You ever notice how catch phrases worm their way through corporate America? Some business guru or writer at Fast Company will turn a phrase, and suddenly everyone in America that works in an office is using it in conversation. A few years ago, it was “B2B.” Everyone was using B2B this and B2B that in commercials, articles, and all over the net. Apparently, having to say business to business was really wrecking the bottom line of many American companies. So, corporate America, invented “B2B” –thus making it much easier to write, “Arthur Anderson’s B2B relationship with Enron really caused shareholders to take it up the…”  Just think, I would have had to type 15 more letters!!!

This brings us to today’s popular corporate catch phrases: on topic, on message, on task, etc. Today, it’s all about being “on something” and not “off something.” I wonder if it’s better to be “on top” or “off bottom?” Anyway, this is THE phrase of the early millennium. You’re much more likely to get a job in corporate America if you can use this series of phrases correctly. Such as, “I would like to stay “on topic” as we discuss the possibility of me being “on payroll.” Or you could say, “My resume is ‘on target’ for your company, but I would like to be ‘off work’ by 3 everyday so I can continue ‘off track’ betting.” When questioned about a minor indiscretion in your college days, tell the interviewer: “I was ‘off campus’ when the police raided my fraternity.”

Once you’ve gotten the job, you will need to learn other uses. A perfect thing to say in corporate America today is “I’m going to be ‘on toilet,’” when using the bathroom. (Of course if you’re ‘off regularity’ you would have to be ‘on Metamucil.’) Remember not to offend you’re coworkers or you will be “on suspension” and ”off payroll.” Embezzling will get you ”on 60 Minutes” or ”on unemployment” and maybe even “on dance card” of your cell mate. Coming up with a good idea will get you on fast track which could land you “on salary” and ”off couch” at your Mom’s house.

But enough about corporate America, how can this apply to everyday life? Well, I’m trying to be on terminology or “on cool” or “off dork” so I’m going to use this new way communicating when I blog. So, this is a little story that’s “on me.”

While traveling to work recently, my foot was “on pedal” and “off break.” Unfortunately, I hit a patch of ice that caused me to go “off course.” I quickly went from being “on road” to “off pavement,” which was of course, “off task.”

I immediately became “on edge” knowing I was going “off road” and “on embankment.” The situation deteriorated when the driver of a truck failed to go “off pedal” and “on brake” in time to avoid becoming “on bumper” of my car. My car then became “off embankment” and “on road” in time to become “on quarter panel” of a minivan. The minivan became “off earth” and “on roof” of my car.

The collision left me “off consciousness” and “on hemorrhaging” so I was taken “off wreck” and “on ambulance” to the hospital. While “on bed,” I was treated for “off health” and told to rest.
Staying “on message,” the good news is that I met a cute nurse who was “off boyfriend” and “off in an hour.” She hung out in my room when she was “off duty” and we agreed to meet “off site” when I got “off bed” and “on home.”

I’m happy to say that I’m “off painkillers” now and “on health.”  Things didn’t work out with the nurse. She was “off mind” and caused me to be “off sleep” and “on paranoia.” It’s okay, though, because she has a roommate who is “on cute” and “off Prozac.”

It’s time for me to be off blog and on work. Stay on topic, on message, and off carbs.

Carry on, Citizens!

5) Shemp

In 1946, the 3 Stooges had to replace Curly after he suffered a debilitating stroke. They chose, with their 1st round pick, Shemp. Without the signature moves of his predecessor, Shemp was a lesser Stooge. He managed to appear in 72 shorts with the team, but fans never really warmed up to him in the way they did Curly.

4) Scrappy Doo: The term “Jumping the Shark” has long been associated with TV shows that had run their course and were desperate for plot ideas. And though the term comes from Happy Days, TV buffs from the 70′s and 80′s know long before Fonzie jumped the shark, the Scooby Doo show drafted Scrappy Doo. It started a trend that included shows like Family Ties, The Love Boat, and even Kermit’s Nephew Robin on the Muppets. So forget the shark. If a show brings in a “cute” younger character in season 4 or 5, it’s done!

3) Gary Cherone: In 1996, Van Halen had the number one pick in the Rock N Roll draft and were looking to replace Sammy Hagar as their lead singer. In a pick that still has fans scratching their heads, they chose Gary Cherone, former lead singer of Extreme. Cherone lasted 1 album and 1 tour until Warner Brother’s pressured Van Halen to release him.

2)Robert California: Most fans would agree that The Office has been in a comic decline for the past few years. But rock bottom was finally reached last year when they drafted Robert California as their new owner. James Spader won’t be there much longer though. Maybe they’ll draft Shemp.

1) Darth Vader: A long time ago and in a galaxy far, far away, the Jedi drafted Darth Vader with their number one pick. (He was known as Anakin Skywalker then, but changed his name when his childhood friend Lew Alcindor changed his name to Kareem Abdul Jabbar.) Vader came out of school early to join the Jedi and immediately destroyed the Star Wars franchise. In Episode 2, he turned the best SciFi series of all-time into Dawson’s Creek in space. Then in Episode 3, he destroyed the Jedi franchise on a level matched only by Isaiah Thomas’s destruction of the CBA. He obliterated the Jedi’s home arena and basically set off an age of Imperial Douchebaggery that lasted until his son entered the league and forced him into retirement.

Carry on, Citizens!

Picture Courtesy of Big League Stew & Yahoo Sports

Moby Dick is back. And this time, he’s taking on baseball fans instead of sea captains! When Opening Day arrives for the Lake County Captains (Minor League Affiliate of the Cleveland Indians) they will be able to do battle with the Moby Dick sandwich. According to the team’s website:

The Moby Dick features a 15″ sesame seed hoagie roll, five quarter-pound fish filets, eight slices of cheese, six ounces of clam strips, one-third pound of French fries, one cup of cole slaw, all topped off by gobs of lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, and tartar sauce. The price for the sandwich is only $20.

Check out Yahoo’s Big League Stew for more details. If you can vanquish Moby Dick in under an hour, you get a free t-shirt. Sounds like a fair deal. You also get to sit in the Moby Dick Challenge Chair while you do battle. I think this sounds like a great idea. If I were your President (and it only takes a write in vote to make it happen), C-SPAN would be interrupted anytime someone sits in the Challenge Chair to take on Moby Dick. I would rather watch someone eat a 4,000 calorie sandwich than listen to Congress.

Carry On, Citizens!

1) Godzilla’s Citizen Hideout. I’m okay with it being easily found on Foursquare, but Godzilla isn’t keen on being seen from above (what with all the fighter jets trying to take him out). He’s also in the process of getting the hideout ready to sell, as he is moving to a new hideout in July. (You can buy his old hideout for the low, low price of $153,000. I swear I’m not making this up.)

2) North Dakota. That’s right, I’m advocating the Google Map pixelation of an entire state. Why? Because I care. (Yet another reason why you should write me in as your vote for President.) North Dakota could benefit from some increased tourist dollars. What better way to generate interest than to make it a total mystery? I’m talking about an entire campaign centered around NOT telling people ANYTHING about the state! We’ll turn the entire place into that trendy night club with velvet ropes and a guy with a headset at the state border telling you whether or not your cool enough to get in. Seriously Dakota, you should hire me.

3) The Cast of Jersey Shore. Snooki is technically not a place. (Although I am. Wherever I am, the zip code is 7.) However, I think there should be a satellite following her and the rest of the cast’s every move and pixelating the locations on Google. After that we can start pixelating them on Yahoo and TMZ. Then we can move to People and US Weekly. And finally, we can pixelate them off cable.

Carry on, Citizens!

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Well, Citizens, we have your answer. Panda Dung Tea. “Where can I get Panda Dung Tea,” you ask. Not at Starbucks, at least not yet. Panda Dung Tea is the invention of An Yanshi. Yanshi believes you’re going to love Panda Dung Tea. He believes you’re going to love it so much, you’ll pay $200 a cup for it. That must be some tasty tea! (You should try it and let me know)

Yanshi is an entrepreneur, living in Southwest China. He’s been growing tea using panda poo for quite some time. I wonder how he got the right poo. Did he try other native Chinese animal poo before he decided on Panda? These are the questions I must know before I order it at Starbucks. In the meantime, I’ll stick with my boring black tea without the Chai Berry Mocha Unicorn Sprinkles.

Carry on, Citizens!
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What is Kansaska, you ask?

Take a trip back to 1948 and spend a summer in the Kansaska Retail Agricultural Products league. In the first half of the 20th Century, semi-pro baseball leagues thrived throughout the United States. The legendary K.R.A.P. League was no exception. Kansaska centers on the lowly Portis Eskimos. 19 years removed from their last championship, the Eskimos are motivated to win. Motivated by love. Motivated by social justice. Motivated by aliens.

Kansaska is an unlikely love story, set in the backdrop of post WWII middle America. If you enjoyed Trolley Dodgers, get ready for more laughs with Kansaska.

View the book trailer here.

“We’ve eaten a variety of cakes, pies, and cookies. We were unable to find conclusive truth in any of them. Dr. Van Wilmart claimed to have found proof in pecan pie. However, is research could not be duplicated and we later learned his brother owned a pecan farm. The esteemed Dr. Gillard, on loan to us from the French government, discovered the proof in the pudding. He spent months eating various types of flan and was about to give up. Luckily for the world, his wife packed a jello pudding pack in his lunch.”

Is proof relative? In other words, if you were of Italian descent would you find proof in a cannoli? Or is there only one way to proof? Please share your thoughts on what dessert you find proof in, if any. In the meantime, I’m going to eat some ice cream.

Carry on, Citizens!
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They must have missed my frequent run-ins with PETA. (I love animals, especially the tasty ones.) They must have missed my bid to become Emperor of the United States (a lot of Obama and McCain voters are regretting not making me Emperor these days). And they most certainly missed the back cover of my novel Trolley Dodgers. It clearly shows that I’m not a black woman. 

I have come to realize that the Occupy movement has generated a lot of attention —and in the book selling world, attention is gold! And being the shameless free market capitalist that I am, I feel the need to capitalize on this opportunity. So, I’ve decided to give the various sub-cultures of the Occupy movement plenty of reasons to protest me.

1. Hipsters- Hipsters are still a little hacked that I called the faux-hawk the mullet of the new millennium. Trust me, this look is going to come back and bite some people about the time their kids pull out the year books. So, go ahead, shoot protest the messenger.

2. Unions- The labor movement should protest me because I know exactly where Jimmy Hoffa is hiding. Notice I said hiding instead of buried. That’s because since 2006, Jimmy has been working as a manservant in my home. He answers to the name Shamus and I routinely make him work 10 hour shifts while providing no benefits.

3. Corporate Haters- I’m typing this on a Mac, made by the uber-corporation known as Apple. I will continue to write on my Mac until you can show me a computer whose parts are organically grown, assembled in a free range factory that has zero carbon footprint and is powered by pixie dust and Coldplay songs, with unionized workers that only have to work 6 minutes a week and can never be fired, even if they sacrifice a goat, and who enjoy same species benefits and unlimited Yoohoo in the break room. (Management apologizes for the ridiculously long preceding sentence.)

4. Anarchists- Actually, I’m protesting you. I’m protesting all “ists.” I am protesting you because if you ever succeed, there won’t be baseball. And if there’s no baseball, there’s no Game 6. And if there’s no Game 6, then life would stink as bad most of you did on day 39 of sleeping in your own filth in Zuccatti Park.

5. Activists- Congrats! You protested and lived like homeless people long enough to cost local businesses nearly half a million dollars —which may turn their owners into actual homeless people! So please, protest the hell out of me. I think it will help me sell more books. I’m going to use the profits to help homeless people —the real ones, not the pseudo-intellectual ones.

Click to enlarge.

Carry on, Citizens!

Dear Dating Idiot: I’m never quite sure how to end a first date. Should I always try for the kiss or should I settle on a hug?

Dear Mark,
This is an excellent question and one that many of your fellow readers want to know. There are basically 4 ways you can end the date: kiss, hug, shake hands, headbutt.

First will look at the kiss. This option should be used after a particularly good date. Make certain you’ve read her signals well and there is good chemistry. It doesn’t hurt to if she has made contact once or twice. Chances are she’s down with a kiss.

However, if the physical contact she has made with you has been in the form of an elbow to the head as you try to bear hug her after your 5th shot of tequila, you should probably just shake her hand. Any thing else you do is probably going to be recounted to an attorney at some later date. Best to just end it with a business like shake and pray she doesn’t tag the incriminating photos on Facebook.

The hug is not neccesarrily a bad thing. Many guys may think so, but it’s in fact a great indicator that their could be a second date. The hug says, “I’m not ready to exchange saliva with you, but you’re reasonably normal, don’t smell like gym class, and used a fork at dinner. I want to eat food and converse with you again in the near future.”

And finally, we come to the least used method of ending a date, yet it saves countless lives every year. Of course, I’m talking about the headbutt. The headbutt should be used when the ending of the date poses danger to your person. For example, you walk your date to the door and turn back to look at your car and hit the remote lock. When you turn around, she’s holding a full-size trident and beckoning you to enter. At this point you realize she is a member of a Poseidon worshiping cult* and she’s probably going to sacrifice you and bury you at sea. In order to escape, headbutt her! The surprise will leave her temporarily disarmed and you can safely make it to your car before she throws the trident. If you have to use this technique  more than once, you may want to consider trident damage insurance for your vehicle. Poseidon worshipers rarely identify themselves on Match.com, but they are out there. So, beware!

Carry on, Citizens!

*Poseidon Worshipers do exist. As frightening as that is, Brian Groce and I have photo proof!

Marni Kotak is calling her show The Birth of Baby X. I’m assuming the baby will appreciate the title years later, as it will help hide his/her identity from the relentless teasing in high school. This probably comes as no surprise, but she won’t have a traditional maternity team with her. Instead, she will have a midwife, a doula (Greek for woman who’s Birkenstocks are about to get messy), and an inflatable birthing tub. Experts are already arguing about whether this is truly art or exploitation. So, of course I felt compelled to weigh in…

The Wikipedia definition of Performance Art is:

In art, performance art is a performance presented to an audience, traditionally interdisciplinary. Performance may be either scripted or unscripted, random or carefully orchestrated; spontaneous or otherwise carefully planned with or without audience participation.

With such a loose definition, I can safely say that 76% of my life is performance art. With that in mind, I’m going to start selling tickets to my various daily activities. If you would like to see me sleep, tickets are on sale for $22. Balcony seats are only $15 (Yes, my bedroom has balcony seating). I can only sell tickets for the sleeping shows —something about zoning laws prevents anything else.

For $8 you can watch me eat breakfast. The breakfast show is free if you actually bring breakfast. Watching me take on Tim McCarver MST3K style will set you back $20. Of course, that gets you whatever baseball watching edibles I’m consuming, so it’s a pretty good deal. You can watch me fold clothes for $7. I’ll throw in the ironing for free.

If you would like watch me write a blog post, that will set you back $50. For $150, I will come to your house and write a blog post in your living room! And if you want the ultimate package, for $500 I will come to your house, eat your food, write a blog post, and tweet funny remarks about your family pictures from your couch. I’ll even donate half to School on Wheels.

So, there are plenty of ways to get the Jeff experience. We have options for every budget. And you won’t have to clean your shoes.

Carry on, Citizens!
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Dear Dating Idiot,

My girlfriend dumped me over the weekend and she said she still wants to be friends. Does she really want to be friends or is she just trying to let me down easy?

Alan: When a girl says she want to be friends, what she really means is she that even though she just eviscerated your heart, she doesn’t want you to be mad at her to the point that you tell all your mutual friends what a mean person she really is. The thought of you telling her friends that she should be seeing a whole team of psychiatrists is a little off-putting for her and she would rather you think nicely of her. Besides, she probably thinks the “friend” thing will keep you marginally interested in the possibility that she may change your mind. And she will encourage that thinking by reinforcing that she wants to be friends. And, she really means it —inasmuch as you don’t call her, suggest you hang out, or IM her on Facebook. So, to sum up Alan, she really doesn’t want to be your friend. And with that, I need to end this blog post. But, we can still be friends…

Remember to send in your dating questions! If we use it in a post, we’ll send you a free t-shirt!

Carry on, Citizens!
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(Update: I didn’t win the contest, but it was fun to participate. By the way, the opening line was one of the 50 writing prompts you had to choose from for the contest.)

In high school, I got detention for selling homemade condoms. I won’t go into the process of how they were made, but suffice it to say they were made of plastic and were completely unreliable. Luckily, nobody ever tried to sue me for a defective product and I never had a customer actually get someone pregnant. I think it might have been because the guys who were dumb enough to buy homemade condoms from me weren’t adept at getting girls anyway.

What they were really buying was status —something they could show their friends and say, “Hey, I have condoms. I’m ready to party.” I’m guessing that’s what they said. I never hung out with the guys who bought them.

Anyway, my next failed business was selling forged hall passes to other students. That also landed me in detention. After that, I embarked on a career of slightly questionable event marketing. My first success was renting out 3 whole floors of a local hotel on prom weekend. I had a team of low-paid minions call in bomb scares and pull fire alarms at the other hotels. Then, I simply sublet the rooms I had rented at twice the price.

This led to the creation of my next venture: OxyMoron. I sold acne medicine to kids with clear skin. The FDA shut me down on that one. However, I was undaunted. Not sure I was ever daunted either, but that’s a story for another day. I did use the money from the OxyMoron to finance my entry into the world of fashion apparel: Business Goth. I created a line of clothing that the Goth can wear to work and still retain his/her anarchist identity. It’s going pretty well. If it works out, I’m going to add Business Scott and Business Bavarian to the mix.

Click the image to expand.

Carry on, Citizens!

Anyway, I started thinking about it and it occurred to me that over the past few decades magazines like Cosmo and Elle for women along with Maxim and GQ for men have been spewing out dating advice. An estimated 20 million people visit dating sites each month. Yet, the divorce rate is still higher than in the 80′s. Obviously, we Americans are woefully incompetent at picking mates. So, if you’re going to get advice that probably won’t work anyway, why not get it for free here instead of paying the cover price of the aforementioned magazines?

And with that we begin a new weekly feature: The Dating Idiot. Each week I will try to answer your dating questions in a way that may or may not work, but will be completely free, confidential, and hopefully will not lead to litigation. So here are this week’s questions:

Mark in Brownsburg writes:

Dear Dating Idiot,

I’ve been seeing “Mary” for about 6 weeks. Do you think it’s too soon to build a couch fort with her?

Mark,

Couch forts are part of that special circle of awesome that includes playoff tickets, 20 cent wing night, and roller coasters. However, adulthood seems to take the couch fort joy out of most people. They have to wait until they have kids or nieces or nephews to build them. Of course, finding adults to build couch forts with you is awesome but you have to risk asking and having them look at you the way they do when you break out the pajamas with feet (not that I personally own any).

So, you have to be very sure you want to ask your significant other if she’s up for building a couch fort. Luckily, there’s a good way to tell how it’s going to go. Ask yourself, has she ever dressed up in a costume for me at any other time besides Halloween? If the answer is yes, then ask yourself what type of costume was it: cute and playful, sexy and sophisticated, or predominately leather? If it was cute and playful, she’ll probably be okay with building a couch fort. If it was sexy and sophisticated, she’s not going to be down with the fort. If it was mostly leather, there’s going to be a dungeon in that fort and you might want to pass!

Finally, if you’re girlfriend is cool enough to build a couch fort with you, put a rock on her finger! She’s a keeper!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dave in Greenwood writes:

Dear Dating Idiot,

My girlfriend made me go to a lot of weddings this summer. How can I save money on presents? She’s got a huge family and at least 5 cousins are getting married next summer.

Dave,

Don’t despair! We have you covered. Just buy a card and tape a piece of torn silver wrapping paper to it. Keep the paper covered when you pick up your girlfriend and she will think you got them a gift card. When you get to the church, toss it on the pile of gifts. The happy couple will think it got separated from the gift and send you a rather vague thank you note! Just buy 5 greeting cards and one sheet of silver wrapping paper and you’re good to go for the 2012 wedding season!

So, make sure to send in your dating questions! If we use it in a post, we’ll send you a free t-shirt!

Carry on, Citizens!
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Carry on, Citizens!
Like the blog? Buy the book:

Anyway, in case you can’t enlarge the picture, here is what it says:

Pinto Bean/Hotdog Supper.

Womanless Beauty Contest.

Carolina Travelers

August 27  4 until

Wow, there’s just so much to choose from —I don’t know where to begin. First, I’m wondering if the reason it’s a womanless beauty contest is because it is preceded by a beans and hotdog supper. I have never put on a beauty contest, but I’m sure it’s hard to recruit the beauties. The Miss America people have no trouble finding beauties because they offer scholarships, world travel, and TV coverage. Guessing by the high quality of the sign, I’m guessing the only thing they could offer is skeet shooting lessons, a fun filled day of hand fishing, and an appearance on “Bubba’s Webcam of Stuff I Done and Seen.”

Since that alluring triad of enticements didn’t work on the beauties (or for any women, for that matter) they had to rely on the half dozen or so men in town who would agree to dress up like women. And of course, no drag show in the south would be complete without the musical stylings of the Carolina Travelers. I love how the sign says 4 until. No hour listed after the word until. Because if the Carolina Travelers are playing the drag show, it’ going to go late and somebody isn’t coming home tonight!

If I had the time, I would fly down and see this amazing spectacle of Southern humanity. I’m sure there are many blog worthy or book worthy moments about to happen. However, my schedule doesn’t permit it and I’m more partial to woman-full beauty contests as opposed to woman-less beauty contests anyway.

Carry on, Citizens!

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One of the other traditions of this ritual is the Bridal Registry, which brings us to the reason we were stopped in the department store. She felt the need to explain the many benefits of Fiestaware to two guys who are a little less discerning about what flat disc holds their food. Of course, I had to pause and tip my hat to the makers of Fiestaware. It occurred to me that if I was selling a product with that much markup, I would put a word that means “party” in the name as well.

Anyway, it took me all of 30 seconds to lose focus on how the plates would match this curtain or that bath towel or whatever plates need to match in order for the house to be a home. It was at this point that lightning struck, inspiration arrived, and I decided I might be a genius. If 50% of all marriages end in divorce, why don’t we have divorce registries? Let’s face it, gifts when you’re feeling lousy are probably more appreciated and effective than when you’re lovestruck and on the way to the altar.

So, I’ve been working on the Divorce Registry. This is a list of products you might want to add to your own registry if you’re facing the D word.

For Men:

1. Pajamas with feet-  She made you get rid of these when you got engaged. It may be a while before you have a lady friend back to your place, inasmuch as your Match.com profile is riddled with bitterness and a picture of you eating jerky. So indulge.
2. Super Recliner- Add this to your list for sure! Accessorize it with a nacho dispenser and a dorm fridge.
3. (Insert Sports Team Name) Jersey- She made you get rid of your favorite jersey during that year-six-of-the-marriage-makeover. You found yourself watching Queer Eye for the Straight guy and trying to dress less like the before and more like the after. Didn’t help, did it? The NFL season is just around the corner…
4. XBox 360 or Playstation 3- Remember the fight you had during New Year’s Eve 2006? The one where she used all your PS3 games as a coasters? Then you just gave up on the gaming life and sold your gaming system at a garage sale. Guess what, it’s time to get back in the game. There is no one to yell at you for playing Madden until 4am while double fisting Rockstar Energy drinks.
5. Lord of the Rings Blue Ray Edition- Let’s face it, you were a closet nerd your entire marriage. You really wanted to go see LOTR when she wanted to see Bridget Jones, Love Actually, and every GD Hugh Grant movie ever made. It’s your time. Get your Middle Earth on!

For Women

1. A subscription to Match.com, eHarmony, etc.-  Your confidence in men has been shattered. But, deep down there’s a 15 to 20% chance in your mind that Mr. Right is out there. Online dating will successfully eliminate that last percentage. You’ll hear from pervs, psychos, and men who still live with their mothers. And if there’s still a 1% chance you still have hope, just click on my profile. You’ll probably become a nun.
2. A handyman- Over the course of your marriage, your ex never got around to fixing that roof, toilet, or the noises your plumbing makes when you run the shower and the dish washer at the same time. Maybe he did try to fix it and it now is covered in duct tape and cardboard and sometimes emits smoke. You got the house in the divorce, time to call a professional to fix all the stuff he was too cheap to repair.
3. New cable package- You love the Colts, but you don’t really give a damn about the Carolina vs. Arizona game. Time to cancel the NFL network. And for that matter, drop Cinemax and get Showtime. You like Trueblood and he only watched Cinemax for the soft porn anyway.
4. Full body massage- The last few years of your marriage were stressful. Did you know you can pay someone to give you a massage? They will even do your toes if you want/need! It’s in a clean room with aroma therapy and pleasant music —as opposed to the last time he gave you a massage in room with Metallica playing, smelling like Keystone beer, and ending in the phrase, “now you do me.”
5. New bedding and towels- Ever since he helped move his college roommate, your towels and comforter have had permanent stains and tears due to him wrapping his buddy’s vintage Pac-Man machine  in them. Besides they were purchased by your mother-in-law during that trip to Bed, Bath, & Beyond when you just wanted her to shut up about the way you raise your kids. Add a new set to your list and have a bonfire with the old ones!

So, there you have a good start to the Divorce Registry. Feel free to post your own ideas. And remember, even though 50% of all marriages end in divorce, 100% of the posts on this website end in…

Carry on, Citizens!

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Now, I have been sitting here in front of my computer, basking in the glory of my minimal accomplishments, and thinking, “Just how are the French supposedly more sophisticated than Americans?” This 62 year old actor drops his pants in the aisle and soaks the carpet because a stewardess tells him to sit down until the seatbelt light turns off and I’m supposed to view France as the end all, be all of fashion, taste, and culture? Sorry, not happening.

Let’s face it: France didn’t invent baseball. They didn’t invent restaurants that are entirely centered around the buffalo wing. They didn’t invent the Death Star Canteen routine by Eddie Izzard. (Ok, technically Great Britain invented Eddie Izzard, but American’s set the routine to Leggos!)  Also, France didn’t invent the blog. And the blog is that great American invention that lets marginally talented people like me entertain people for seven years with the random neural firings that go on in my head.

So, take that France. We may not be the best and wine, fashion, and cheese. But we have baseball, buffalo wings, and blogs. (And we have Leggo Eddie Izzard!)

Carry on, Citizens!

Carry on, Citizens!

Anyway, I started to think about wrapping my car. Of course, this might have a not-so-desired effect on my social agenda so to speak. So, I thought I would have my faithful Citizens help me pick out a wrap that will help me earn money and not make me completely un-dateable. So, here are a few ideas, courtesy of TKO Graphics for you to vote on:

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Thanks for taking the time to give me your feedback. And of course feel free to suggest products you think I should wrap my car with in the comment section below. I’ll send a free t-shirt to the person with the best idea.

Carry on, Citizens!

I asked a guy at my pharmacy if there was a clinical name for displaying idiot behavior. He insisted it was called Idiot-itus. I believed him because he was wearing a white coat with his name on it. Of course, I don’t live in the best part of the city, so he might have been a pimp that watches a lot of The Learning Channel.

At any rate, I’ve do have the Idiot-itus virus and it does tend to flare up at the most inopportune times. I was once offered the opportunity to be part of  two different businesses. The one I chose did okay for a while and then cratered for reasons we don’t have enough time here to discuss. The other business, the one I didn’t choose, grew to several hundred locations and then was bought out by a larger corporation. I really wish there was a vaccine for this…

Idiot-itus tends to flare up when I’m dating, most notably when I’m dating women whose names start with a certain letter of the alphabet.** Whenever, I meet someone with a name beginning in _, my closest friends begin planning for the inevitable train wreck. They pop popcorn, circle up in their living rooms, send the kids to bed and recount the ridiculous circumstances that always accompany my encounters with the letter _.  It will happen again, probably sooner than any of us want.

Up until now, I’ve never been able to capitalize on my brushes with Idiot-itus. They just seemed to be necessary bumps in my life. But that’s all going to change very soon. I’m going to be doing a web based cooking/reality show with my good friends Allyson and Clay. Allyson is a gifted chef and together with her husband Clay, they own Happy Everything Catering. Chef Allyson has a problem. She has an Idiot in her kitchen. And that idiot is me. So, we hope you’ll watch An Idiot In My Kitchen this Fall. It’s bound to be funner than the next season of The Office!

Carry on, Citizens!

** To protect identities, I will not reveal the letter. To my friends who do know, please don’t post it in the comments!

This year they are promoting deep fried Ice Cream. Why? Are we trying to reminisce about the days when nothing said Hoosier and Mexican food like an evening at Chi Chi’s? Seriously, State Fair organizers. Let’s step up our game! I even caught wind of the possibility of deep fried tofu at this year’s event. When I heard the news, I wept openly.

Think about it: deep fried ice cream, deep fried tofu, and the Year of the Soybeans. This, my dear Citizens, is called anti-marketing. Clearly they are trying to drive people away from the Fair. Clearly, there’s something really cool they don’t want to let just anyone in on. Clearly, there’s going to be an end to this paragraph filled with sentences beginning with clearly.

I think we are in for a surprise. Somebody over at the Fair is planning something over-the-top. Maybe it will be deep fried hot pockets. Maybe they will have Whitesnake performing live at the Tilt-A-Whirl. Maybe Chris Angel will turn the Blue Ribbon pig into an instant platter of bacon and ribs using magic and spork. And maybe, for no apparent reason, Bonnie Bernstein will decide she wants fair food, fly to Indiana, and find herself in line in front of me. And as she turns around, holding her deep fried ice cream, I will look her in the eyes and say…

Carry on, Citizens!

I will balance the Federal Budget within 1 year and eliminate the National Debt within 4 years! That’s right. This November, write my name on your ballot and I will get this country out of debt.

How? Simple: I’m going to tap into the deepest urge in all men (and some women) and turn it into the single greatest fund raiser of all time. Of course, I’m talking about the urge to blow stuff up. (You thought I was going to say sex, didn’t you?) Men like to blow stuff up. I even know women who like to blow stuff up. Blowing stuff up has been a substantial part of the movie industry for decades. Blowing stuff up is part of our annual 4th of July tradition. Blowing stuff up is still scientifically proven to be a significant reason men will stop on the History Channel or TLC when flipping channels.

But no marketer/fund raiser has EVER figured out how to truly monetize man’s need to blow stuff up. Until now. Let me walk you through this. Next week, the U.S. Military is going to shoot down an aging spy satellite that contains toxic fuel. They plan to fire a missile from a Navy cruiser in the Pacific Ocean. Suffice it to say, our administration just doesn’t get it.

When I take office, we will immediately institute a National Blowing Stuff Up Lottery. For $100, you can enter for a chance to be the person who gets to fly to the middle of the Pacific, board a Navy ship, aim, and fire at future falling satellites. Heck, for $1000, I’ll let you shoot at satellites that aren’t falling! Trust me, there are millions of PS3 and Xbox addicts who would sell blood and semen for a year to be able to shoot down a satellites. There are hunters who are sick of shooting at Bambi who would kill to take down Moonraker. There are women on the back side of divorce who would love to see ANYTHING in the general shape of a satellite be blown into millions of flaming pieces.

Folks, this is a sure fire way to raise LOTS of money fast. And the lottery is just the begining. I plan to start a Blowing Stuff Reality show where people compete for the opportunity to blow up abandoned buildings, crack houses, and the tour buses of aging rock stars. If that takes off, we will spin off the show with modern uses for medieval weapons. I call it American Trebuchet!

My fellow Americans, you have a choice before you. Will Obama let you blow up a satellite? Will Hillary Clinton let you blow up Journey’s tour bus? Will Huckabee allow you to build a 3 story trebuchet and launch a car 100+ yards? Will McCain allow you to fire a missile that probably cost more than you will make in your lifetime at a target 150 miles above the earth’s surface?

Come on people, you know the answer. And you know that my plan will balance the budget. You only need to look to box office receipts for the last 40 years to back me up on this. In addition, my plan will solve all those other “issues” the other candidates are squawking about: the economy, the war, health care, etc. With no debt and a balanced budget, we can tackle all of those problems with ease.

So, consider me for your next President. It’s a vote for fiscal responsibility. It’s a vote for smaller government and fewer satellites. It’s a vote for blowing stuff up.

Carry on, Citizens!

So, let’s start with the details of the story. The report says that the couple was having sex for a half hour before somebody complained. This raises a couple of questions: Who timed it? And, what happened around minute 30 that so offended the onlookers that they complained. They were obviously not troubled by the first 29 minutes of the show. Am I the only one troubled by this?

The next question is obvious: Is chlorine a spermicide? I’m not trying to be crass here, but if this woman gets pregnant, the poor kid has way more than three strikes against him/her. “Where did you meet mommy?”  “In the deep end, son.”

And speaking of strikes, I’ve got the perfect actors to portray them, when (not if) Lifetime turns this into a movie. Not since Michael “Squints” Palledorous kissed Wendy Peffercorn in The Sandlot have we seen such romance associated with a public bathing facility. I say bring Chauncey Leopardi and Marley Shelton back together to play the Connersville couple.

Finally, I’m troubled by the fact that this happened in a public pool. I had enough trouble with the ocean after Jaws 1 and 2. Jaws 3 actually got me to go back in the ocean. It was so bad, I wanted to be eaten by a shark. So I won’t be visiting any public pools in the near future. At least not on the first date.

Carry on, Citizens!

Last week Derek Jeter hit his 3,000th hit. The milestone came as a home run in the bottom of the 3rd inning against the Senior Retirement Community Rays. The blast was caught by 23 year old Christian Lopez who graciously returned the ball to Jeter. The Yankees graciously offered him tickets for the rest of the season and other goodies. The IRS then graciously pimp slapped him with the threat of a $14,000 tax bill. All of which makes even the most cynical person stop and ask, “How many sentences in a row is he going to use the word graciously?”

Of course no one is talking about the performance enhancing drugs that may have helped Jeter get to this place. No, I’m not talking about steroids or HGH. I’m talking about anti aging creams and botox. How is it possible that Jeter looks the same as he did in his rookie season? The guy DOESN’T AGE! Am I the only one freaked out about this? I’m telling you the truth will come out and he will be consigned to the syringe shaped wing of the Baseball Hall of Fame that will house everyone from the Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, and Barry Bonds era.

And finally, amidst the Jeter hype, another baseball milestone is quietly going noticed. (Except here of course.) Jim Thome is clinging to the end of his career as a DH in Minnesota. Few people have noticed he is just 4 home runs from 600. Only 7 other players have reached that milestone. 4 of them have the cloud of steroids hanging over them. And though he played in the steroid era, Thome has never been implicated, accused of, or tested positive for steroids. He may have been the only legitimate home run king of his era. So, when he hits #600, I’ll write a post. And nobody will have to shame me into doing it.

Carry on, Citizens!

Now this may come as a shock, but neither shot improved the condition of the car. Thus, Mr. Lovato is now facing jail time and a dead car. His neighbors didn’t see the inherent value in shooting the car and called the police. This led to a standoff with police after he refused to leave his house. Can you blame him? Where was he going to go? His car wouldn’t start!

Lovato was sentenced to 90 days in jail. His car was buried in a tasteful, yet subdued, closed casket ceremony with family and close friends. A Jetta was not admitted.

If you’re concerned that his actions might spur copycats, I suggest you write your Congressmammal to introduce legislation to regulate gun violence against uncooperative automobiles. I’m sure they would much rather work on that than the debt ceiling.

Carry on, Citizens!

Many people ask me, “Jeff, why is it called ‘French Toast?’” And with all the wisdom of someone who rarely makes breakfast, I respond “It’s because the French version of toast beat out all the lesser toasts.”

Yes, there were lesser toasts that have competed with the French throughout the years. But, lesser toasts are just not as sweet in the morning. And let’s face it, French Toast just sounds good. It certainly sounds better than German Toast, which was officially banned by Kaiser Wilhelm. Scottish Toast never caught on in the U.S., as it is quite disgusting —what with the bits of haggis baked into the bread.

Irish Toast had a brief run of supremacy until the Irish figured out that it was much easier to drink the whiskey straight from the bottle than to soak the bread in it for two days. Swiss Toast was a complete disaster, inasmuch as it had holes like the cheese, thus it was a terrible delivery platform for syrup.

The British never really embraced toast, focused on the muffin as they were. As such, they did not fight in the Toast Wars (1875-1986). However, they did lend advisers and supplies to the American led Pancake Uprising of 1955 (at about 7:30 AM).  The Pancake Uprising failed to unseat the French and in 1986, the U.N. declared French to be the Official Toast. However, Texas has always maintained it’s Toast independence, choosing to serve their toast without syrup and at all times would you believe —with dinner!

Despite the insolence of Texans, French has remained the official toast. And so, historians agree that the last known victory by the French was in the Toast War. Viva La France!

Carry on, Citizens!

“What’s a tweetup?” asked his wife.

“It’s a social event, where people mix and mingle and tweet for hours. And, they share a hashtag,” he answered.

“Umm, you’re married now. The only person you’re sharing a hashtag with is me.”

“No, honey, a hashtag is a keyword that we use to track the conversation. It’s a word with a pound sign in front of it.”

“A word with a pound sign in front of it? I thought you were so cool when we married, what happened?”

“This is cool, trust me.”

“So when is this tweetup?”

“Next, Thursday.”

“I have Zumba at 8:30. Be home by then.”

With his wife’s blessing (sort of), he went off to organize the tweetup. He used Eventbrite to create the event, and invited all sorts of cool people to be part of his tweetup like @bgkahuna and @naptownbuzz. He talked to the people at Burd Ford and they agreed to host. Everything seemed to be going well, but dark clouds were on the horizon. And not just because @nicoleWTHR had predicted thunderstorms that night. No, someone sinister had signed up to attend.

But, our hero didn’t know about the sinister attendee. He was just focused on getting some live music to the event. Did I mention our hero was named Ted? Well, I just did. Why Ted, you ask? Because the world needs a hero named Ted. I’m certain of it. Anyway, Ted contacted @randyclarktko to find out if his band could play the tweetup.

“Sure, we would love to do it. I’m working like crazy to finish a huge project, but we should be done by then.”

“What’s the project?”

“Oh, some knucklehead won the lottery and paying us to create a forty story sign with Godzilla on it near the JW Marriot.”

“@jeffstanger?”

“Yep, that’s the guy. He’s also paying us to create the world’s largest Pez dispenser.”

“What character?’

“Marvin the Martian. Okay, I’ve got to go. See you at the tweetup.”

Ted had his location and his band. He had the invites out and he just needed the food. Meanwhile, his sinister guest was making her own plans for next Thursday!

To be continued…

Carry on, Citizens.

Anyway, “planking” as it is known in Taiwan, China, and Australia is becoming quite popular. Apparently you just lie face down and get your picture taken. This is somehow viewed as artistic and deep and brings awareness to a variety of serious world issues such as pet overpopulation, climate change, and fears of another Twilight movie.

Yet, being the civic minded chap that I am, I began to think about how I could use planking to call attention to the serious issues here in Indianapolis. For starters, I could plank in front of Conseco Fieldhouse to draw attention to the fact that the Pacers haven’t been relevant since Reggie Miller retired. Or, I could plank on Monument Circle, and call attention to the fact that there isn’t one statue of Jim Gaffigan anywhere in this state!

According to Reuters, one of the Taiwanese plankers said, “It’s not really that difficult to plank and I really don’t mind getting dirty.” Have we fallen this far? I mean let’s face it, Americans get a lot of grief for being couch potatoes, but at least we still have the gumption to get out into the streets with signs and march for heaven’s sake! Protesting by lying face down on the ground? That’s the ultimate slacktivism!

Carry on, Citizens!

It all started nearly a decade ago when the USC Trojans decided that the best way to win championships was to look the other way when agents, boosters, and the Russian mafia* would hang out with their players. “Free cars, houses, gold plated Pez dispensers? We didn’t see ANY of that,” was what the coaching staff would routinely say. Well, somebody saw lots of that and the program was put on probation by the NCAA.

Not that they did it right away, mind you. This case has been going on Reggie Bush’s entire professional career! But, the BCS finally got around to taking away their 2004 title. And that means, we need a new champion!

So, without further adieu, unless you like that sort of thing, I will name the Carry On, Citizens 2004 BCS Champions: The Scottsdale Community College Fighting Artichokes! Why the Fighting Artichokes, you ask? Well, for starters, can you think of a more ridiculously unique mascot in all of college athletics? Secondly,there isn’t anything more ridiculous than having no champion, so why not name a school that isn’t even in Division 1 (or the Bowl Championship Division as they keep trying to get us to call it).

Finally, Oklahoma lost. And I’m sure they wouldn’t want to be handed the title without earning it. And the same goes for every other school in the NCAA. That’s why letting me name a new champion makes total sense (to me anyway). Now, there have been other NCAA championships vacated in the past. And I’ve decided to name the winners in those years/sports too. So if your oft overlooked community or junior college would like a Carry On, Citizens National Championship, drop me a note or post a comment below. We might even send you a trophy!

Carry on, Citizens!

Just this past week an illegal shipment of tap dancing shoes was intercepted at an Italian airport. It’s worse than we thought, Citizens. The Italian Mob is involved in this! Can you imagine the plot of The Godfather 4? The Corleone family has moved from gambling, prostitution, etc. to smuggling tap dancing shoes. Maybe it will be a musical.

According to Reuters

“A U.N. diplomat told Reuters on Tuesday that the seized shipment involved several dozen pairs of tap-dancing shoes. He said that it was not clear how the tap shoes might fit into North Korean leader Kim Jong-il’s lavish lifestyle, which includes grandiose stage performances by North Korean performers.”

I love the part of the quote that says “not clear how the tap shoes might fit into his lavish lifestyle.” Now that’s the awesome part of being an evil dictator! You can walk around with a crazy haircut, women’s frames for you glasses, and tap dancing shoes and absolutely NOBODY can say anything about it. Well, not to your face anyway. And that apparently is the preferred get-up of Korea’s leader. Personally, I prefer the traditional apparel of our American elected officials. Although, I do think it would be fun if the Vice-President had to wear tap dancing shoes to work every day.

Carry on, Citizens!

I got an email from Target today. They appear to be really hurting for beauty expertise, because the subject line reads: “Share your beauty tips for a chance to win sweet swag!” Hmm… what do you think would cause Target to attempt to bribe me to share my beauty tips? Should I cave in with simple swag, or should I hold out for money? More importantly, do I even have any beauty tips?

As referenced before, I’m SLTH so I don’t know why Target needs my tips. They even asked in the email if I was their biggest beauty fan. I didn’t even know I was “a” fan, let alone the “biggest” one. Maybe they meant biggest as measured by lbs as opposed to measured by undying devotion to their products.

At any rate, I’m going to give them a tip. Maybe they will send me some swag or a gift card? So, Target, here’s my beauty tip. It’s served me well over the years, and I think it will be useful to some of your customers.

TIP: The less the picture is in focus, the better I look.

Carry on, Citizens!

Who was the greater Fab 5? Let’s compare:

• Michigan played in 2 Final 4′s.  Devo played on 5 continents. Advantage Devo.
• Michigan had the baggy shorts. Devo had the red plastic hats. Advantage Devo.
• Michigan was ranked in the top 25. Devo charted in the U.S., Britain, and Australia. Advantage Devo.
• All of the Michigan players are retired. Devo toured last summer. Advantage Devo.
• Michigan players illegally took money from boosters. Devo funded the video of Whip It themselves. Advantage Devo.

I think it’s pretty clear who the greater “Fab 5″ was. Advantage Devo!

Carry on, Citizens!

Pride and Prejudice: Being a woman in the 19th Century was no picnic.

Grapes of Wrath- You’ll complain a lot less about your life!

Lord of the Rings- If you’re given jewelry inscribed in elvish, sell it.

The Catcher in the Rye- Some of you are going to want to kill people after reading this.

War and Peace- Longer than a hockey season and just as violent!

Animal Farm- Goes well with red wine and Pink Floyd.

Moby Dick- Never trust an albino whale. Never.

Romeo and Juliet- Because a cheap wedding is better than a double funeral.

Hamlet- The Anti-Waltons

Trolley Dodgers- The funniest book ever.

Carry on, Citizens!

So, all this has me thinking as a birthday approaches —what needs to be crossed off my bucket list? I thought about going to Las Vegas and having a Charlie Sheen type weekend. Here is how I planned it in my head:

1. Fly to Vegas.
2. Marry a showgirl.
3. Get a tattoo of Houdini locking his keys in his car.*
4. Consume some type of blue liquor.
5. Bet $1,000 on the Padres to win the World Series.

As Sheen-esque as that all sounds, it might seriously jeopardize my day job. So, I’m going to have to come up with a more respectable expression of a mid-life crisis. I just haven’t been able to come up with something really remarkable yet. Maybe you can help suggest something. Color my hair? Buy a convertible? Take up yodeling? Got any ideas? Post them in the comment section below.

Carry on, Citizens!

*Hey, it’s my body and my blog so I can dream of any tattoo I want. Don’t judge.

I viewed Uncle Leo/Len Lesser as sort of a hero.  He appeared in 167 movies and TV shows. And he did so while being… ummm how do I say this… significantly less than handsome.

Uncle Leo is a hero to all of us who suffer from being SLTH (significantly less than handsome). He managed to still have a pretty successful career in film, which ironically seems to favor those who don’t have SLTH.

I discovered I suffered from being SLTH in the 5th grade. A girl told me I was the exact opposite of tall, dark, and handsome. Now, I could have made the case that NOBODY in the 5th grade was technically tall, but it wouldn’t have mattered. The psychological damage was done. That girl went on to become a Colts cheerleader, so I figure she had some innate sense of what is attractive.  I went on to be —me.

However, things didn’t turn out so bad. Like most people with SLTH, I’ve managed to make a living being smart or funny. Sometimes doing both at the same time —just like Uncle Leo. And that Colts cheerleader, somebody told me she married a short guy. Go figure.

Carry On, Citizens!

I went to the grocery store tonight. I wasn’t there because of the 10 inches of ice and 30 feet of snow that WISH-TV’s Randy Ollis predicted. I know Randy and I believe everything he says. Well, unless he’s turkey bowling. But that’s a story for another day. Anyway, I was at the grocery store because I usually go on Mondays, not because of the ice.

Of course, once I was there I was alerted to the impending doom we were all facing. Someone was even muttering something about an Ice Age! Hey, I’ve seen The Day After Tomorrow. Dennis Quaid isn’t coming to rescue me. We’re not even related! So, I thought I had better stock up to survive Icemageddon.

First, I went for the milk. No milk. It occurred to me in that moment, that I don’t even drink that much milk. Why was I looking for milk? As I wandered the aisles and passed the milk drinkers, I spotted the mother load: 72 cases of Yoo-Hoo! I don’t drink much Yoo-Hoo either (as in no Yoo-Hoo). But it was there. And nobody had noticed. So, I grabbed 3 carts, strung them together with the shoe laces of someone who had been trampled by the milk drinkers and filled them up.

Just a few minutes later, I spied something else that had been ignored by the milk drinkers and the egg hoarders: Pez. Bags and bags of Pez where sitting undisturbed. Cherry, Orange, even Grape! I took them all. 1,475 individual packages of Pez were mine. with that and the YooHoo, I could survive anything. However, I did decide to get something, we’ll say was a little less than nutritious -Fritos. One and a half bags of Fritos were still left. So I grabbed them too.

As I made my way to the checkout line, I passed the bread people. They had loaves in their carts, under their arms, and in their coats. Their children were carrying bread. Would this be the last bread I ever see? I didn’t care, because I also noticed a giant display of mayonnaise. I took all 272 bottles of it. When the world descends into anarchy, I will control the mayonnaise.

When I was almost finished loading the mayo, I noticed a box under the display. Much to my surprise and joy, there was 144 count case of sparklers that had been left from the 4th of July. If the power goes, others will have candles. I will have sparklers.

I made my way to the counter to check out. Despite the huge line, everyone parted before me. They had looks of amazement in their eyes. Some grabbed their kids and hid them from view. An elderly man wept openly. One woman took pictures with her cell phone. So, I rang up my order.

1. 272 Bottles of mayonnaise
2. 72 cases of Yoo-Hoo
3. 144 sparklers
4. 1,475 packs of Pez

Stay where you are Dennis Quaid. I’m all set to ride out this storm. Of course, you could send your co-star from that movie, Sela Ward. I hear she likes sparklers.

Carry on, Citizens!

So today we’re starting a new feature at Carry on, Citizens: iPod Confessionals. Post your confession of musically questionable taste and I will absolve you of all sonic guilt. I can do that, because I’ve seen the Rolling Stones. Twice. Depending on the severity of your auditory infraction, I may ask you to perform some sort of penance such as downloading something by the Clash or watching Palladia.

To get the ball rolling, two brave Citizens have decided to go first:

Dear Jeff,

I’ve been hiding something on my iPod that I’ve been too embarrassed to to tell my husband and kids. I have Michael Bolton in my iPod. Not just any Michael Bolton, but the early stuff before he became a crooner. The Hairband Michael Bolton era. Can I be forgiven?

Amanda K, Brownsburg, IN

Dear Amanda,

Your Sonic Guilt is justified, but it’s not that bad. Let’s face it, if you can get past the look, Bolton’s hairband stuff is actually better than most of the lounge drivel he subjected us to in the 90′s. So, I assign the following penance: listen to the Grosse Point Blank Soundtrack (Some Violent Femmes and Clash will do you good).

Dear Jeff,

I’m writing to you to confess the following audio atrocities: I have Debbie Gibson on my iPod. And, Tiffany. What makes it worse, I’m a construction worker. If the rest of the guys knew, I would be ridiculed mercilessly. What must I do?

Alan P., LaJolla, CA

Dear Alan,

I must confess, I’m tempted to ridicule you mercilessly. But, I must remember that this is a safe place and but for the grace of God, we would all have Tiffany in our iPods. So, I release you from this Sonic Guilt. Your penance will be listening to Let It Bleed by the Rolling Stones ON VINYL! Rock in peace, Citizen!

It’s time for you to post your confessions below.

Carry on, Citizens!

Now I’m sure there’s an exec at Hallmark thinking, “Hey, it’s no big deal. Iran isn’t a big greeting card market anyway.”  But, I am deeply troubled by this! Over 70% of the Iranian population is under 30! They are also not allowed to mingle with the opposite sex until they are married! How the heck is eHarmony Iran supposed to program for that?

This is an international crisis! If romance dies, then birthrates go down. If birthrates go down, then Iran loses power in the region. If they lose power in the region, they can no longer remain part of the Axis of Evil. (I’m assuming they are still part of it as I don’t recall our current President demoting them.) If they fall out of the Axis of Evil then they might get placed in the AFC South with our beloved Colts and someone else will be put into the Axis of Evil. (NFL rules stipulate that the Axis of Evil Division must always have 3 teams.)

Now, I for one don’t want a new team in the Axis of Evil. It’s taking me this long to understand the current one. And who are we going to get to join? Cuba would love to step up, but they lack the front office to compete with the big boys. Venezuala has such aspirations, but let’s face it, they don’t have the TV market that CNN, Fox, and ESPN look for in a potential Evil team. Even Hades isn’t a lock, as their spokesperson recently announced cost overruns and shoddy workmanship will prevent their stadium from being complete for another 2 years.

So, please join the fight to save Valentine’s Day in Iran! World Peace just might depend on it.

Carry on, Citizens!

The history of Nog dates back to the early pioneer days in America. It was discovered that squirrels regurgitated a substance that though thoroughly disgusting, contained rich nutrients. Being that the pioneers were dying of starvation, they decided that squirrel vomit wasn’t the worse thing in the world. (Although Moose vomit was clearly out of the question.)

Some of the more uppity Pioneers decided adding vanilla would make it go down easier and Vanilla Squirrel Vomit became the staple of Pioneer life in the small settlement of Nog. A year later the residents of Nog were wiped out by an obscure disease that previously only affected squirrels. Of course, their neighbors went on to form the town of Boston, but honored their quirky neighbors by drinking Nog at Christmas. (They changed the name to Nog, recognizing the obvious marketing disaster associated with a product named Vanilla Squirrel Vomit.) Once the population of Boston became larger than the population of nauseous squirrels, the ingredients were changed to the ones you know today.

So, this Christmas enjoy your Nog. Drink up, there’s plenty to go around. I won’t be having any.

Carry On, Citizens.

(I wrote this back in 2004. But, I missed this post, so I brought it back.)

For those under the clouds

Staring up in awesome wonder

As tears come slowly down

Reaching up a needful hand… ~Jars of Clay

There are many of them in the Indy area —needful hands of every race, religion, and background. There are more of them this year than ever. So many, it seems overwhelming. I’ve been working for the Salvation Army for over 8 years. I’ve never had so many people come to me directly for help. People that were volunteers or donors a year ago, are out of work, wondering where the next check will come from, and how will they give their kids a Christmas.

Yet out of this seemingly unending uncertainty, lots of hopeful stories are out there if we choose to look for them. Here are my three favorites so far:

1) On Saturday, a woman came up to me in Sullivan’s Hardware where we were broadcasting the WIBC/Salvation Army Radiothon. She had a $100 bill she wanted to donate. I thanked her and then asked if she could do me a favor. A little boy was ringing the bell next to a kettle inside the store and I asked if she would put it in his kettle. She happily complied and gave the boy a story he could tell all his friends.

2) A good friend who is Jewish called me at home to let me know his annual toy delivery would be a few days past the cutoff but before distribution. Not a problem at all!  He has given faithfully for years. It says so much about our community that a very diverse group of people come together to make sure children and families have toys and food during the holidays. 

3)At the Colts/Cowboys game Sunday, we were collecting toys with the folks from WISH-TV. A woman pulled up with a car full of toys. She told us she sold her tickets to the game (very good seats apparently) and used the money to buy toys.

There are a lot of needful hands this Christmas. This year I’m asking all the Citizens (people who follow this blog) and event the casual readers to help fill those hands. There is still time to give a toy. There is still time to donate. There is still time to make a small gesture that will have a huge impact for someone else. If you would like to fill some needful hands, please go to my Online Red Kettle.

Carry on, Citizens!

Thanksgiving began in 1621 when a group of hapless English refugees decided to thank the Indians who had kept them alive the previous year. They got together for a three day feast and called it Thanksgiving. The feast continued annually until Chief Squat N Smile realized that the Indians were providing the turkey, the stuffing, the sweet potatoes, and all of the desert. The refugees (or Pilgrims) were just getting the drinks. The Chief had a heart to heart with the leader of the refugees, and they agreed to do their share on the condition that that the Indians stop bringing flan for desert. Known as the Pumpkin Pie and Pitch-In Treaty of 1623, it forever ended flan’s reign as the desert of Thanksgiving.

(Editor’s Note: During the negotiations, some well-meaning but clueless activists tried to tell the Indians that calling themselves Indians was insulting. The activists insisted that the Indians were offended by this and insisted that they call themselves Native Americans. The Indians pondered these things far into the night. At dawn the next day, they quietly entered the refugee settlement and cut out the hearts of the activists. This is the origin of the phrase “bleeding heart liberal.” The refugees didn’t mind that the Indians killed the activists because they were kind of tired of their constant complaining about how bad blacksmithing was for the environment.The Indians continue to fight activists to be known as Indians and not Native Americans. Recently, they called a temporary truce and agreed to be called Casino Owner Americans.)

Although most people believe the first turkey was roasted over an open flame, the truth is the Pilgrims bought a deep fryer at WalPost. They thought it would be quicker and there were too many kids running around to have 20 turkeys going on a giant fire pit. Walpost (It didn’t become WalMart until centuries later) dominated the trading post industry at that time. Their low prices and distribution network were unmatched by their 17th Century rivals.

In 1629, the Salvation Militia (as they were called in the early days) gutted out pumpkins and painted them red. They went door to door collecting donations for the poor in the pumpkins on the day after Thanksgiving. The following year, enterprising young children dressed up as Salvation Militia members and went door-to-door with red pumpkins on Halloween. They realized if they could get a jump on the competition, there would be more for them. WalPost recognized this and began marketing to both groups as early as August! The also convinced the children to carve faces in the pumpkins instead of painting them and the Salvation Militia to buy red kettles. Thus, three American traditions were born: the Red Kettle campaign, Trick or Treating and retailers putting out holiday merchandise months before the actual holiday.

In 1635, Chief Squat N Smile retired as leader of the Wampanoag Indians and became a greeter at WalPost. His succesor, Chief Corleone decided to move the family business to New Amsterdam and go into the olive oil, gambling, and prostitution businesses. The family would be later imortalized in the film The Godfather.This meant that the refugees had to celebrate Thanksgiving with out the Indians and that’s pretty much how it is today.

It also about this time that football became an tradition for the holiday. Despite the snotty insistance of many historians and NFL films, football was being played in America in the 1600′s. The first professional football league was the NWFL (New World Football League). It featured 6 teams: Plymouth Otters, King Charles’ Lions, Mystic Pizzas, Salem Witch Hunters, Weymouth Clippers and Manchester United.

King Charles owned the Lion’s franchise (which also played home games in Plymouth) and was the first of the “meddlesome owners” to plague professional sports. He insisted that his team play to a large crowd each Thanksgiving. However, they were bad. Really bad! So bad in fact, that the tradition of eating before the football game came into being. The refugees figured the food would cause them to sleep through most of the game, thus sparing them from the horror that was on the field.

After years of bad Thanksgiving football, the King Charles’ Lions drafted Jean Marc Rouseau out of France in the 1640 offseason. Although highly touted, he was injured in training camp and never lived up to his potential. This would serve as the starting point to a history of ill-advised draft choices that plague the franchise to this day. Who can forget Thomas Baker III, the #1 pick in 1776? He quit the team just before Thanksgiving to join the Continental Army. Then there’s everyone Matt Millen ever picked…

A few years later, the people of Plymouth decided that having two football teams was overkill and decided to ask the Lions to leave. The team packed up their belongings and left in Mayflower Covered Wagons to find a new home. They eventually settled in an area they named Detroit, the French word lousy football.

As the new world continued to expand and the refugees continued to breed like rabits, the tradition of Thanksgiving moved from the community to the family home. But the tradition of turkey, pie, and football lives on. And for that, I’m very Thankful!

Carry on, Citizens!

What sorts of deals can you find at my house?  Well, there is a chair sitting across from my desk that seems to serve no purpose. It’s wood and in great condition. Apparently, it’s an antique. I managed to aquire it because some relative thought that part of my home was in desparate need of seating. Why someone would want to sit and watch me write, I have no idea. But if they do, there is a chair for them. Unless of course you want it. Make me an offer!

There is a wine rack that is conspicuously without wine. I’ll sell it or you can trade me wine for the chair. Everybody wins!

I have copies of my book- Trolley Dodgers. I’ll sell those and even sign them for you.

I can’t find my rare BoDeans live concert video. That’s not for sale. But, if you help me find it, I’ll give you free stuff and Thanksgiving leftovers. I have a big TV. It’s not for sale either, but we can watch the concert on it.

I have 2 blenders. I’m a wretched cook, so there’s a good chance neither has been used and thus highly suitable for re-gifting. Make me an offer.

Ladies, is there is a sports fan in your life? I have numerous hats that were purchased by someone who looks like me but was clearly lacking focus and a sense of fashion. There are dozens to choose from so you can take care of lots of uncles, cousins, and that guy at work who helped you change a flat one time, but you clearly would never go out with but must thank in a I’m grateful but really don’t want to ever be any closer to you than in the elevator sort of way. (A new record for run-on sentence in a blog!!)

So, if you want a unique shopping experience that lacks a crowd, lines, credit card machines, a greeter (unless Mel & Brian show up), and shopping bags, come by my house on Black Friday. Just don’t come early.

Carry on, Citizens!

Thanks for offering to do a blog post about me looking for a job.   I’m 44 and have (for the most part) been gainfully employed. Due to the current state of our state/country I’ve now been unemployed since March 2010. I was born and raised here in Indianapolis and like I said I’m 44 I’ve done many jobs in my life…..In my 20′s and early 30′s, I lived in Florida and I worked for mortgage companies and banks doing secondary marketing.  It was fun but lots of hours 80+ a week.  Even at that young age that was killing me, well I guess I did go to happy hour quite a bit back then too….Maaaybe that had something to do with it!  I decided to take a break from the corporate world and moved back to Indiana and took a job at Arthur Andersen as a receptionist.  I loved it!  I’ve worked as a receptionist an executive assistant and dabbled a bit in Accounts Receivable.   I must say I hate numbers and don’t feel comfortable around them but I’ve ended up working in the accounting department for each job I’ve had and have done a great job though I was nervous every step of the way! Yikes!  For example, last job started out as an executive assistant position but I ended up being the A/R manager for my team. 
 
I would most like being a receptionist.  Why you ask?  Well let me tell you my take on this.  Though being a receptionist you are known by everyone and have lots of interaction with co-workers, it’s normally a pleasant greeting and chit chatting experience.  There is no cube and you’re not thrown in the middle of the politics of the office.  You see it all from afar, which is a-okay with this lady who doesn’t like the office drama!
 
A little about myself: Born in raised in Indiana, married in 1989 (mistake) moved to West Palm Beach, Florida in 1991, divorced in 1993 (not a mistake) moved to Las Vegas, Nevada in January of 1997, decided it wasn’t for me and moved back to Indianapolis in July of 1997.  Met my current husband in 2000 and got married again in 2003 (not a mistake) oh and he is 8.5 years younger than me, yeah yeah yeah, I robbed the cradle…And though he was in 4th grade when I graduated high school, he is the man of my dreams!!  I don’t have any children we’ve considered adoption but that still up in the air.  We have a wonderful life and love to travel…and if we intend to continue to travel like we have the past 9 years, I need a job to support said vacations!!

Jeff’s Note: Mary’s short bio shows that she would make a fantastic receptionist. She’s conversational in a way that makes you feel comfortable. Are there things in there that you might not normally share in a job interview? Yes. Is it more conversational than formal? Yes! And that’s exactly why social media is a great way to get to know a potential candidate. And, it’s exactly why I know she will be a huge asset to a lucky company. I’m tired of going into offices with recepto-bots. (My word for for robot receptionists.) Life’s too short for that! And I’m sick of reading textbook resumes and cover letters. Which is why I would call Mary back before someone who sent me a cover letter about being “goal oriented” or whatever buzzword is popular this week.

If you need a receptionist, download her resume (link below) and give her a call.

Carry on, Citizens!

Mary_Elizabeth_Ridenour

If you are Citizen (follower) on Twitter, email me a photo, a resume, and a short bio (being funny is a plus) and I will post it on my blog. Be creative. Be remarkable.

I don’t want anything in return, just throw some change in one of the Red Kettles this Christmas. And if you do have a job, please forward one of the posts you see here to someone who might be hiring.

Carry on, Citizens!

Being the Mayor of the Known Universe has it’s pluses and minuses. In the good column, I can always get a table at a good restaurant on say, Jupiter. On the bad side, every time some star goes supernova, there are millions of calls wanting to know what my administration is doing to clean up the mess. It’s very tiring.

So, I’m thinking of retiring as Mayor. But, that’s hard to do. You can’t just hand over the title and there are no elections to vote me out. Somebody will have to visit the Known Universe enough times to unseat me. And that’s were the problem lies: aside from me, very few people really visit the Known Universe. This could be due to the fact that so few people know it exists and thus they don’t know they are in it. Cluelessness about the Known Universe has led to all sorts of unwanted consequences like timeshares, Katie Couric, and the Detroit Lions.

So, if you decide to visit the Known Universe, please check in. It’s your turn to be the Mayor. The Martians need their sewers replaced.

Carry on, Citizens!

That may seem a little odd to you. Don’t grandma’s drive really slow? Not my late Grandma. Before Danica Patrick, before Sarah Fisher, before Janet Guthrie, there was Roxy. Roxy never got to drive in the Indy 500. She lived and died long before women could compete in auto racing. But if you talk to anyone who knew her, they would tell you that she would not only have held her own, she would have won!

That may seem like an exageration, but I’ve been told by relatives that she used to drive Old State Road 37 in southern Indiana doing 70mph. All the while she was laughing, singing, and often using just one hand! If any of you have driven this stretch of road, the curves and hills in that part of the state are not to be taken lightly. I’ve been told of cousins and uncles white nuckling the dashboard while Roxy was flying down the road and humming some hymn and taking some private delight in the fear of the guys in the car.

I never got to meet her. She died before I was born, taken by a disease that is treatable now. I got to know her through countless stories from friends and relatives. And yes, the character of Roxy in both my novels is based on her. Her character in Trolley Dodgers seems to be the favorite of all you Citizens.

So, if I fly by you on I-465 with the BoDeans cranked, don’t think I’m in a hurry, or stressed, or late for some meeting. I’m just driving like my Grandma.

Carry on, Citizens!

Some of the top reasons I could find in no particular order:

1. Running out of energy or motivation.
2. Inability to get through the walls that will eventually come up. Seth Godin refers to it as The Dip.
3. Criticism
4. Fear
5. A sense of adult responsibility.

I don’t know if any of these are the number 1 reason, and I’m sure there are many others. But, I’m sure that all of these have plagued me at one time or another. And I think I should probably add modern distractions to that list. However, I wanted to try to answer the question, so I Googled it. That search produced a lot of motivational speakers who were sure they could tell me how to live my dreams and make millions doing it.

I’ve known people who have tried these plans. They’ve tried to recruit me to do them as well. And they always come around a few years later with a new plan, sold to them by someone else who is living their dreams. It occurred to me why these don’t often work: these plans are almost always backwards. Pursue the plan successfully and your dreams will be waiting on the other side. They’re backwards because they imply you need to achieve a certain level of success and then you can live your dreams. Instead, you should figure out what your dreams are and pursue them relentlessly.

I agree with Byron Easterling, who wrote Dream Big, Dream Often, that whether we’re aware of it or not, we’ve been hardwired with a dream. I think that dream is also our art. It is the one thing that we can do that fills us with joy and and is uniquely expressive. Why do so many of us lose it?  Brenda Ueland writes,

“But this joyful, imaginative, impassioned energy dies out of us very young. Why? Because we do not see that it is great and important. Because we let dry obligation take its place. Because we don’t respect it in ourselves and keep it alive by using it. And because we don’t keep it alive in others by listening to them.”

When we pursue our dreams, pursue our art, pursue that which has been hardwired into us, we live happier, incandescent lives. Which of course brings us to cupcakes. Last weekend, I ordered 2 dozen smores cupcakes from Sweet Ass Cupcakes for a tailgate party in Bloomington. Cory, the owner, even delivered them to my door that rainy Saturday morning. While I was paying her, she told me that she had gone to art school and was hired by a bakery. After a few years, she went out on her own. She may not have gone to art school with the expressed interest in making cupcakes. She may have aspired to see one of her works in a famous gallery. And yet, here in this setting, she is still making her art.

After all, what is art? Is it not someone who sees something they love and decides to share it with others via paint, or sculpture, or cupcakes? And if it is really good art, it touches people. It moves them. It enhances their experience. And for a dozen fans at our tailgate party, those cupcakes —made with love and art and care, enhanced the experience. In fact, everything good play, funny line, or memory of our time at IU for the rest of the day was called a Sweet Ass touchdown, joke, or memory. Not out of crassness or disrespect, but out of a shared positive experience. That is art.

And thanks to Harrison, I was reminded that a writer who had his first newspaper job at age 13 has been neglecting his dream and his art. In fact, the editor of his first book emailed today and said, “that was a really good book. You need to write more!” She’s right, at least about the second part. So, I’m going to write more. And dream more. And order more cupcakes.

Carry on, Citizens!

“Yeah, pretty much.” ~Jeff Stanger 2010

The owner of Segway was found dead at the bottom of a cliff today, his personal segway by his side. What are the odds? Will segway sales plummet? Will Oliver Stone make a conspiracy movie out of the story? Will Alanis be relevant again?

I thought about probing these tough questions, but then decided it would be more fun to look for other forms of irony. Such as the recent poll that found that atheists knew more about religion that Protestants and Catholics. Does this mean Christian schools aren’t teaching the basics or that somebody is secretly sneaking religion into public schools without Atheist parental consent? (I imagine Michael Moore is choking on a chili dog after reading that last sentence.)

Carry on, Citizens!

Often people ask me, “Jeff, if you had been successful in your bid to become Emperor, how would you have spent the stimulus money.” And, I answer, “Are you kidding? There wouldn’t have been a need for a stimulus! I would be Emperor!”

But, let’s just suppose for a second, I was President of the United States and let’s suppose there was a stimulus during my administration. How would I have handled it differently? First, you would know exactly how I was going to spend it. No vague promises. No “shovel ready” jobs that don’t quite materialize. I would spend it on the following 5 things:

1) Adding President William Howard Taft to Mount Rushmore. Pound for pound, Taft was our finest American President. Estimated Cost: $4.5 Million.

2) Banishing Lady Gaga from the United States. Dr. Evil wore a meat helmet. Lady Gaga wore a meat dress. Clearly, we can draw a connection to Dr. Evil and Lady Gaga. Since we can’t send Austin Powers after her, let’s pay her to leave. Estimated Cost: $12 Million. Pricey I know, but the collective class of the country will go up about 10 levels.

3) Bill O’Reilly vs Keith Olbermann Cage Fighting Match. (Rachel Maddow vs Glenn Beck in the undercard match) Who wouldn’t tune in to that? I think I speak for a lot of people that we’re tired of listening to liberal and conservative talking heads scream at each other for 7 minute stretches between commerical breaks. Let’s make them duke it out on pay per view. Estimated cost to produce and market: $10 million. Projected revenue: Billions!

4) Bail out the grunge rock industry.  Grunge has been largely nonexistent for the better part of 15 years. Yet, in it’s heyday it gave rise to the torn jean industry, the flannel shirt industry, the overpriced coffee industry, the Bridget Fonda movie industry, and the complaint rock industry. Folks, Grunge WAS THE EARLY 90′s! Sure, it got stopped dead in it’s tracks by Hootie and the Blowfish, but it was too big to fail. (I’ve heard that before…) Estimated cost: $500 billion.

5) Invade Mars. Mars has been looking at us funny for years. Their supreme leader (pictured right) has weapons of mass destruction. He’s not even trying to hide the fact that he has them like that other guy in the middle east. We should retool NASA to send troops to Mars, conquer it, and turn it into Galactic Disney. Estimated cost: $2.3 Trillion. Estimated revenue once it becomes the Magic Kingdom of Mars: $40 Trillion. The t-shirts alone will pay off the National Debt.

Carry on, Citizens!

Anyway, that got me thinking… (ominous music here) … there is no NCAA for blogging. There is no NBAA. So there is nothing keeping me from selling my blog used jerseys. Then it occured to me that I don’t in fact wear a jersey when I’m blogging. I have always dreamed of wearing a giant sombrero while blogging, but that’s a post for another day. Since I have no jersey, I thought about the other things pro sports guys sell: autographed game balls. And that’s when I had my big idea (ominous music gets really loud now): blog used keyboard keys!

That’s right folks, I’m auctioning off my keyboard! You can bid on any key on the keyboard (Opening bid is $10) and I will donate the money to HomelessnessBites.org. Think about it! An actual letter “h” from the keyboard of one of America’s most disturbed minds! It’s too good to be true! I’ll even throw in an autographed letter of authenticity written on the back of the candy wrapper of your choice. Hurry! I’m sure the ampersand will go very quickly. I might add that the backspace key has some crud on it (blogging and eating chocolate covered pretzels don’t mix) to add to the authentic experience.

We will keep this very simple. Just post a comment with your bid and the key(s) you are bidding on. I’ll close the bidding on Friday, September 17th at 6 pm.  So, take advantage of this opportunity to own blog used memorablillia and help a great cause!

Carry on, Citizens!

It has recently come to my attention that there are millions of out of work Citizens in America. And due to the clever leadership offered by Democrats and Republicans in Washington, this situation does not appear to be changing anytime soon. If fact, it we may never see leadership out of Democrats and Republicans. But, the job situation is about to change. Sort of.

I’m offering for the first time, an internship! That’s right, Citizens, you could be my intern/personal assistant/iPod syncher (not sure if that’s a word, but it’s a necessary part of doing this job). Of course, there will be no money involved. We wouldn’t want to jeopardize your unemployment benefits that Congress so generously extended just today. Besides, how can you put a price on the valuable experience you will gain as you join me in the following activities:

• Picking out a tie.
• Recording podcasts with me and Brian!
• Raising money for a good cause.
• Spell checking my next novel!
• Helping me figure out which album that one Billy Idol song is on…
• Helping me avoid occasions where I have to wear a tie.
• Answering my phone calls in a snotty tone and saying I’m not available. Ever.
• Helping me organize my collection of bobble head dolls.
• Arguing with my turtle that it’s time to go in his shell.*
• Filling my Pez dispenser.
• Check that, finding my Pez dispenser.

We’re not limiting this search to just the jobless. Want to quit your job and come hang out with me all day? I can’t pay you but there will be plenty of beverages and M & M’s.*  You will also get a Citizen Intern t-shirt, you’re own intern blog, and an office.*

So, do you have what it takes to be the first Citizen Intern? Well, make your case with either a blog comment or Facebook comment and Carry On Citizens Intern Search Team will evaluate your pitch. And if you’re not up for an internship, then please forward this to somebody who really who doesn’t need money but would benefit from being exposed to my unique brand of oddness (I just realized that “exposed” is probably not the right word to use in an intern recruiting ad, but relax this isn’t Capital Hill!). I’m counting on you Citizens! I’m counting on one of you to answer the call. I’m counting on one of you to say “yes” to adventure. I’m counting on one of you to find my Pez dispenser!

Carry on, Citizens!

Disclaimers and fine print:

*Turtle doesn’t bite.

*Plain or Peanut.

*Office may in fact be a chair in my office.

Would the answer be Prairie View football fans?  They lost 80 games in a row during the 90′s. Going to those games had to be the equivalent of watching a live performance of 28 Days Later, only gorier. I suspect season ticket holders had to be the same 200-300 people who rented the straight to video sequels of Children of the Corn.

No, I think we can crown a new Champion of Baseless Sports Optimism. This isn’t even a contest folks. The new title goes to the Russian Soccer Fans. That’s right, kickball – I mean soccer, has produced the most optimistic fans in the universe. Of course, the cold temperatures and the high rates of alcoholism have contributed to this prestigious award. How else can you explain that in a recent study, 8% of Russians believe they have a chance at winning the World Cup -despite the fact that the Russians didn’t even qualify! That’s optimism folks!

Other results of the survey found that 2% of Russians believe Turkey will win, despite also not having a team qualify. 12% of Russians believe that Drago was hosed by the judges in Rocky IV and 17% were too drunk to finish the survey.  100% of those surveyed found the vuvuzela to be an annoying musical instrument that should be banned from all sporting events.

Carry on, Citizens!

So, here is a sampling of today’s spam:

Valk Shively wrote to me to say, “of it. Then she thou.”  I’m not sure what she’s going to “thou.”  And I’m really not sure what kind of name “Valk” is. It sounds like the name of a really tough guy, or maybe a nihilist.

Mark Denno writes, “Ts of her industry. She wanted her people. h.” I wonder what the “Ts of her industry” are…

Lance Hensley has announced that “the tablets of happiness are here.” I could use some tablets of happiness!

Do you ever get the bogus Facebook friend request spam?  Tonight, Facebook has written to tell me that Angelina Jolie wants to be my friend. I don’t think this is really from Facebook. And I doubt Angelina is buttering me up to play Kate in the movie version of Trolley Dodgers. I think she could play Maple, however.

Chipman Tuckey sent me a message that, “imitation that the art of building.” First, I think Chipman Tuckey is a great name. I think I will use it in a book someday. Second, I think this might be a coded message from a secret agent. He may be planning the overthrow of some third world country. Maybe I should open this email…

GetViagrafromPhiser is offering me 77% off Viagra. I’m not falling for that, because OrderViagraOnline is offering me 80% off. I’m holding out for 85%.

Sidney McNalley has sent me a Windows Security Alert. I have a Mac, Sidney. But thanks for the heads up.

Sister Josiane Benson from the Ivory Coast wants to wire me $7.5 million dollars. I asked if I could have it pennies. She hasn’t responded.

Will Baty writes, in what could only be described as an ode to copywriting while on acid, “me pay for fittin’ this here Fox patrol out with uniforms. that’s my ijee b.” I’m glad Will is paying, because I really don’t have the cash for “fittin” an entire Fox Patrol. I wonder what kind of uniforms they wear?

That’s all the spam I can share tonight. I have to order my tablets of happiness now, because “that’s my ijee b.”

Carry on, Citizens!

They do have a lot of turnover at this establishment (I’ll protect the name for this post, but you can email me if you really need to know).However, the few old-timers make me feel at home. One loves to tell the story of the old lady from Zionsville who rear ended my car. She got out of her Lexus SUV and promptly told me it was my fault because my car (a PT Cruiser) was too low to the ground. The stylist was my witness for the police report. It’s a full service salon.

Another stylist is very proud to tell the other patrons that I’m on TV and she cuts my hair. It usually embarrasses me, because I’m not really on TV. I just do an interview here and there.

Sometimes, the stylist say very peculiar things. One told me that Ian Astbury, lead singer of The Cult, was in fact, Jim Morrison of the Doors reincarnated. Ironically, many years later, The Doors reunited and toured with who as their lead singer: Ian Astbury!

Sometimes, they make you feel good about life. One stylist told me how she taught her children to always put change in the Salvation Army kettles at Christmastime.

One stylist tried to convince me to color my hair brown recently. I forgot I once had brown hair. It reminded me that I promised my brother I would bleach my hair blond and spike it like Billy Idol if I sold 10,000 copies of Trolley Dodgers. We’re many thousand copies from that happening – and hundreds of hair cuts.

Carry on, Citizens!

The worship of Sounvenirous comprises a variety of rituals meant to appease the god and thus curry some sort of artifact as a sign of his favor. The most common manifestation being the receiving of a foul ball or a tossed ball from a player. The former is considered to b much more of an expression of divine favor, as the event is random and often painful.  Souvenerians, as they call themselves, are mostly found in baseball ballparks, but splinter denominations have been found in ice hockey arenas, at Arena Football games, and Mardis Gras.

Thus brings us to the part about child sacrifice. It is not uncommon amongst unlearned practitioners of Sounvenirism to hold up a child in order to curry favor from one of the diety’s minions (a player) or to unwittingly stop the flight of a hard hit foul ball. The second option almost always ends in the injury of the child and after the thrill of getting the ball, the embarrassment of the parents.

It’s rare to see such blatant Souvenirous worship these days, as many people have stopped worshiping at games and spend inning after inning on their iPhones, wasting the box seats their companies paid for to schmooze clients. Souvenirous is often offended by such insolence, and retaliates by a well timed broken bat shard to the neck.  However, I did see such a thing at an Indianapolis Indians game last week. Two parents, holding up their child and calling for a ball sat a couple of rows in front of me. Luckily their child was spared, as he must have not pleased Souvenirous. He was rather odd looking.

Carry on, Citizens!

Skee Ball has been around since 1909. It was invented by J.D. Estes of Philadelphia as way to get his kids to clean up their rooms. They would throw their toys in the holes and earn points. If they earned enough points, Estes would buy them new toys, as the tossing them into the skee ball holes tended to break them.

Later he sold the concept to Wurlitzer who then sold it to the Philadelphia Toboggan Company. We didn’t do any of more of the research into the game’s history because, frankly, we were enamored with the name Philadelphia Toboggan Company.

Skee ball leagues are popping up all over the country. And as you can see from this picture, a wide variety of people seem to enjoy the game. If I’m not mistaken, I think the woman in the pink outfit with leg warmers is Olivia Newton John. She hasn’t aged a bit. Must be the skee ball.

The North American Champion in Skee Ball is this man:

Ronald Flanberg of Jersey City, NJ is not only the points champion, he also holds the record for most games played in a row (345). He credits his ability to block out pain and fatigue, along with a paper cup (pictured) for pee breaks for his incredible record.

So take a long hard look at Ronald. Don’t you think he deserves a chance to compete for the Gold Medal in Olympic Skee Ball? Wouldn’t that just warm your heart? I wonder if the Olympic Committee would insist their logo is placed on his pee cup?

Carry on, Citizens!

Today’s bonus question?  When is NBC going to stop trotting out announcers with only a passing knowledge of sports (Meridith Vieira) to embarrass themselves at the Olympics?  Seems Meridith didn’t know the difference between Michael J. Fox and Terry Fox. You would think they would have learned from Katie Couric trying to describe Judo a few years back. Awful, just awful!

The Olympics also have a sport called “curling.” Curling was invented by 2 Canadian third shift security guards.  One night they drank an entire case of Molson each and decided they needed a recreational activity. The result was a cross between bowling, shuffleboard, and obsessive compulsive sweeping. A statue in honor of the two men was erected in their native Winnipeg.  It depicts one of them with the tell tale curling broom and while the other is vomiting. It’s a striking display.

Sports That Should Be Added

Donkey Basketball is, sadly, not part of the Olympics. Shocking, isn’t it? This sport has everything -goofy uniforms, donkeys, and from what I can tell from this picture, about 20 loyal fans! It also doesn’t seem to require a significant amount of athletic prowess, which the average viewer can probably relate to a lot more!

Apparently, donkey basketball has been a target of PETA and that might explain why it’s not in the Olympics yet. I don’t know their problem could be. PETA had no qualms about subjecting us to Dick Button all those years. Yeah, that’s right PETA, I’m calling you out on the Dick Button thing. Where were MY animal rights when he took the microphone?

Anyway, enjoy the Olympics and check back for more sports that should be included in the Olympics. Now, I’ve got to head to Best Buy to see if they have Curling for the PS3.

Carry on, Citizens!

5) Super Bowl IV- The Scandinavian Culinary Society of Greater Duluth creates a likeness of Fran Tarkenton using lutefisk and food coloring. Although the Vikings went on to lose to the Chiefs, the sculpture is believed to be the only truly great use for lutefisk in the history of mankind.

4) Super Bowl XXV- Watching the game from a hostel in Bulgaria, the members of Milli Vanilli correctly spot that Whitney Houston is lip syncing the National Anthem. Ironically, the media claim they were tipped off by anonymous sources, which by 1991, Milli Vanilli were.

3) Super Bowl XXVIII- Absolutely convinced that the Bills couldn’t possibly lose 4 Super Bowls in a row, Sidney Munson of New York vowed to drink a combination of wing sauce and beer via a bong. When it becomes apparent that they will lose to the Cowboys, he loaded the bong with three Natural Light Beers and a bottle of Extra Hot Buffalo style wing sauce. Munson successfully downed the mixture but was not able to control the IBS episode that came with in seconds of the last drop.  The party hosts sent him a bill for the subsequent carpet and upholstery cleaning.

2) Super Bowl XXXVII- Living up to their respective teams nicknames, Raiders and Buccaneers fans stage the worlds largest sword fight in the lobby of the San Diego Omni. As they were using real swords, 97 fans went to the emergency room. No one died, but the combined total number of stitches matched the combined total yards in the game: 634.

1) Super Bowl XXXVIII- On the way to the bathroom, in a small house filled with people watching the game on smaller than 30 inch TV, and over 20 feet from said TV, I glanced back over my shoulder just in time to see Justin Timberlake expose Janet Jackson’s boob. Nobody believed me, for none of that crowd was even watching the halftime show. And for twelve hours, I felt like the man who had the courage to say, “yes, I’ve seen Big Foot.” But as dawn broke, the news of Nipplegate (as it came to be known) spread across the land. I was vindicated.

Carry on, Citizens! (And go Colts!)

Anyway, as I did in 2008, I wanted to be the first to write a 2010 year in review. So, 364 days early, here’s what happened in 2010.

January:

• The Association of University Scientists Who SWEAR Global Warming is Real announce their annual meeting in Kansas City is canceled due to a blizzard.
• During the State of the Union Address, President Obama announces that GM will reintroduce the Chevy Vega. He also announces his desire to “address the single American problem, now that Health Care has been solved.”

February:

• On Groundhog Day, PETA protests using animals to predict the weather in Punxsutawney, PA. The Groundhog predicts 6 more weeks of winter, then gnaws the leg off of one of the protesters. Video of the attack gets 7.5 million hits on YouTube.
• Fearing a drop in romance due to the Great Recession, Congress announces a Cash For Cupid Program. Tax credits are given for the purchase of red roses, heart shaped candy boxes, and those chalk tasting little candies with stupid little phrases like “Be Mine” on them.
• Singles Against Discrimination (S.A.D.) files a lawsuit against the government for not being able to take advantage of Cash for Cupid. Congress amends the program adding a Cash for Internet Dating Program. The President hails the legislation as the first step towards getting all 101 million single Americans a date by Memorial Day.

March:

• In a stunning display of political correctness gone wrong, members of the House and Senate announce that St. Patrick’s Day should be spectrum neutral and refuse to wear green. Tea Party activists refer to themselves as the Green Tea Party for one day in protest. 98% of Americans ignore both of them.
• 3 days into Spring Training, the Padres announce that they are mathematically eliminated from the playoffs.
• Upon realizing that Cash For Cupid and Cash for Internet Dating aren’t budget neutral, President Obama sells North Dakota to Canada.

April

• Kentucky wins the National Championship in basketball. Investigators announce that recruiting violations will force them to vacate the championship only hours later. John Calipari celebrates the third Final Four he “didn’t go to” by going to Disney World.
• Led Jeffelin announces they will reform and go on tour.

May

• President Obama announces his Get All the Single People a Date program is successful. Republicans claim that 23 million people still have not been on a date. The administration later admits to counting all of Paris Hilton’s dates twice.

June:

• Hank Blevins of Utica, NY successfully friends everyone on Facebook.
• In-fighting and a tour bus with a faulty toilet force the Led Jeffelin tour to cancel several shows.

July

• Apple announces a new rotary iPhone for retro hipsters. It sells out in less than a day, but users are furious when they find that a woman in Mayberry, NC named Sarah must connect them to all their calls.
• Led Jeffelin plays to a crowd of 100,000 in Central Park.

August:

• A 96 degree day in St. Louis prompts Al Gore to hold a press conference to announce Global Warming is real. And he REALLY means it this time.
• Congress passes the first piece of legislation that every man, woman, and child in North America agrees with: The banning of the Geico Caveman commercials from television.

September:

• The government announces that now that they have fixed everyone up in America on a date, it’s time to start working on that second date.
• Led Jeffelin announces that the tour has prompted them to go back into the studio and record their first album in 23 years.

October:

• The Yankees win another World Series in front of a crowd of 17 people.
• Approximately 93 percent of American teenagers dress up as a Twilight character for Halloween. The cool 7 percent toilet paper their houses.

November:

• In a shocking political development, the Libertarian Party captures the majority of seats in the House and Senate.
• President Obama pardons a turkey for Thanksgiving, but Vice President Biden accidentally backs over it with his car.
• The Detroit Lions lose on Thanksgiving Day again.

December

• Congress announces a Cash for Christmas campaign and gives tax credits for people buying Christmas presents. This prompts Jews, Muslims, Pagans, and the guy who invented Festivus to demand their own tax credits. The Administration announces, they will give tax credits to anyone who buys anything for any reason in December.
• The Great Recession officially ends, but the U.S. Debt is so high that we have give California to China for collateral.
• Hank Blevins successfully follows everyone on Twitter.

Carry on, Citizens! And Happy New Year.

There are so many questions swirling down the toilet of my brain right now. Why steal something you can pretty much make anytime during the day? How much does pee fetch on the black market? What does one do with stolen pee?

I hope the economy recovers soon, because I don’t want to live in a world where people in Utah steal urine. Heaven only knows what people in New York might start stealing.

Carry on, Citizens!

1. I have a solution to the global warming debate. Let’s stop fighting over whether or not it’s real, and start doing all we can to turn the entire world into the climate of San Diego.
2. The NFL Today “experts” predicted 2 weeks ago that Indianapolis would not make the Super Bowl. 2 of them predicted that Pittsburgh would. The Colts are 12-0 and the Steelers are 6-6 and have lost 4 in a row. Dear CBS, you could pay me 25% of what your paying your in studio team and I can make equally lousy predictions.
3. The griffin, a mythical creature, is also known as a keythong.
4. Can we move all the Tiger Woods stories to the Golf Channel so I can avoid them altogether?
5. 500,000 men will propose to their girlfriends in between now and Christmas.
6. I’m watching a story on libraries. Why does everything else in the library look up to date except the librarian?
7. I might not have made a better President than Barack Obama, but I would have been much more entertaining.
8. Why is it called phlegm?
9. There is a story on Yahoo about a woman who found a picture of the Virgin Mary in a pancake. I’ve never seen a religious figure in my breakfast food. Come to think of it, I can’t remember seeing anybody in my breakfast food. I saw Don Ameche in a burrito once. But that was brunch.
10. I want a trident.
11. I should probably go back to bed now.

Carry on, Citizens!

I have no idea because my mind was singularly focused on one question: Does Hallmark make a baby daddy’s mama’s lesbian girlfriend Valentine’s Day Card? And if not, could I start a greeting card company and beat them to the punch. You see, I am sort of a entrepreneur at heart, and this seems like a huge opportunity. I think the Baby Daddy/Baby Mama card line has potential.

And, there are other greeting cards that need to be made. I remember my friend Justin had to make a card himself because he couldn’t find a “Sorry about your Vasectomy” card for someone in our office. What about the whole break-up market.  There’s the “it’s not you it’s me” series. The “I think we should be friends” line and the “Call me when the psychiatrist clears you to play” series. I once had a girl tell me I was like chocolate cake when she dumped me. She said I was really good, but not very good for her. At the time it hurt. Now, I think I think it would be a hilarious card.

Anyway, if you would like to join me in this venture, send me your card ideas. If they’re good, I will count you in. If they stink, well, we have a card for that too.

Carry on, Citizens!

Believe it or not, Obama is already missing the days of George Bush.  Okay, maybe you and I didn’t prosper under GWB, but he sure did. In Bill Clinton’s last year in office, Barack Obama made $240,505. In President Bush’s last year, he made $2,656,902. So, he made over 10 times as much money under Bush than Clinton. If I woke up tomorrow with my head sewn to the carpet, I couldn’t be more surprised than when I read that stat!

However, this year his salary is $400,000.  So, he makes 85% less under himself than he did under Bush. Now that’s change even he can’t believe in! And now you can see that he can’t possibly support the person (himself) who has caused his income to plummet so drastically.

Because I’m such a civic minded person, I’m offering to switch places with President Obama in 2012. I figure that I could give up selling books and the President’s salary would be a HUGE increase in my income. Meanwhile, Obama could go back to selling books and see his income return to the stratosphere that would cause Nancy Pelosi to hate him again. I’m Patriotic like that.

Carry on, Citizens!

“I’ll rise above it, I’m a professional.”

“There’s no socks or dirty knickers or anything.”

When reached, Stanger was surprised about the award. “Wow, really? Guess I better get busy and write the thing. I wonder if I could get some help from a ghost writer.”

Carry on, Citizens!

“These go to eleven.”

“In every actor, there  lives a tiger, a pig, an ass, and a nightingale.”

“We could talk or not talk forever, and still find things to not talk about.”

Hello,
Weird request – do you have the lyrics to the last part of “Fanny Shake Polka” – I could never quite get what he sings after, “I took my Fanny to the airport, to give her a thrill. She knew the pilot(?) ???? and(?) ????, -the part’s going still-(?)… When you..???”

Any help appreciated, this has been driving me nuts for about 30 years.
Thanks,
-Mark

Great question, Mark. I must first confess that I am not, in fact, an expert on Polka. But, just for you, I did some research and have learned all sorts of interesting things about this under appreciated musical genre.

Sadly, I was unable to find the lyrics. It seems that the Fanny Shake Polka is the polka equivalent of Louie Louie. It’s lyrics are shrouded in mystery and a great deal of controversy has followed the song throughout its life. At one time, the song was banned from the Polka Varieties show on WEWS in Cleveland. Parents thought the lyrics may indeed incite kids to have sex or worse, take up curling.

The song’s origin itself is fascinating. It was penned by none other than Bob Dylan. Dylan has written many polka songs under false names as  not to alienate his traditional audience.  Shirlee Petvkovsec of the Polka Hall of Fame states, “Dylan is the most prolific songwriter in Polka history and should be honored for his contributions. Unfortunately, nobody is quite sure how many fake names he has used, and he’s certainly not talking. It makes me sad.”

Dylan’s polka fetish was to be documented in the bio-pic My Secret Polka Lifestarring Johnny Depp, but the project was scrapped when Depp decided to do Tim Burton’s version of Alice In Wonderland.

I just downloaded the Fanny Shake Polkaand I must say, it made me want to go to an Octoberfest and drink lots of beer. Or take up curling.

Carry On, Citizens!

“I’m going home and I’m going to bite my pillow.”

Carry on, Citizens!

It’s the 6th annual Apple Fest.  Live music, food, prizes and more!

Carry on, Citizens!

“I can’t deliver him a stinky product…”

“I was shopping for my wife, Bonnie…”

Thank you for visiting your Government approved health care provider last summer. We’re pleased to announce that after much deliberation, our panel of experts has determined you may have contracted one of the following afflictions:

a) Lou Gehrig’s disease

b) Male pattern baldness

c) Coulrophobia

d) Mopery

Even though we’re pretty darn certain that it’s one of these, we want you to participate in your health care. So, please circle the condition that most closely resembles your symptoms. If you’re unclear about which one to pick, please call our toll free number 1-800 YRU-SICK extension 74. After the approximately 14 minute wait, please select your symptoms from the menu.

Once you have selected your affliction, please return this form so we can schedule a follow-up visit with your physician in the month of your birth. If you feel your condition can’t wait until the month of your birth, you can fill out IRS Form OMG-5150 to apply for a line cut. (Please allow 4-6 weeks for us to process your request for a line cut.) If your self-diagnosis is wrong, remember we reserve the right to sue you for malpractice.  (Hey, we’re not going to take responsibility, that’s why we gave you 4 options. We learned our lesson from the Veteran’s Lou Gehrig’s disease fiasco.)

Thank you for choosing your taxpayer funded Public Option Health Care! We look forward to continuing to serve you when we get around to it.

Sincerely,

Vernon P. Whip

Director of Public Health Care – motto: Fighting Disease with Bureaucracy Since 2010.

Carry on, Citizens!

Outside the convention center, two large groups and one lone woman were picketing. Bloomington is the epicenter of Midwest Values vs. Liberal Political Correctness. It’s called the “City of Trees,” and believe me, they’re well-hugged. On the other side of the spectrum, the Bibles in this town are well thumped.

It’s a fun town if you’re chronically detached from taking a stand on anything. If so, you can sit back and watch the two sides square off on the issue du jour. You can be sure that any idea will be met by the sign-carrying faithful from one end of the political spectrum to the other. Having your idea, plan, or project protested in Bloomington is the litmus test for its legitimacy. You know you’re on to something when you see a group of people carrying signs.

Tonight’s contestants included vegans, environmentalists, and Klondike’s wife. The Bloomington Vegans were marching because of hot dogs. Apparently, the idea of pork and beef leftovers being used to produce hot dogs was particularly offensive to them.

They were marching to insist that we use tofu dogs at the ballpark. I could argue that nobody had actually proven that hot dogs really are pork or beef, but I figured it was irrelevant. I don’t like debating the Bloomington Vegans. They are an unhappy clan, always quick to get into a debate about culinary morality. They never seem to smile. I don’t look down on them. I just feel sorry for them. I hope that there are happy vegans somewhere.

The DWARVES had turned out because of the ballpark construction. They were afraid of wetlands being destroyed, new roads being built, trees being lost, and bathing. They shouted at me as I walked by, calling me a tree murderer and an eco-traitor. One man asked if I could hear the cry of the trees. I told him if his friends could keep it down, I would try and listen. Using his middle finger, he signaled that I was number one.

It’s not that I’m anti-tree or anti-green or anti-owls or whatever. It’s just that the people protesting that night had made some really bad assumptions about what we were planning

to do. No one had publicly mentioned anything about a site for the new stadium. Yet they just assumed we were going to start ripping down trees, desecrating wetlands, and polluting the environment. In reality, we wanted to build it downtown between the Square and IU campus on a spot that had been a public eyesore for years. No wetlands or wildlife were in danger, unless you included the termites and cockroaches that inhabited some of the old buildings we would tear down.

Klondike’s wife, Bonnie, was protesting Klondike. Apparently since the morning in the diner, he had been consumed with the Dodgers. So much so, that he had missed their anniversary the night before. She carried a sign that said “Keep Frank Lopilato Off the Board of Directors.” On the opposite side of the sign it read, “Ask Me Why He’s a Bad

Husband.” No one did.

Poor Klondike. He was probably the best husband and father at the meeting. He was faithful, loving, and gentle. However, he was the beleaguered father of five girls. No man can hold up under all that estrogen. It’s just not possible. Thus Klondike was more susceptible to guy things than the average male. Naturally, when guy things like this came along, he seemed to lose himself in them.

I decided to make a few notes for my column. I watched as the Vegans and the DWARVES got louder and more aggressive with the people entering the convention center. While they were taking more and more interest in who was coming, Bonnie became less aware of what was happening around her. She collided with Maple, sending the Vegan to the ground. Bonnie went pale, and then threw up. I walked over to Bonnie to see if I could help her. She took my arm and I slowly walked her into the lobby.

Nearly out of breath, she muttered, “I haven’t thrown up this much since the last time I was pregnant.”

“You’re not pregnant again?”

She smiled, but didn’t answer me.

“Does he know?”

“Not yet.”

“Hope it’s a boy,” I said.

She went into the ladies’ room to compose herself. I waited around to make sure she was all right. Inside the convention center a mass of people filled the lobby and adjoining hallways. The main auditorium was upstairs, so a steady stream of people were either walking up the stairs or riding the adjacent escalators.

Bonnie emerged from the ladies’ room looking very pale. I accompanied her up the escalator and walked with her to the back row of the auditorium. Sections of white folding chairs were already filled with excited future franchise owners. Long green curtains flanked the room on either side. The chairs faced a stage on which a podium and a half circle of padded chairs had been placed. Those chairs were empty, but numerous people were walking on and off the stage.

Bonnie assured me she was OK and I turned back towards the aisle. Across the aisle at the end of the row sat a woman in a business suit. She tossed a wave of brown hair over her shoulder so she could continue thumbing through her open brief case. As she did, it exposed her face and gave me a glimpse of her eyes. What was my name? Why were all these people here? I’m not really sure how long I stood there staring at her. I’m sure she never noticed me. I just know that I was jelly. I was jelly with amnesia. I was so jelly that I didn’t hear Bonnie vomiting, again.

“Andy!”

“What?”

“Andy!”

“What?”

“It’s time to take the plunge. ”

“You’re right. I’ll ask her to marry me.”

“What are you talking about?”

Darryl was standing in front of me now. I couldn’t see her. The spell was broken. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s time to start the meeting. Who are you going to ask to marry you?”

I shoved him aside, pointed towards her seat and said, “Her.” She was gone. Her briefcase was there, but she was nowhere in sight. He gave me a strange look and started

walking to the front of the room. I looked for her for a couple more minutes, and then slowly made my way up front to join Klondike, Darryl, and Pete.

Pete called the meeting to order and then introduced the rest of us. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have called this meeting to inform you of our intent to form a corporation. The sole purpose of this corporation will be to purchase the Los Angeles Dodgers and move them to Bloomington, Indiana. We will make stock available to anyone wishing to purchase shares.

“Shares will go on sale Monday. Our headquarters will be on the north side of the Square, next to Stoute’s Music Store. The initial management team will consist of myself as president and Mr. Frank Lopilato as vice president. A treasurer/secretary will be named shortly. Serving as marketing and communications directors will be the team of Darryl Robinson and Andy Bennett.”

Darryl and I didn’t have lots of cash to invest like Pete and Klondike, so we weren’t on the board of directors. But our day jobs allowed us the flexibility to be involved, and Pete and Klondike treated us as equals when it came to decision making. Before Pete could continue, a guy in the front row yelled, “How come you get to be president? It seems we should vote on it!”

Pete waited through some applause and other comments and then answered. “We are the initial investors. I am investing nearly one million dollars of my own money and Mr. Klondike—I mean, Mr. Lopilato—has invested over five hundred thousand dollars.”

Bonnie vomited again.

He continued. “We are taking the initial risk and we’re going to steer this project. We’re inviting you to invest along with us and to trust our vision. If we succeed in purchasing the team, there will be annual meetings of the shareholders and you can vote us out if you’d like. But for starters, this is the team that is going to run the show.”

That answer must have been OK for Front Row Guy because I could see him nodding his head in agreement. From way in the back, I could see Bonnie being helped out again. She was shaking her fist towards her husband.

No one else seemed to want to challenge Pete’s explanation, so he continued. “With the backing of our mayor, who will speak in a moment, we will form a task force to study potential sites for a new ballpark. We anticipate that the Dodgers will continue to play in Los Angeles as we construct a world-class baseball stadium here in Southern Indiana. When it is completed, we will move the team to Bloomington. Now, let’s hear from Mayor Gomez.”

Mayor Gomez talked about baseball and voting and sending a manned mission to Mars for all I know. I wasn’t paying a bit of attention. Somewhere in the crowd was the woman who turned me to jelly. She wasn’t sitting in the row I first saw her in. Where was she? I kept leaning to my right to try to see around Front Row Guy. He must have been about six foot seven. I leaned so far that my head was touching Klondike’s shoulder. He elbowed me in the gut. I made a sound that distracted the mayor, causing him to shoot a quick glance back at us. I hoped she didn’t see that.

When the mayor finished, talk turned to the name of the corporation. Pete had decided to let the attendees suggest ideas. “Let’s call it ‘the Bloomington Baseball Corporation,’” someone shouted from the back of the room.

“No, I like ‘Dodger Baseball Midwest,’” yelled another.

“I like ‘Dodger Ball.’”

“No, no, that sounds too much like dodge ball.”

I yawned through about a dozen names until Darryl said, “What about ‘Trolley Dodgers, Inc.’? They were originally called the Trolley Dodgers. We can rename them when we move them to Bloomington.”

Darryl was right; they really were once called the Trolley Dodgers. Before that, they had a string of odd names that I was glad nobody suggested. One glaring example: the

Bridegrooms. They played under that name in 1888 because seven players got married within a few months of each other. A year later sportswriters dubbed them the Superbas after a popular vaudeville act of the same name. They remained the Superbas for over twenty years until fans and the press labeled them the Trolley Dodgers because of the complex maze of trolley lines in turn-of-the-century Brooklyn.

For Brooklyn, the trolleys represented progress. It was an industrialized, working-class, cultural melting pot. Trolleys carried people night and day to job and home. Trolleys carried dreamers, while the other dreamers darted in between them. They were American dreamers. Trolleys carried workers, while other workers marched around them. The jobs to which they went offered a slice of the American dream to immigrants, sons of immigrants, and grandsons of immigrants. The homes they returned to reminded them of the opportunity America had to offer. Although by today’s standards we might think they led poor, dreary lives, compared to the lifestyles they left behind, they were living like royalty.

And the kings of Brooklyn were the Dodgers. In those days players weren’t millionaires. In those days the center fielder during the summer might be the short order cook at the diner during the winter. The players lived in the towns where they played. They worked with the regular folks during the off-season. They kept the name Trolley Dodgers for only three seasons. For the next seventeen years they were known as the Robins— for reasons that I’m sure involved grain alcohol and a lost bet. In 1932, they became the Dodgers and have been ever since. Throughout their early history, they played in the shadows of New York’s Giants and Yankees. Both teams had won world championships. But in Brooklyn, a World Series title was the trolley they could never seem to catch.

In 1944, the Dodgers’ fortunes would change for the worst and the best. Three businessmen purchased twenty-five percent of the franchise. Under their leadership, the Dodgers would enjoy their most prosperous years. However, this would also be the ownership group that would break the hearts of Brooklyn fans by moving the team to Los Angeles in 1957. Still, the people of Brooklyn did get one chance to dance between the trolleys. On October 4, 1955, the Dodgers finally won the World Series. After losing the first two games of the series to the Yankees, pitcher Johnny Podres shut down the Yankee hitters in game three. The Dodgers then won two of the next three to force a game seven. Podres again pitched a brilliant game and the hated New York Yankees, Brooklyn’s biggest rival, were defeated. Podres was so popular in the Latin community abroad that a parade was held in his and the Dodgers’ honor on St. Thomas Island.

The Dodgers were involved in two of the biggest stories in the history of the game. The first was the signing of Jackie Robinson. For years, black baseball players were denied the opportunity to compete with white and Latin ballplayers. The Dodgers made history when Jackie Robinson took the field wearing Dodger blue. Jackie opened the doors for other black baseball players and helped bring a World Series to Brooklyn. The second great controversy came when the Dodgers moved west. Just when the Pacific Coast League thought they had a chance to become the third major league, the Dodgers and subsequently the Giants moved to California.

Forty years later, we were trying to pull off our own Dodger controversy. Changing the name would be controversial throughout the baseball world. But tonight we just had to concern ourselves with the citizens of Bloomington.

Darryl’s comment set off a wave of discussion from the front to the back of the room. The name seemed to capture everyone’s imagination. I thought about it for a while. Should I point out that Bloomington doesn’t have trolleys? I didn’t have to.

From the back of the room came a shout. “But we don’t have trolleys.”

From the middle came, “Yeah, we don’t have a one.”

Front Row Guy said, “Uh, he’s right. We ain’t got any.”

“But we could get one,” shouted the deputy mayor.

Vernon Whip, city councilman and outstanding citizen, said, “We could get rid of all the buses and replace them with trolleys. But have you considered changing the team’s name to ‘the Chipmunks’?”

“Uh, he’s right. We could get rid of all the buses,” said Front Row Guy. Then a delayed reaction hit him. “Did you say ‘chipmunks’?”

“Tell Front Row Guy to shut up,” I told Pete.

“He’s Mrs. Mayor’s nephew.”

“Of course he is.”

After some more discussion, the name Trolley Dodgers, Inc., was agreed upon. We knew there was a lot of excitement in the community, but how many of these people would show up next Monday and plop down their money on a team? For the most part, these weren’t rich people. They were the same people riding trolleys in Brooklyn—working-class dreamers. It was going to take a lot of them to make this work. It was also going to take a few angels with deep pockets.

Carry on, Citizens!

“We are so lucky to have been raised amongst catalogs.”

1) Teams must run the Wishbone every third down.

2) No punts and no field goals. Teams must go for it on fourth down.

3) Only use 80 yards of the field and hold an Arena Football game simultaneously with the rest of the space.

4) Make the cheerleaders try out at the preseason games. Let the fans vote on who makes the squad.

5) Brett Favre must play the entire game in order to work off the ill will he generates by his annual “I’m not going to play/ I’m going to play” soap opera.

6) Celebrity quarterbacks in the third quarter.  Now starting for the Colts, Danica Patrick!

7) No coin toss.  Each head coach must throw a trident into the stands. The first one to impale an opposing fan gets to choose offense or defense.

Concessions should be half price. If you’re not going to play the starters more than one series, let us have cheap beer.  That will help us forget that the quarterback in the 4th quarter will watching from the same sports bar as the fans in week 4.

9) Teams don’t have a real incentive to win preseason games. So, take the numbers off the losing teams jerseys.

10) Referees should have tasers instead of flags. Use your imagination!

11) Eagles games should include a halftime show of Michael Vick trying to outrun a hundred pit bulls.

Those ideas should make the preseason much more entertaining. They might even be more entertaining than the real season.

Carry on, Citizens!

“Because everyone else is busy and it wouldn’t hurt you to broaden yourself with something besides sports.”

“Well, they’re having Red Stepper tryouts at Assembly Hall tomorrow. Couldn’t you broaden me with that assignment?”

“You’re not covering a dance squad tryout.”

“What do you have against the Red Steppers? Do you hate them because they’re taller than you?”

“I don’t hate the Red Steppers.”

“Then let me go to the tryouts.”

“No, you’re covering the DWARVES. That’s final.”

“OK, but dancers sell papers, Ira. DWARVES don’t.”

I left him to ponder the financial implications of a front page cover photo devoid of Red Steppers and retreated to my office. After a quick check of my messages, I called the DWARVES to get more information.

“Thank you for calling the DWARVES,” said a familiar voice.

It was Maple, leader of both the DWARVES and the Bloomington Vegans. She loved trees and animals–unless, of course, you viewed humans as animals. Maple assaulted me in college when I was writing for the student newspaper. During an interview, I asked how someone who loved trees so much could eat salad with such reckless abandon. I then asked her if she heard the cry of the soybean as it was grotesquely slaughtered and converted into soymilk and other bland tasting products. The question that got me cold-cocked with a cafeteria tray, though, was how could she yank a defenseless, naked carrot from his home, skin him with a grater, and eat him raw without so much compassion as to numb him first?

That was also when I was kicked off the student newspaper even though I was the one who was assaulted. Vegan sympathy had infiltrated the decision-making offices of the Indiana Daily Student. I was an outsider, a hated meat-eater. I had dared expose the plight of defenseless farm produce. For my crime I was banished from the student press.

“Would you like to volunteer for our concert to save the Jordan River?” Maple continued.

“The Jordan River?” I asked.

“Yes, we want to put an end to illegal dumping in one of our most treasured local waterways.”

“The Jordan River? The one that cuts through campus. That’s what you’re talking about?” I was starting to lose focus because of the absurdity of what she was saying. You see, the Jordan River is one of the most inaptly named “waterways” in North America. It is not a river. It’s barely a stream. The only illegal dumping being done in the Jordan River is the occasional frat guy relieving himself on the way home from a party.

“Yes, that Jordan River,” she answered.

“Well, the concert sounds like one heck of a good time. And the cause is certainly worthy of your organization’s efforts. However, I’ve called about a more immediate situation. I’m calling from the Daily News. Could you tell me more about the protest you have scheduled this week?”

“Which one were you inquiring about?”

“Why don’t you run down all of them and I’ll pick the one I’m interested in.”

“OK, tonight we’re protesting the use of federal land for logging operations. That will be held in Dunn Meadow. Tomorrow we are holding a sit-in at the home of an attorney
who is cutting down all the trees in his yard. On Friday we’re marching down Kirkwood in support of—”

I cut her off, “What was that second one again?”

“We’re holding a sit-in at an attorney’s home.”

“Which attorney?” I asked.

“Frank Wolf.”

This was too good to be true. It might even be as fun to watch as the Red Steppers, for entirely different reasons of course. “Why is he cutting down the trees in his yard?”

“We learned he is putting in a pool. This will be the first in a string of protests we are planning to keep people from installing backyard pools at the expense of the environment.”

“So when is the Arborcide scheduled to take place?” I asked.

“Tomorrow afternoon at one-thirty,” she answered.

The next day, I pulled into The Wolf’s neighborhood and parked across the street from his house. A minute later, a photographer from the newspaper arrived. I got out of my car and told him to be ready to shoot a lot of film.

Minutes later, the DWARVES started to arrive in a parade of vintage Volkswagen vans, each complete with rust and dents and tie-dyed curtains in the windows. Some had as many as fifteen people crammed inside. They covered The Wolf’s yard like ants. To the untrained eye, the DWARVES appeared to be disorganized. However, there were three distinct groups, each with their own responsibilities. The Tree DWARVES chained themselves to his trees.

The Vandal DWARVES spray-painted graffiti on his house and driveway, then formed a circle in his driveway, sat down lit some candles and began chanting. Maple emerged from one of the vans, wearing a dingy white tunic and carrying a tambourine. Barefoot with a crown of flowers adorning her hair, she skipped and frolicked around the circle while singing and pounding her tambourine. Just as that particular song ended, the men from Truelove Tree Service arrived.

The DWARVES began a Gregorian chant that nearly caused the tree foreman to wet himself. The photographer moved in closer. The fl ash from his camera caused the DWARVES to stop chanting and start yelping. The yelping scared me. The third component of the group, the Marching DWARVES, proceeded to carry signs into the street to block traffic. As the servicemen tried to unload their equipment, the Vandal DWARVES circled their trucks. With their arms locked together, they began to alternate the yelping and chanting. Three tree servicemen considered the possibility of new careers that afternoon.

The foreman was able to compose himself long enough to call The Wolf’s office. That’s when the real circus began. It took The Wolf only seven minutes to make it from his office to his house. Arriving with him were several Bloomington police cars and a county sheriff. The police were there because The Wolf called them en route. The sheriff was there because The Wolf was doing eighty miles per hour in a school zone. The Wolf barreled out of his van screaming at everybody in sight. Veins in his neck bulged as he shoved DWARVES, a tree service guy, and even the photographer. When he saw me taking notes, he really lost his temper. He demanded an explanation while the deputy sheriff demanded his license and registration. The deputy threatened to cuff The Wolf, so he handed him his license and stomped back to the van for his registration.

The Bloomington police didn’t act immediately; the yelping threw them off. After a brief huddle, they decided to start with the Marching DWARVES. Surprisingly, they didn’t put up too much of a fight. The marchers moved from the street, onto the sidewalk, and on through the neighborhood. Unfortunately for them, countless years of marijuana smoking had left them directionally impaired. The subdivision, being rather large and having many streets and cul-de-sacs, swallowed them alive.

Meanwhile, the sheriff issued The Wolf a ticket. He could have given him a warning, inasmuch as his house was under siege. But The Wolf had many enemies. Years of burning bridges, bullying prosecutors, and frivolous lawsuits had eroded his fan base to blood relatives and the acquitted.

With a vein on his neck visibly ready to rupture, The Wolf turned his attention back to the tree foreman who refused to begin cutting. The Wolf threatened to sue Truelove Tree
Service. The foreman threatened to sue The Wolf. The Vandal DWARVES began to realize that there might be safer environmental battles to fight and began to flee. The Tree
DWARVES, by default, were left to answer to the police. The Wolf screamed at the Bloomington police to arrest as many of them as possible.

In all, seven DWARVES went to jail that afternoon, including Maple, who failed to fl ee with the Vandals. I called the police later that afternoon and was told that it took them all of about twenty minutes to make bail. A deputy told me that most of them called their parents and told them they needed money for books. I also went back to the neighborhood to look for the ten Marching DWARVES. Nobody I talked to could remember seeing them.

I took what I had and wrote a story that made the front page accompanied by many wonderful pictures of the Wolf and the DWARVES. I think the headline speaks volumes
about the seriousness of the event: WOLF CALLED HOME TO REMOVE DWARVES FROM TREES. I didn’t stop to think that this might make the Wolf an even bigger enemy.

“Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet…”

No, I’m not talking baseball hats. Americans still wear baseball style hats, but Hip Hop has sort of killed the nostalgic cool factor. I am referring to the power hats that used to define world leaders. Hats like this:

Do you think Kaiser Wilhelm would have made Kaiser without a hat like this? Of course not! This hat SCREAMS head of state!

Of course, the German Revolution marked the end of the Kaisers. Why? Because he stopped wearing the furry skull hat (as I like to call it) and started wearing a felt alpine hat. You can’t properly govern a country and look like an extra from the Sound of Music.

Genghis Khan was, pound for pound, our most fearsome Khan. He wore very powerful headwear, but always accessorized with a feather or two. This made him very popular with the Mongolian ladies. I tried this look once. I’m still single.

Russian style hats are very powerful and look equally good on women. This makes them the perfect hats for the World Domination minded lady. I think our first female President of the United States will wear one of these. In fact, I think the sole reason Hillary Clinton failed to get the Democratic nomination is her refusal to wear a Russian hat. Bonnie Bernstien should run for President wearing this hat.  I would quite my job just to work for her campaign.

I’ve given much thought to the type of hat that would best enable me to take over the world, and I’ve settled on the Marvin the Martian helmet. It’s powerful and green -a combination that I believe will ensure my success.

Do you have a hat that you think will help you take over a country, continent, or your local PTA? Send me a picture. Or better yet, send me the hat.

Carry on, Citizens!

“Thank God for the model trains…”

“What are you teaching fall semester?”

“Apathy,” Darryl replied, with little regard for my question.

“Seriously, what are you teaching?”

“Speech.”

“Speech?”

“Yeah, speech.”

“Morning class?”

“Yes.”

“Those kids are screwed.”

I was driving my Beirut-inspired Chevy Malibu north on Walnut Street. It was maroon with what I like to refer to as custom sport ripples down one side. Sport ripples sound more exotic than telling people I had hit a post, scraping and denting most of the passenger side of the car. It was a wonderful car if you didn’t go in for things like air conditioning, stereo systems, and working windshield wipers.

Gracing the faded red cloth interior next to me was Darryl. In the back seat were my friends Klondike and Pete. Pete had arranged this trip to Ladyman’s Diner the night before. He owned a movie theatre and a restaurant in town. Ten years older than Darryl and me, he had invented a special type of heart catheter when he was in his early thirties. Then he sold the company and the patents for millions of dollars. But like so many Southern Indiana millionaires, it was hard to tell him from the average Freddys.

The Four Freddys were what we called each other. A Freddy is a catch-all word for us, sometimes used as an insult and sometimes as a term of belonging. At any rate, the Four Freddys were hungry for breakfast. And a couple of the Freddys wanted to talk business.

We turned right onto Fourth Street and made a quick left into a parking lot. The lot was bordered on the north and west by the backs of several hundred-year-old buildings. Alleys divided the rows of buildings to give access to the storefront sides of the shops and restaurants. To the east and south were Lincoln and Fourth streets, respectively. The southeast corner of the parking lot doubled as a mini-hub for the city bus lines.

We parked in a space close to the buses and the north side row of buildings. On the storefront side of the buildings was Kirkwood Avenue. Kirkwood was the heart and soul of Bloomington; six blocks that run east-west from Indiana University’s campus to the downtown square. It continued west of the Square for another couple of miles, but those
six blocks were where everything happened in town. That’s where the freaks came out to play. Business deals were done at The Uptown or the Diner. Protest marches, Fourth of July parades, funerals, weddings, all were threaded together in the fabric of Kirkwood. When Indiana University won national championships in basketball, this was where people came to party. It was the hub of the city. It was where we hatched the scheme.

From the parking lot behind the buildings, it was difficult to tell which business was which, except for the Diner. Noxious gases emitted from its dumpster. Refuse blended with grease to form an impenetrable wall to the left. However, you had to go left to get to the alley. To the right, bus fumes from Lincoln Street and the city bus terminal were mixing with fresh brewed coffee aroma from the Diner. Our options were mochamonoxide or greasy bio-funk. I chose mocha-monoxide. It got me out in the sun and on the dry sidewalk.

Darryl walked ahead of me on the Lincoln Street sidewalk. We passed by a line of fifteen people waiting for the plasma clinic to open. Next to the clinic on the Lincoln Street side of the building was a shoe repair store that wrapped around to the Kirkwood Avenue side.

Pete followed Klondike towards the alley, finding it still damp from an overnight rain. The tall brick buildings kept the alley cool and wet, wet enough to cause Klondike to slip and fall only inches from the bio-funk dumpster.

I, on the other hand, fared worse. Just as I came around the corner, a maroon custom van barreled down Lincoln Avenue. The driver, a Neanderthal I call The Wolf, drove through a puddle doing forty miles per hour. The mud hit me doing eighty-five miles per hour. I saw The Wolf laughing in the reflection of his side mirror. I hated The Wolf.

The Wolf was a self-important blow-hard of a man. He was an attorney—reason enough for loathing—with a stranglehold on nastiness. I once reported that his son went hitless in a Little League All-Star game. He tried to sue the paper for libel. Apparently, I had failed to mention that he made a “spectacular catch in the outfield.” The only thing spectacular
about it was that he never stopped picking his nose when he raised his glove for the catch. His poor mother didn’t know whether to be embarrassed about the nose-picking or proud
that he could multitask.

He was also mad that I didn’t mention that his son scored the winning run. Technically he was right. I did fail to mention it—on purpose. I was trying to save the kid some long-term teasing and embarrassment by not detailing how the run was scored. With the game tied, he was hit by a pitch in the groin. The next batter hit a home run. In the history of baseball, no runner has ever taken longer to get from first base to home plate than The Wolf’s son. He did this sort of painful looking waddle that took an eternity to complete. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. The kid could have been scarred for life. Then again, he was The Wolf’s son. Where would his psyche squeeze in another scar? Anyway, that started a long-running feud between The Wolf and me. Today’s well-aimed mud bath had given The Wolf the lead.

Klondike and I met at the door of the Diner, looked each other over and shook our heads. Someone once said, “Each man must find his own path.” I’m pretty sure this is not what
they had in mind, but still, here we were—two wet, smelly men who took different paths to the same destination.

As we entered the diner, my worst fear was realized. Penny was working. She was in her late twenties, cute, with a pretty smile. I always made eye contact when she was working. Now, I wanted to crawl back through the mail slot. I stood behind Klondike and Darryl. She smiled and waved us over towards a booth on the right.

Klondike, of course, bolted for the booth, without as much as a warning. There I stood with mud from my neck to my thighs. She looked me up and down, and then suppressed a giggle, causing her to snort. “I’ll be right back.”

She returned with a towel and tossed it at me. “I heard you on the radio,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. “What did you think?”

“I think you’re crazy. But I have to admit you have the town stirred up. There isn’t a table in here that isn’t talking about it.”

“Maybe they’re stirred up because it’s a good idea.”

“No, it’s crazy. You’re just lucky to be living at the epicenter of crazy. It sort of clouds their judgment.”

Penny took our orders and scurried off to the kitchen. I’ll just eat my last meal and die, I thought. She thinks I’m a loser. A steak knife. Yeah, that’s it. I’ll take a steak knife and cut my wrists. No good. Klondike would pass out. I can’t have that on my conscience. I’ll do it in private later on tonight. Sitting around me were my three best friends and the
three best reasons I could offer for not going into business and certainly not trying to buy a baseball team. Darryl and I had no business background. Pete and Klondike were
both businessmen, but they were from opposite ends of the spectrum. Everything Pete touched seemed to turn to gold.

Klondike, on the other hand, often made money in spite of himself. Klondike, a.k.a. Frank Lopilato, ran a small hotel in town, pitched for our softball team, and originally was from the East Coast. A short, funny-looking man, Klondike was a cross between Barney Fife and Michael Corleone. He was loyal, generous, and always coming up with a crazy marketing idea. That’s how he got his nickname: Klondike. One day he had
the kind of idea that you wish his wife had been around to talk him out of—or at least convince him to get counseling.

“Every hotel is putting mints on the pillows at night,” he said. “It’s been done to death. I’m going to make people remember the Bloomington Oaks Hotel. My guests are going to come home to ice cream bars on their pillows.”
So Frank put Klondike bars on all the guests’ pillows. Somewhere around nine-thirty that night, the calls started to flood the front desk. One lady slid into bed without turning on the light. She still sees a therapist. Another guest’s dog had been loose in his room. The otherwise docile collie vomited in seven places. Although the man’s open suitcase saw most of the action, hotel workers to this day can’t explain the splatters on the window. It was as if the dog was somehow trying to signal the wedding reception down by the pool.

Anyway, that’s how he earned the moniker. For the most part, he was a successful businessman. Now and then, though, he went off on one of those wild tangents, and you wondered how he ever made a nickel.

Penny returned with our breakfast. “Now, judging by the amount of mud you guys tracked in here, do you want me to bring you extra napkins?”

“No, but could you take away all the silverware?” I shot back. “We’d prefer to eat with our hands.”

Penny laughed and walked away. Then Pete threw out the first pitch. “I’m ready to do it,” he said. “I’m throwing in a million bucks of my own money to get the ball rolling.”

“What ball rolling?” I asked.

“The baseball rolling. As in the Dodgers. Hello, I’m talking about us buying the Dodgers. I figured I would be the president; Klondike can be vice president or marketing director—”

In unison everyone turned to Klondike and said, “No ice cream.”

Pete continued, “Andy, you could be the media relations director.”

“Why do you get to be president?” Klondike asked.

Before he got the chance to answer, Chris Moeller, the deputy mayor, interrupted us. It wasn’t until he did that I noticed the other people in the diner. They were all looking at us. Some were whispering. Some waved their arms and talked loudly, pointing at us like
animals at the zoo. Penny was right. Every table and booth was talking about the Dodgers and looking at us. In that moment, I realized this thing was alive. It was bigger than us. People had actually read the column and tuned in to the radio show. They might really want to do this. A crazy idea, born out of a need to fill my weekly requirement of nouns colliding with verbs, was about to change this town forever.

Was I reluctantly going along with this idea? Or was there a place deep inside me that wanted this more than anything? The twelve-year-old was still unsure.

“Mr. Moeller, what can we do for you?”

“What can you do for me? What can I do for you? By the way, call me Chris.”

He said it in a way that made me think I was about to be sold a timeshare in Myrtle Beach. “The mayor is behind you guys one hundred percent. He got the letter from Pete this morning and he loves the idea.”

All heads turned to Pete. “What? I just sort of greased the pump a little!”

“And what sort of grease did you use on the pump?” I asked.

“The mayor is hardly a pump,” Chris said.

“Butt out, Deputy Pump,” I said. What did you do, Pete?”

“I told the mayor we really would name the stadium after him.”

“What?” I said.

“And I told him that the four of us were forming a corporation and would start selling shares.”

“What?” Klondike and I, in unison.

“And I said we could raise the money by the end of September.”

“What?” Klondike, Darryl, and I.

“Are you crazy?” I said. “This community can’t raise that sort of cash.”

“We’ll get outside investors. We’ll sell shares to anyone who wants to invest.”

“We don’t know how to run a baseball team.”

“We’ll get somebody to help us. Look, for as long as I’ve known you, your dream was to bring a minor league baseball team to Bloomington. Now we’re going to help you go one
step better. We’re going to bring the Dodgers to Bloomington. The Dodgers, man. Doesn’t that get you excited?”

Pete was right. Since I was twelve, I had the dream. Since I had gone to work for the Bloomington Daily News, I’d been trying to sell the idea of minor league baseball in B-town to anyone who would listen. It was my dream. But there’s something safe about having your dream stay a dream. Keeping it a dream keeps it in a box. People think that dreams are where the possibilities are limitless. Maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe reality is where things are limitless. Reality is surprising. Reality is an adventure. Reality is the intersection of everybody’s dreams. Now my dream was about to become a reality, and I was scared.
The deputy mayor was staring at me. Klondike and Pete were staring at me. Darryl was staring at Pete (and stealing his hash browns). Then I realized the whole room was staring at me.

Pete lowered his voice and looked me in the eye. “We can’t do this without you. And that means you, buying into this one hundred percent. You are the voice of baseball in Bloomington. You’ve got the attention of the community. They are ready to go. They just need a cheerleader. We know how to talk business. You know how to talk baseball. We’ll sell people on the investment opportunity. You sell them on visions of pennants and World Series games. Say yes, and we’ll go buy a baseball team. Say no, and it’s another quiet summer in B-town.”

“Another quiet summer in B-town.” Pete’s words echoed in my mind. Every summer since I graduated from Indiana University had been quiet. They all seemed to blend into each other. I didn’t have much to show for the past eight years. I had worked my way up from beat reporter to a weekly column, but there was nothing distinguishing about my career, or my life, for that matter. It was time to do something. Something big. Something that people would remember. That televangelist was back in my head.

“I’m in,” I shouted. “Let’s buy the Dodgers.”

The entire restaurant roared with applause. Darryl stole Pete’s bacon.

I Was Kidding

“When I was a small boy in Kansas, a friend of mine and
I went fishing . . . I told him I wanted to be a real Major
League Baseball Player, a genuine professional like Honus
Wagner. My friend said that he’d like to be President of the
United States. Neither of us got our wish.”
~ Dwight D. Eisenhower

I spit Coke all over the microphone. As it shot through my nose, I slammed my cup down, gasped for breath and feebly attempted to compose myself. Jesse held up his left arm, twisting it frantically towards Darryl, the signal to take a commercial break. To me, he made a neck-slashing gesture using his right hand. I quickly tried to wipe the fizzling brown liquid off the wooden console. All the while, I was still snorting, choking, and coughing.

“Hold that thought, caller, and we’ll answer your question after the commercial break. Stay tuned for more of today’s controversial topic: Bringing Major League Baseball to Bloomington, Indiana. Our in-studio guest is Bloomington Daily News reporter Andy Bennett. Kristy will update the news and weather after the break.”

Darryl took off his headset and started laughing. “What’s the matter? You know you’ve opened a can of worms now. These people are ready to do it.”

Jesse glared at both of us. Jesse may have been only an intern, but this was definitely his sound booth.

“Well, it doesn’t help that you’re encouraging these wackos,” I said. “And why do you keep calling it a ‘controversial effort’ to bring the Dodgers to Bloomington? There’s no effort underway, you tool. I just wrote an article. I was kidding.”

“You weren’t kidding,” Darryl shot back. “You’ve wanted this all your life. You’re just too much of a coward to admit it.”

Was Darryl right? The previous caller uttered the one sentence that I never expected to hear. I thought some people would call in and say the article made them laugh. I thought others would say that I wasted seventeen inches of newsprint on a pipe dream. I wasn’t prepared for someone to actually call in and say, “I want to invest. Where do I send the money?” That was the question that launched the carbonated shower onto the console. Why was this caller ready to shell out his life savings?

Well, just a week earlier, I was approaching my weekly deadline, and as always, I had no idea how I was going to fill my quota of newsprint for the Bloomington Daily News. When I was stumped, I would track down my good buddy Michael Turner. Michael was a chat machine who knew everything about sports. I need only ask one sports question, and three hours, six beers, and four debates later—usually Michael debating himself—I would have a story idea.

On this particular occasion, Michael was ranting and raving because the Los Angeles Dodgers were up for sale. Michael, being an East Coast transplant, was constantly lamenting the Dodgers’ move from Brooklyn to Los Angeles in the fifties. He was already talking (to himself) about the Dodgers when I sat down at the bar. Like most Dodger fans, he couldn’t bear the thought of his beloved team falling into the hands of some giant corporation. I took a pitcher off the bar, filled his glass with topic juice, and motioned for the waitress, Jenny, to bring me a glass.

Michael was an MIT graduate who had devised a computer ratings system for sports teams. His system was so successful that all the major sports networks paid him royalties. Despite his inherent genius and financial success, he always had a couple of days’ worth of facial hair and a raggedy set of clothes. His salt and pepper hair hadn’t been combed since the early nineties. On the bar was a faded bag that he carried everywhere he went. I remember having to carry a bag like that when I was in middle school.

He looked me in the eye and whispered, “I think we could do it. I know we could do it. Let me figure this out.” He squinted, tilted his head and started mumbling to himself. He mumbled between sips of beer for about ten minutes. I didn’t disturb him. When Michael went off on one of these tangents, it was best to let him be. Most of his words were impossible to make out. Sometimes I could understand a phrase or two. “Twenty thousand dollars . . . all the adults . . . the commissioner would have to cave . . . sell shares . . .”

Then he spoke directly to me. As I look back now, I realize that a light should have been shining down on the two of us at the time. It was Moses coming down from the mountain, or Martin Luther King delivering the “I have a dream” speech, or Gilligan figuring out how to get off the island. The next sentence to come out of his mouth would change an entire town. “If everybody in this county age eighteen or older would borrow $20,000, we could buy the Dodgers.”

“Right.” I paused, waiting for the punch line. “The Dodgers? The L.A. Dodgers?”

“Absolutely!”

“Jenny, how many pitchers has he had?”

“That’s the first one,” she called down from the end of the bar.

“Is this topic juice or liquid peyote? Michael’s talking gibberish!”

“I am not. We could do it. Jenny, how would you like to own a baseball team?”

“Would the players tip better than you two deadbeats?”

“Sure,” we said in unison.

“I’m in,” she replied.

“See how easy that was?” Michael said.

“You didn’t mention the money,” I added.

“What money?” Her enthusiasm halted abruptly.

“You’d need to come up with a rather large investment,” Michael said. “But the payoff could be enormous.”

“I’ll settle for a tip. No more topic juice.” She grabbed the pitcher and walked away laughing.

“OK, explain this whole thing to me. How are we going to do this?” I asked.

“We form a publicly owned company, sell shares, you know, a public offering, and use the money to buy the team. Like the Packers are owned by the people of Green Bay. The cost of the team is $250 million. We get everyone in the county to borrow from their local bank and we’re set.”

“We don’t have a stadium,” I pointed out.

“We’ll build one. We’ll leave the team in L.A. while we build a stadium. Hey, you’re the one who’s always talking about bringing baseball to Bloomington. You should be behind this all the way.”

“That was minor league baseball.”

“This is the Dodgers!”

“OK, you’ve got me there.”

“Jenny, it wouldn’t have to be that much,” Michael yelled.

Jenny brought back the pitcher and we fortified our juice reserves. “It wouldn’t?” she asked.

“No, it wouldn’t,” I answered. I didn’t have that kind of money either. “We could have shares for small time investors, too.”

“I like the sound of that,” she said.

“Me, too,” I replied.

“It’s almost happy hour, which means the tipping customers are on their way,” she said. “You’ve got a deadline coming. You’re not seriously going to write about buying a baseball team are you?”

Was Jenny daring or warning me? I took it as a dare. Deep in my heart I wanted a baseball team in Bloomington. However, I always envisioned a minor league team with a small stadium. Michael was talking about the Dodgers—the L.A. Dodgers! Were we crazy?

We tossed some cash on the bar and headed outside. Michael said his usual goodbye, which is no goodbye at all. He just wandered off muttering to himself. He left me standing outside on Kirkwood Avenue with a head full of questions. The next day, I wrote my column. I called the mayor and got a quote from him. I included diagrams of possible stadium locations. I even included a picture of Ebbets Field—where the Dodgers played in Brooklyn—with the mayor’s name superimposed on the front of the stadium. I think he really liked the ring of “Gomez Park.”

The story was completely tongue-in-cheek, and devoid of facts and research. I hoped it would get a few laughs and maybe get people to one day think about minor league baseball in Bloomington. Instead, a large and quite scary segment of the population thought I was serious and wrote letters to the newspaper. It seems there were plenty of crazy baseball fans in town who were braver than I. Darryl was right. I was too much of a coward to admit I was serious.

At any rate, I gave Darryl a lively topic for his afternoon radio show. WGCL is an AM station with an all-talk format. My friend, Darryl Robinson, hosted the afternoon show.
Although he was in his thirties, he could easily pass for a grad student. Radio was a part-time gig for him. His real job was teaching speech communications at Indiana University. He looked the young professor part, sporting a shaved head and wearing glasses with round wire rims.

I had perfected the small-town reporter look: short blonde hair, average build, with a pencil usually tucked behind my right ear. A golf shirt and khakis were my summer uniform of choice.

Darryl and I had been friends since the second grade. That was when my parents had moved from Indianapolis to Bloomington. My father was born there and wanted me to grow up near my grandparents. Darryl and I had gone to Indiana University and took jobs locally when we graduated. He was the responsible one: married with two kids. I was the irresponsible one: single with a dead goldfish.

Jesse signaled to us that the commercial break was ending. In a separate booth, Kristy Parker finished reading the news and weather. Darryl thanked her and returned to the previous caller’s question. “We’re talking right now to Dan from Bloomington. Before the break, Dan said he would invest in a team if this was a serious effort. Dan, do you have any more to add?”

“Thanks for taking my call, Darryl. I just want to know, if this effort is for real, how can I get involved? It’s always been my dream to be the owner of a pro sports franchise.”

“Well, Dan, I’m going to let our in-studio guest answer that.” What a goon. He knew I had no idea how to answer that question. “Dan, I think it’s premature to start sending in money. We would need to form a corporation, set up a board of directors, and do a lot of other things to convince Major League Baseball that we are a serious competitor for the Dodgers franchise.”

Darryl thanked him for his question and moved on to the next caller. All the while he was laughing at me. “We’re now talking to Ray on line two. What’s your question, Ray?”

“Well, Darryl, I just think you need to stop having these marijuana-smoking, left-wing nuts on your show. Only a fool would think the city of Bloomington could buy a Major League Baseball team. Indianapolis only has a Triple-A franchise and they have a population of about eight hundred thousand. We have only about sixty thousand.”

“Well, Ray, I’ve never heard Andy Bennett espouse any political leanings, so I wouldn’t be inclined to label him a right-wing or a left-wing nut,” Darryl said. Apparently I was an independent nut.

Darryl made the L-shaped loser sign towards me and grinned. I grabbed a small ice cube and tossed it at him, just missing his head. Jesse scowled at both of us.

Darryl continued. “He is, however, convinced that we can pool our cash and buy the Dodgers. Next caller.”

I mouthed, “No, I’m not,” and threw another ice cube.

Jesse took my glass. It’s a sad state of affairs when two men in their thirties need to be chastised by an eighteen-year-old with acne and social studies homework.

I wrote “Darryl is a ‘mic’ monkey” on a piece of paper and held it up to the news booth window. Kristy, the news reporter, rolled her pretty brown eyes and kept on working. She was too serious, I thought.

“Jesse, who is on line three?”

“That would be Cecil from Smithville.”

“Cecil, what do you think about today’s topic?”

“Hello?” Cecil said in a slow, plodding, I-just-got-a-mechanized- plow-last-week sort of drawl.

“Cecil, are you there?”

“Darryl?”

“Yes?”

I took my headphone cable and started to strangle myself with it, prompting Jesse to smile for the first time in weeks. Kristy didn’t smile.

“Darryl, I’d just like to say that the farmers of this community are not going to stand by and let this Bennett fellow chew up twenty acres of good farmland just so he can . . .”

Darryl cut him off in mid-sentence, “The stadium would be built downtown.”

“Oh-umm—well, how much are tickets?” he replied after about five seconds of dead air.

“Again, let me reiterate that I was merely having fun with the idea. There would be a lot of issues that would have to be worked out to make this work.” I was really backpedaling.

“Next we have David from Bloomington. What’s your question, David?”

“Isn’t Roland Green, the guy who owns the Mega Media Network, negotiating to buy the team? How are you going to outbid Roland Green? You can’t be serious. This has to be a joke.”

Moments. Life is a series of moments which punctuate the mundane, the common, and the routine. This was a moment. It was absurd. A small town of sixty thousand mostly middle-class people couldn’t possibly outbid a billionaire media mogul. However, never underestimate a college town. College towns have liberal, radical thinkers. College towns have entrepreneurs and rich alumni. College towns have lots of crazy people with copious amounts of free time. It was because of this eclectic mix of people that this crazy ride got started. The anti-corporate people wanted to fight Roland Green. The entrepreneurs thought there was a dollar to be made. The crazy people just wanted something to do. The baseball fans wanted to chase a dream. And the twelve-year old boys masquerading as adults wanted to see if you could really wish upon a star.

Bloomington is a community of ultraliberals and ultraconservatives and everything in between. So when Dave from Bloomington asked “How are you going to outbid Roland Green?” he was really challenging a community. I started to say again that it was a joke. But the air in my throat lingered for a moment. Adrenaline made me sit up straight. Why not? Why shouldn’t we try? The skeptic in my brain took a leave of absence.

“We’ll find a way, Dave! We’ll raise the money. We’ll start a massive campaign. If we have to, we’ll recruit investors from all over the state of Indiana. Baseball is America’s game, and what town is more American than Bloomington, Indiana? We’ll galvanize this city and we’ll buy the Dodgers.”

When did the televangelist get here? Who was in my headphones preaching the gospel of baseball to the unwashed masses? Sweet Moses, it was me. I was possessed. Darryl was laughing out loud, on the air. Jesse, being the only one resembling an adult in the room, cut to commercial. Darryl flipped a piece of ice at me, hitting the news booth window. Kristy jumped and spilled her coffee. She began dropping four-letter bombs from the shelter of her news booth. Due to the soundproof properties of the room, Jesse was spared the expletive chorus. Realizing that he had failed to disarm both of us, Jesse took Darryl’s glass.

The phone lines lit up and reflected off the studio ceiling. Clouds that kept the station in shadow throughout the day suddenly parted. Light poured into the small windows that overlooked the street below and lit up the octagon-shaped console. That afternoon a moment of illumination occurred in the downtown AM radio station. There just might be enough people in Bloomington who believed in this idea. There might be enough people willing to put their own money on the line to chase this dream. There might be a lot of people angry at me if this didn’t work. One thing was certain—it wasn’t going to be just another boring summer in Bloomington.

Of course, you could try a traditional home based business like Mary Kay or Amway. But if that’s not for you, maybe you should try the newest fad in home business: Basement Strip Club. That’s right, I said strip club. The home strip club craze can be traced to a woman in Lawrenceville, GA. Keep in mind she has yet to franchise the concept, inasmuch as she was arrested for “maintaining a disorderly house” according to the police.

Once she has the bugs worked out, you may want to consider this high profit business opportunity. I would consider it, but I’m pursuing an opportunity in Hong Kong. If the driftwood thing doesn’t work out, some guy in Hong Kong named Richard Tang (I’m not making this up) has assured me that I can be a 50% partner in his 45 million dollar opportunity. Can you believe he just emailed me out of the blue today with this amazing offer? I’m sure it’s a legitimate business.

Carry on, Citizens!

The cheesy marketing efforts of the event (a poker tournament) organizers brings up a good question: If all these guys are legends, why all the black hat marketing to get people to come to the Bahamas to play poker with them? If rubbing elbows with these guys isn’t enough, maybe it wasn’t planned by somebody playing with a full deck.

Unfortunately for Larry Lubin, President of the Sports Legends Challenge, he’s bet it all on a marketing strategy that totally pisses off the blogosphere. Guess what, Larry? If you’re going to play at our table, you better have one hell of a hand. And guess what else? You don’t. By the time the top blogs and Twitter get done with you, anybody heading to Paradise Island for this event is will be perceived as a pretentious douchebag and the athletes involved will be selling SureFlow catheters at a medical supply conventions.  Well played.

Carry on, Citizens!

Odd Gem #1: Reuters is reporting that a Dutch animal rights activist known as the “vegan streaker” has been arrested for plotting an attack on the Queen for wearing fur. Ironically, she was planning on attacking him for showing his…

Now, there are several disturbing things in this story, not the least of which is Queen’s name: Beatrix. I would think that when one rises to the elevated stature of say, Queen, one would be able to discard silly names given by parents with an unwavering desire to have their daughter’s name end in “x.” (I need a nap after that sentence.)

Secondly, he was accused of planning to bring a gun to the attack. This begs the question, “where would he have hidden the gun while riding the subway en route to the Queen?” That led to my next question -”Does Amsterdam have subways and if so, can you ride naked?”

Peter Janssen is the “vegan streaker” accused of the plot. He was arrested once before for breaking onto the set of a talk show with “stop animal suffering” painted on his chest. I agree with him to a point: I’m against humans suffering after seeing naked vegans bust in on the news or attack our Queens, no matter how silly their names are.

Odd Gem #2: Would you eat camel’s milk chocolate? If you answered yes, that’s great because it means I don’t have to. Al Nassma (literally: “This has what in it??) is a Dubai company that started making chocolate from camel’s milk a few years ago. It’s so popular, they are expanding to Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and the United States. The company has 3,000 camels working day and night to provide 100 tons of chocolate per year.

Now, I hope you read the two stories above and came to the same obvious conclusion that I did: Why isn’t Peter Janssen attacking Al Nassma? Let’s face it, that mink is already dead and Beatrix needs it to comfort her from all the playground teasing she endured as a kid. The camels, on the other hand, are still alive and are being treated like cows! How humiliating it must be to be a camel that is being exploited for milk rather than being exploited as an extra in The Mummy 4: We Promise This One Won’t Suck?

So, I’m hoping when Mr. Janssen gets out of jail, we see him naked and protesting in Dubai. Let’s hope he remembers to wear sunscreen.

Carry on, Citizens!

• Bill Clinton was President.
• Bob Knight was the coach at Indiana University.
• Seinfeld was still making new episodes.
• The Pacers were a playoff team.
• I lived in Bloomington, IN.
• The Arizona Diamondbacks didn’t exist.
• Neither did the Tampa Bay Rays.
• Cal Ripken’s streak was still going.
• Jose Canseco et al were shooting roids like crazy.

Fans of the Escape From… movie franchise will be glad to know that Kurt Russell has signed on to play Snake Plissken again in Escape From Detroit.  This time around he will be helping to escort employees of the 4 remaining Starbuck’s out of the city.  They will have to navigate through abandoned grocery stores, a gauntlet of bitter Kwame Kilpatrick supporters, and former Chrysler dealers who have resorted to cannibalism.

Russell was quoted as saying, “I had no plans for doing another Escape From, but I was struck by the realism of the script and thought this had more of a ‘science fact’ ring to it than science fiction.”

Shooting will begin in a few weeks, just as soon as the Detroit police can clear away the bodies from the Stanley Cup aftermath.

Carry on, Citizens!

Carry on, Citizens!

“Iron law, Alan: nonny before ninny.”

Carry on, Citizens!

Taking charge of the country’s largest auto maker is too big a deal not to visit in person. The President was so happy to own a 60% stake in GM that he had Air Force One do a barrel roll over the company’s headquarters.  Later he unveiled plans for the new Commander-in-Chief Caddy.  It’s green (of course), gives off very little emissions and runs on pixie dust and horse manure. Kind of like our economy.

Carry on, Citizens!

Thanks to Justin Bessler (again) for this week’s photo.

The first family visited Indy last week for the Indy 500.  In a nod to the White House’s preference for suspected tax cheats, Helio Castroneves won this year’s race. While in town, the Obama’s slipped into Broadripple and chowed on tenderloins -a Hoosier favorite.

Carry on, Citizens!

President Obama can’t be blamed for this one.  Turns out Michelle was showing off for some of her friends back in Chi-town where they had one too many apple martinis and decided to stick it to Cardinals fans by flying through the Arch. They even had a “Go Cubs!” banner tied to the back but it fell off somewhere near Decatur, IL. The pilot might have been a little buzzed too, as evidenced by the landing gear still being down.

Carry on, Citizens!

Thanks to Katie Jenkins for this week’s photo.

Carry on, Citizens!

NEWS:  The Air Force One photo op will be a regular feature every Friday at COC.  If you have a photo of Air Force One you would like to submit, please email us.  If we use your picture, we will give you credit and send you a free autographed copy of Kansaska or Trolley Dodgers.

This week’s photo was created by Justin Bessler using a Mac, Photoshop, and grain alchohol. Thanks Justin!

Results: 292

Entry #86

Sara Stanger was born in Narol in 1912 to Yisrael and Dina. She was single. Prior to WWII she lived in Narol, Poland. During the war she was in Rawa Ruska, Poland. Sara perished in 1941 in Majdanek, Camp.

Carry on, (and never forget) Citizens!

The event is called the Testical Festival and it happens annually in Oakdale, CA.  It is put on by the local Rotary Club and it benefits the Oakland Cowboy Museum.  It draws upwards of 450 people and raised $28,000 last year.  That’s a lot of balls. And a lot of bitter bulls.

I’m not sure what is more surprising about this event. Is it that it even exists or that it’s not sponsored by NOW?

Carry on, Citizens!

That’s why I laughed out loud when I read that Nigeria is “re-branding” to shed its corrupt image. Re-branding? Do you really think the slogan “Nigeria: Good People, Great Nation” is going to make me forget that your citizens scam Americans to the tune of $1 million per day?  Let’s face it, President Umaru Yar’Adua, Dateline Undercover is like American Idol for your citizens!

Hey Nigeria, how about ruthlessly pursuing those d-bags that keep sending me emails about the $20 million locked up in some hoaky bureaucratic red tape but I can have 15% of the cash if I send them my social security number, bank account, and some of my DNA? Until then, we’ll stick with your old slogan: Nigeria: Posing as Somebody Else Since Email Was Invented!

Carry on, Citizens!

Bonus Material: Most commonly heard motivational taunt by coaches at Special Olympics practices this week: “Come on you guys, you’re playing like the Obama Administration!”