuse advice

"It's colder than a well digger's ass." ~ measurement of temperature during winter months

"Wherever you go, there you are." ~ advice on geography

"Of all the places I've been, this sure is one of them." ~ additional advice on geography

"You can't push a noodle, especially if it's damp. You have to lead it." I have no idea what this is all about.

guess what's is still in my head after all these years

click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfDwMKRm2A0

pizza pizza


(saxaphone in background) dododododoodlado


pizza pizza


(saxaphone in background) dododododoodlado


pizza pizza

pizza pizza

pizza pizza
best song ever................have a good Friday. Wait, it's not 10 Commandments time. Sorry Charleton "Moses." Have a kick ass Friday home skillets.

Evolution: From the Cave to the Bar

Don't worry everyone. It's been a long weekend, but one that ended with a great big exlamation point. So I decided that I am going to be a photographer and my first pictoral adventure would begin with a day trip to Iowa to see some caves in Maqoketa and some other random small town offerings. My trusty sidekick S joined me on what we will now and forever remember as the day we discovered that Baldwin is AWESOME!

First we go to to this little dot on the map of Iowa called Lost Nation. I always liked the name, thinking it sounded Kerouacesque. We drive into "town" and find a restaurant that won't serve us food and a shop call Jill's This That. I think we were Jill's only customer's that day, maybe even for the whole month of August. Her shop mostly consisted of crap left over from grandma's garage sale circa 1977. This was not a good year for crap. Jack would not approve of Jill's misdoings with said crap.

So Lost Nation was a bust, but the Maqoketa caves were cool and scary.

This is me scared -->

What I should have really been scared of is getting lost. I of course felt that I should follow my instincts, which promptly got us lost in some kind of Texas Chainsaw Massacre/Deliverance situation where we ended up in the Time Traveler's meadow, which subsequently led to an old dirt road. We are lost, but there were three other Quad Citians that took that same stupid path, so we were not alone. (Three chicks, two guys, one ominous state park full of caves that are full of dead bodies?)

Then I see this sign--> Does this shit make any sense to anyone else? This is what we were dealing with, so no wonder the path led to nowhere, as these people are obviously retarded.

On our way out of Maqoketa, S and I stop at a winery because we need a drink and free booze are the best kind. I heart you nice old lady with a heavy handed pour at Tabor Home Vineyards.

We take some pictures of some grapes and head out and S suggests that we continue our path of enlightenment at a small roadside bar. Best ideas are always random. We go in and have some beer, then some more beer, than another beer, and then we talk with the locals. We find out we are in Baldwin, population 300ish, and that these people like their cocktails. We meet this dude named Rory who buys Sarah a sorority-style drink consisting of Mountain Dew and Berry UV and I talk to Terry, a vet who saw the Steve Miller Band while stationed in Germany. Then the owners give us fried food, keep giving us more beer, and then they let us graffiti on the ceiling. Good times. Graffiti. A forgotten pastime.

our sentiments exactly.....thank you baldwin, ia

good morning

is a bullshit term. i don't want to be awake. i want to be warm and cozy in my bed with my dog ellie moose and wake up at noon like a happy person. but no, i'm awake so i can attend a conference this morning. meanwhile that weird old guy that lives with me is giving me a lecture about driving in fog. what? yes vern, please educate me in the ways of driving through town so as not to run my car over a bridge, because you (like the unibomber) never leave the house.

so this officially starts the vern chronicles. for starters, i would like to say that vern in his own right already has a following. those who have met him revere him (though they often shuffle away if he approaches to avoid the hour long lecture). those who have not met him believe him to be a mystical man cloaked in a robe with his pipe spouting words of wisdom only the lucky will ever know. today's robe is the blue nautica that has been special dipped in chlorine to achieve just the right homeless crazy man look.

Deep special though by Vern Greenwood: "See, in the morning, that's when I get my best ideas. I wish I had a Dictaphone to record them." (Pause for lecture about paying bills.) "Don't think of a big problem as a big problem, but a little problem. Then all the little problems will take care of themselves. You know, you've got to get Duracell batteries because they're the best. You don't have to worry about them going dead."

i want my name to appear in the New Yorker

i am going to send in captions to the New Yorker till they pick me. then i will be world famous and everyone will think i'm special.

this is no venture i can do alone. here is what i came up for this week. let me know what you think.

smokey and the bandit

"Smokey, what the hell are you doin'?"

"Well McGruff, I'm lighting this here shit on fire and smoking a j."

"We gotta' leave. 50's around the corner."

"Relax SVU. By the way, that's an analog TV."

pull my finger

Since I was a little kid, I've had this incredible habit where I will be in an aisle at the grocery store, wherever, and I'll let out a little toot here and there and exit the aisle. Someone would walk into my fart cloud, maybe a stranger, maybe my mom, and make the "I just walked into fart" face. Classic.


So after taking my mom and sister to Texas Roadhouse tonight, I realized that I was again going to need to do this. Don't worry, I am no amateur. I have farted at Borders before, normally around the travel section. So I pulled my mom aside before entering the store and I told her the signal would be one eye wink. She laughed and said, "Oh dear." As soon as I entered the crappy discount books section before you enter the store, I told her that the there was a rumble down under. She left while shaking her head as if to signal I am not her child. I go in and peruse the magazines and oops. Farty fart fart fart. First one was silent and harmless....second one more audible than I had hoped. Don't worry, I didn't drop an entire meatloaf or anything, but when my mom came back with two lattes in hand, I gave her the signal (wink wink). She began laughing and said I was a dumb-ass and she scooted away.



as far as i am concerned, farts are always funny. why else would they exist? our butts could simply be smaller and air could just fly out like an air-conditioning vent, but they don't. they are loud, vibrating, smelly wonders of joy. if you hear some old guy let a real skid-mark fart who blames it on an invisible dog and you don't laugh, well then you are just Satan himself.

so far, so good

i am still demonstrating television sobriety. it has been 1 1/2 days. don't i get a chip or something for that? last night was a real struggle. i worked on the computer, read, napped, took a shower, watched mr. fishy, talked to the weird old lady that lives with me, and ate gummy worms for dinner. i have a feeling the real challenge will be not to watch the royal pains season finale (luckily i have DVR -- best invention ever!) on thursday.

what are your favorite programs on the happy box? let's take a poll. fill out your thoughts or favorites in the comment box. i know someone out there is a closet full house fan.

thank you for being a friend

quick update, this is hell. i want my happy box. right now i just know there are happy folks learning about the komodo dragon's pooping habits, how to deep fry a cake with Paula Deen, or whether or not Sophia Petrillo will reminisce about Sicily or insult Blanche's ho-bag tendencies.



so far I have filled my day with doing paperwork on the computer, making my dad an ice cream sundae, reading the newspaper, and taking a picture of the one lone fish in our aquarium. not exactly the enlightenment i was hoping for. i need to get m. night shamalamananon creative to make my life more Happening.





Deep Special Thought By Janelle Greenwood: Mr. TV... Thank you for being a friend. Traveled through your channels and back again. Your signal is true, your a pal and a confidant. And if you increased your prices, invited every channel to join that I knew. You would see the biggest bill would be from me and the check attached would say thank you for being a friend.

like pulling off a band-aide slowly...this is going to be painful.

In efforts to recharge my internal battery, and for everyone's amusement, I am swearing off TV for one week. I will keep you updated on how this turns out. I have a feeling that this will rival a crack addicts binge turned sobriety. I will break this week long fast with True Blood next Sunday, with a side of Entourage. If I start foaming at the mouth, please administer The Golden Girls immediately.

on a side note, i am up to any suggestions on how to spend my time otherwise. i'm thinking about really giving this whole hard work ethic thing a go, finishing a lingering painting or two i have been commissioned to paint months ago, finishing a book, tra la la

No First Amendment, Thank You and Other Valentines to the Bill of Rights.

I love the drive to Champaign-Urbana. It’s like a free speech sundae, broken up with several layers that ends with a real cherry on top; located on local interstates in-and-around Champaign County are these fantastic Burma Shave-like signs supporting the interests of gunssavelife.com. On these fantastic signs is a rhyming message to warn of the ways that not having a firearm on hand.

Here’s a visual for the kids:

These people make sense.

In honor of the new school year, I’d like to share my favorite gunsavelife.com verse that really says what I feel:

"Never worry / Thugs won't attack / If the teacher / Might shoot back."

I fully agree with this statement. As an educator of teenagers, I know the importance of self protection. You never know when a kid might throw an end table at your head or try to bite your boob. Hey, it happens. I would feel much better knowing that not only am I packing heat, but that I can in fact pistol-whip any child who dares to get out of line. One flash of my click and those kids will not only say “Yes Ms. Janelle,” but they’ll do it with respect. That’s something everyone can believe in.

I used to be one of those liberal nut jobs, you know those folks who think a little temperature change is going to kill the polar bears and ruin the planet. I used to throw away litter and buy locally grown produce, trying to decrease my impact on the environment. Pshh, Nonsense. What has the environment ever done for me? Hail damage.
I now understand that when the second amendment gives me the right to bear arms, it is not in fact giving me fashion advice to go sleeveless.

Deep special thought by Janelle Greenwood: Seriously, guns are no funny matter.

In 2006, incidents of gun murders, gun suicides, and unintentional shootings in Illinois killed 154 children and adolescents ages 19 and younger, a 18% increase from the 2005 total of 130 in this age group. Nationwide for 2006, gun violence killed 3,218 American children and teens ages 19 and under, an increase of 6.3% from the nationwide 2005 total of 3,027 this means that in the U.S. an average of 9 young people are killed each day by guns. Numbers obtained from CDC National Center for Health Statistics mortality report online, 2009
http://www.iansa.org/, http://www.bradycampaign.org/, http://ichv.org/Statistics.htm