I betcha he feels like . . .

Man rescued after falling into septic tank
Thursday, October 18, 2007
The Associated Press


A 77-year-old Beaver County man has been rescued after falling head first into a septic tank at his son's business.

Paul Davidson says he arrived at his pizza shop in Frankfort Springs about 12:30 p.m. yesterday to find his father, Tom, had fallen into the tank. Mr. Davidson says his father was reaching to fix a pipe when he fell through a 2-foot-wide opening and went down about eight feet.

The tank contained only six inches of sewage. Emergency crews used a harness to get Mr. Davidson out about 2?? hours after he fell in.

A spokesman at UPMC Presbyterian hospital in Pittsburgh says Mr. Davidson is in serious condition.


Uh, yeah. That sounds pretty serious to me.

Steely McBeam out in public . . .

If you like that, then you'll really like the steel beam that I carry around.

The Lukester needs food . . .

Hmmm. This lunch is not nearly as nice the ones I have gotten from the Penguins and UPMC.

What is that?! Grilled chicken?!

My horoscope for today . . .

The problem with being too philosophical is that it can be easy to get caught up in your own thoughts. Think too much about people's motivations and societal complications right now, and you will get overwhelmed by the sheer scope of things. Instead, turn your philosophical scope down to a pinpoint of light, and let it illuminate your personal life. For now, just focus on the people in your life and what they're thinking about. That will make you feel like you can make a difference.


I hate when that happens.

Just emailing at work about private bathroom activities involving hair removal . . .

Dave: I like to keep some things private. I'll tell you that I trim my crazy fast growing nosehairs, but I don't want you to watch me doing it. It's dangerous work, anyway.


FF: You account for 85% of the laughter in my life.

Mark DeSantis just says "no" . . .

Yes, sir-ree. You fellas seem mighty thirsty. What exactly were you guys doing outside behind the building during the break?

Wish you were there . . .

To tell you the truth, I don't even really like Toby Keith. But I just couldn't resist the chance to take out that Yukon with all of that cool high-tech spy stuff. I don't know what most of that stuff does, but the burgers and dogs were cooked to absolute perfection, my man.

Today was a rough one . . .

FF: Are you eating on the phone with me?!


Dave: I'm having a Rolaids because I have heartburn from my life.

In the mind of Mark DeSantis . . .

Seriously, does your hair ever move?! How much product do you put in your hair?! At least with my hairline, I really don't have to worry about that.

Oh, Captain, My Captain . . .

It is staggering to imagine how things could have been, Mr. Nobel Peace Prize Winner.


I know, it's just not as glamorous as "Mr. President." But those dreams are going to have to remain in the lockbox.

Gratuitous new doggie photo . . .

I bet this little fella learns more quickly than the Lukester.

Oh, and one more thing . . .

Muttonheads.

Let's play "What is the Lukester thinking right now?"

He's smarter than me, he's richer than me, he has far more political experience than me. Heck, he's got more experience in general than I do. I'd be worried if he had hair like mine. The chicks dig the wet look.

A boy and his dog: the beginning . . .

Last week I adopted a dog. It is the first time I have welcomed a dog into my life since my last dog Fritz passed away nine years ago. He came to me from an organization that accepts, rescues, fosters, and finds homes for dachshunds all over North America. It's called Dachshund Rescue of North America (http://www.drna.org/). In less than a week, there's already a lot to tell about Sidney. He's a little more than one year old, so while not technically a puppy, he is still a young little fellow. This afternoon during our walk, we strolled around a block in my neighborhood that he had not seen yet. And during that walk, I discovered that Sidney is afraid of fire hydrants. You heard me. Afraid of fire hydrants. That's like women being afraid of shoes. It just doesn't happen.

Oops . . . he did it again . . .

Mayor Bob O'Connor was beloved by many folks here in Pittsburgh. I am the first person to admit, however, that I did not vote for him. Ever. None of the three times that he ran for mayor, including the last time, which, of course, is when he finally won. But I am still very much aware of how popular a man he was in this city. After his untimely death, Boy Mayor Lukester ascended to the position and was seemingly embraced by Bob's former supporters. Well, now we see that that may be starting to change due to the Lukester's perceived arrogance and sense of entitlement.

My father is in the demographic that Bob appealed to the most (i.e., senior citizens). They like to vote (it's often the most important thing that they do on that particular Tuesday in May and November, other than play bridge at the local senior center with their senior buddies). They get up early, get dressed in nice clothes, and go to their local polling places to "do their duty as American citizens." My father is no different. He is a diligent voter. And despite the fact that he and my mother now spend half of the year in Florida (like many other folks his age), he requests absentee ballots when necessary.

What's the point of all of this talk about my father and older voters. Well, the Lukester pissed him off. So, now rather than just vote for him or not vote at all, my father and many other pissed off voters have another option. Mark DeSantis. Now, he's technically running as a Republican against the Lukester. But he's just doing that out of convenience, not out of any genuine party loyalty. And people like my father (who would never vote for a Republican other than, say, John Heinz) has requested an absentee ballot just so that he can vote for DeSantis in November when he is in Florida (Where, by the way, the recent temperatures have been lower than they've been here. Al Gore is right.).

The bottom line is that the Lukester really screwed the pooch on this one. He got an unearned and undeserved gift in the form of the mayor's office, and he's been pissing it away (usually when someone else is picking up the tab) ever since it looked like it was going to be clear sailing for him through November and for the next two years until the next mayoral election. But not so fast there, trigger. You have upset your older voters with your childish behavior and lack of maturity. And they just may ground you and take away your Homeland Security Yukon privileges next month.

In Mayor Lukester's world . . .

Well, it looks like I may have dodged a bullet with that whole "borrowing the Homeland Security Yukon without permission" thing. Now, I'd just like to take a moment to invite all my buddies, as well as all of you single ladies out there, to a major kegger at the Mayor's crib. You reporters are also invited, of course. Just don't bring those cameras with you, if you know that I mean.

I say, Beware of the insurance agents . . .

Now, that's a funny little internet ad.

I'll tell you what you can do with your 50 lottery tickets and a Snapple . . .

People who make out loud complaints or "huffing" noises about other people at the counter when they are waiting in line are some of the most obnoxious people around, in my humble opinion. And they are usually pains in the ass to deal with once they get to the front of the line. Seriously, smoke some dope. Those waits in lines will seem like free entertainment.

The Pirates are really just the opening act . . .

The Pirates sold out the truly meaningless next to last game of the season tonight, which features a performance by local favorite The Clarks after the Pirates lose, err, I mean, after the game. I'm telling you, PNC Park is a great place to see fireworks and musical concerts. It's a shame that they have to waste that beautiful venue with 81 baseball games every summer.

Thanks for your support . . .

I have chosen not to post on my blog gratuitous photos of women in various states of undress, but I couldn't resist this one, only because it begs this very important question:

Does this "strapless" bra (bras? bra set?) really work? It can't possibly be very comfortable. I suppose it's pretty easy to take off.

For the women, too.

What they were REALLY thinking . . .

Mark DeSantis: Your ass is mine, you dimwitted little punk who did nothing to deserve being mayor of Pittsburgh. And nice eye contact, O'Connor-wannabe.

Luke Ravenstahl: If you think being smarter than me with far more political experience is enough to beat this wonderboy who inherited his position from the beloved Bob O'Connor, then you've got another thing coming. The people like me more than Peduto and they will like me more than . . . Hey, is that free food over there?

Just stating the obvious . . .

The war in Iraq is costing America about 50 million dollars per month.

Meanwhile, back home in the States:

No health care for all.
Social service agencies experiencing major funding cuts.
People starving.
People homeless.
People unemployed.
Our infrastructure crumbling.
The housing market stumbling.

Of course, the stock market continues to rise, making the wealthy more wealthy.

Bush's family friend Osama bin Laden? Still out there somewhere. But we did capture and cause the beheading of the crazy Middle East leader who had nothing to do with 9-11.

Good work, George. How's your stock portfolio doing these days?

I smell progress . . .

Last night I officially joined the 21st century when I bought my first flip phone. Yes, yes, I know how incredibly behind the times I am. I'm like that. Slow and steady, dear readers. But the phone that I've had for several months was beginning to show signs of fatigue in the form of minor malfunctions, so I decided to embrace technology (although it's certainly not an iPhone) and this is my new phone. And I'm still well off the pace of most phones, since I opted to go with one that doesn't even have a camera, but it's still quite an upgrade from my previous phones. And it was only 30 bucks. I do like a bargain.

For the most part, I'm pretty pleased with my new MARBL (it even has a cool name), although I've always preferred the one-piece phones that don't flip, so that's going to take some getting used to.

The friendly sales associate in the technology department at Target was very helpful in my decision to buy this phone over some of the other models. However, I must tell you that he did not smell good. Not at all. He was dirty and smelly. He had obviously not showered in a couple of days, and his deodorant had given out on him sometime on Sunday, I would guess. He had long fingernails with dirt under them. He was a swell fellow, but I could smell him coming and going, and when I stood next to him, it was downright oppressive.

When I left the store and drove away, I sat at a light with the smell still swirling around my olfactory cavities, so I cranked the AC in an effort to get the stench out of my system. That seemed to work, but I couldn't help thinking to myself, how does a person get to be so stinky at a nice, clean store like Target without their co-workers and managers saying something to them? It's not like the deodorant aisle is that far from the technology department. He even could have bought a little sample-sized Speed Stick for under a dollar and slapped some of that (maybe all of that) under those puppies. Wow.

Jim and Dave emailing about the Elbow Room . . .

Jim: I'm not a mixed drink person (but I think you knew that), but I used to love their margaritas. Not frozen, on the rocks. That was a long time ago though and I'm sure they've had a few different bartenders since then. I still recommend trying one next time though.


Dave: Actually, I think they may have some of the same bartenders.

So, margaritas, huh? Very macho.


Jim: On the rocks. Not the frozen kind. The kind real men drink.

I love it when the boys play . . .

From today's post-gazette.com:

Attorneys for Tribune-Review publisher Richard M. Scaife have filed court papers demanding the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette return documents related to Mr. Scaife's divorce proceedings from his wife, Margaret Ritchie Battle Scaife. In response, the Post-Gazette, arguing that no court has the right to force a newspaper to surrender documents lawfully in its possession, has posted those documents online.

Sunday afternoon with the folks . . .

I was over at my parents' house today watching the second half of the Steelers game. (My prediction of an 11-5 season is looking very good so far.) While my mother and I watched the game in one room, my father was watching the Pirates game in the other. He may well be the biggest Pirates fan there is, but I was surprised that he was watching the game because, like me, he has lost interest in the team as their miserable season has worn on. I heard him clapping from the other room, and assumed that the Pirates were doing well. When I went in to see what was going on, I came in just in time to see Aramis Ramirez hit yet another home run against his former team, making the score 6-0 in favor of the Cubs. (The final score was 8-0.) I asked him when he had become a Cubs fan. He said, "I'm a fan of whoever is playing the Pirates at this point. I hope they lose every game for the rest of the season." Well, they've now lost nine in a row, with six games to play, so that just might happen.

Even my father has been beaten down by that team.

Snakes in the grass . . .

I don't go out drinking much anymore. But since yesterday was my last day working with my co-worker, I agreed to meet him at the Elbow Room at five for drinks. We had a very nice time, drinking, talking, getting to really know each other, ironically on the last day of our working relationship. After some time, he decided to head for home, and I stayed behind for one last beer.

While I was finishing it off and watching the closed captioned version of Larry King on the TV mounted above the bar, I couldn't help but hear the three guys perched next to me at the bar. They had been there for a while, and were plenty lubed up, much like myself. However, they were talking loudly among themselves, and one of the topics was the large table of young Asian women apparently celebrating someone's birthday. Dear readers, I must tell you that I could not believe my ears as I listened to them make derogatory remark after derogatory remark about "Chinese" people. I don't even know if these women were Chinese, but it doesn't matter. These guys were unbelievably obnoxious and offensive. I just hoped that the birthday party gathering couldn't hear them, although I suspect that they could.

I was embarrassed. Embarrassed for the assholes next to me, embarrassed for the young women, and embarrassed for myself that I had to be there. It practically undid all of the good fellowship that I had just spent with my new friend. It reminded me of one of the reasons why I don't go out drinking much anymore: people. Take what appear to me perfectly normal people and add a bit of alcohol, and presto, you've got assholes. Loud, obnoxious assholes.

The apparent ringleader of the threesome, who didn't seem to be able to separate himself from his Blackberry, never seemed to stop talking. He took shots at the women, he made unpleasant remarks about a "black woman that he once dated," and he just continued to spew venomous words of small-mindedness. I hated him. If my co-drinker had not left, I most surely would have said something to him. But I was clearly outnumbered, and the threesome seemed to be regulars who knew the bartenders. So, I was not in a very good position to interject with my opinions about what a bunch of fucking douchebags they were. But I sure did want to.

I bet he's faster than a dog without wheels . . .

To me, this little fellow is far more precious than he is sad. It's truly amazing how dogs learn to adapt as if there's nothing wrong with them at all. If only we humans were so flexible.

Jim and Dave emailing about my blog . . .

Jim:
I want to punch Steeler baby.

Who is that guy on your blog anyway? Should I know him?


Dave:
Not Steelerbaby!

He's the CMU professor who claims to have invented the emoticon 25 years ago yesterday.


Jim:
Then I hate that guy too.

Arrr, matey.


If you didn't know, today was National Talk Like a Pirate Day. I'd like to know which day is National Dave Gets Asked Out on a Date by Jennifer Aniston Day.

Cooler than Steely McBeam . . .

Two wins into the season and the Steelers are looking good. And without the help of videotape from Bill Belichick's vast personal video library. So, that can only mean one thing . . . It's time to bring out Steelerbaby.

www.steelerbaby.com

I can see the resemblance . . .

I hate this guy.

;-)

The Curse of Sid Bream . . .

As the 15th straight losing season draws to a merciful close for my hometown Pirates, I exit the season with absolutely no hopeful expectations for next year. I got suckered in at the end of last season, and it ended up causing me to make one of the most failed predictions of my prognosticating history. Not to mention resulting in my personal boycott of the Pirates that began June 11, after the embarrassingly lopsided, three-game weekend sweep of the Buccos by the Yankees in New York.

Not this time, dear readers. I have learned my lesson. The last time the Pirates were a respectable, no, a great baseball team, it all ended with a photo-finish slide, orchestrated on the reconstructed knees of one of my old favorites in Sid Bream. With that fortuitous slide, the Pirates were thereby cursed. The Pirates (and I) have never been the same.


(Comic credit: The very appropriate comic above was brought to my attention by FF.)

Don't they sell products for that on the internet?

I drove behind a Hummer H3 today. It was shiny and black. It had a sign for "Heard's Tree Service" on either side of it. And the license plate (which was not personalized, to my surprise) was in a frame that said "Harvard Business School."

Honestly, you don't have to go to so much trouble, dude. I get it. You've got money. Congrats. Really. I'm happy for you.




But Apple still isn't going to give you $200 back for the iPhone that you probably made your assistant wait in line to buy you.

iPhucked . . .

I just heard yesterday that Apple has lowered the price of its iPhone by $200. That seems a bit soon after its much-hyped, initial release just a couple of months ago. These companies usually wait at least a year before they lower the cost of a new and exciting product like this amazing, life-changing little gadget. What are they thinking? Apple users are some of the most fiercely loyal consumers out there, and Apple just thumbed their noses at them. Especially the ones who waited in line all day and night to be one of the first to pay the full $600 price for one. It doesn't seem like good business to me, but what do I know? My cell phone only cost $9.99, and should the company decide to lower that price by one-third, I will be just fine with that.

I wouldn't call it road rage, but . . .

Great googalee moogalee. Does anyone in this town use their turn signals anymore?! And I don't mean those folks who sit at a red light and then suddenly put on their left turn signal just as the light turns green. That so doesn't count.

Speaking of that hair style . . .

Email between me and my friend Jim, who lives outside of Philadelphia:


Dave: Do you see much of that hair style in your part of the Commonwealth?

Jim: You will never see as many goofy hair styles for women as you do in Pittsburgh.


He's right, you know. Unless you're watching old episodes of "Cops" on Court TV. Now, those hair styles are scary.

Stories from the Hill . . .

My co-worker and I were working with our young people today and talking about how best to market themselves in their resumes for jobs that they might like to do. It was a lively discussion at the end of the day filled with much good humor. One young woman said to a young man, "You could be a street pharmacist." Now, how do you phrase that on a resume?

The word from Delphi is . . .

With the first Sunday of the new football season drawing to a close, I realized that I had failed to make a prediction about the Steelers regular season record. So, with one win already, my prediction is 11-5.

At the beginning of last season, amidst all of the hype surrounding the Steelers' Super Bowl defense and then Ben's motorcycle accident, I predicted that the team would finish 8-8. Those with whom I shared my prediction were not convinced. That is, until the end of the season.

Does this hair style have a name?

Dark hair underneath and platinum blonde on the outside. Whose brilliant idea was this?

Stories from the Hill District . . .

Two of the young men with whom I work at my new job were telling me last week that after they smoke, they like to eat Cheetos and drink Gatorade.


Personally, I prefer Doritos and cold green tea.

In today's email inbox . . .

From a friend who works at the library:


A guy returned a book at the library yesterday about Cannabis and inside the book was a subpoena for him to attend a trial regarding drug possession.

Another guy returned 15 books with musical orchestrations in them from classical pieces and so I asked him if he was a musician.
"Yes."
"What do you play?"
"The violin."
"I played that in middle school."
"Really?"
"Well, you know, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
He didn't find that as amusing as I did.

We have a harmless but always drunken older black man who comes into the library to listen to the Temptations on the computer. He goes by the name Brother George. We call him Temptations Man. He tends to become rather passionate while listening to the Temptations and frequently gets up from his seat and while connected to the computer by his earphones begins to dance in place and sing the lyrics to the songs. He was kicked out on Wednesday while singing "My Girl". He's not allowed to come back for a month. When he was told this while we escorted him out of the building he began crying in slurred speech, "You're taking my Temptations away from me."

It's about bloody time . . .

Bye, Dave. The airport is that way.

Can he even vote for Luke in November?

It's kind of late in what city government folk call the "street repaving season," but guess which relatively new resident of Pittsburgh is getting a brand new paving job done on the street right outside of his brand new house? I'm not saying that it's Mike Tomlin. But it's Mike Tomlin.


Do you think the Boy Mayor is trying to score some primo seats, compliments of the new head coach?

And speaking of dogs . . .

When did really small white dogs become a women's accessory? I don't get it.

About best friends . . .

I've been thinking about Fritz. A lot. Fritz was my dog during the "most important years of my life." My "transitional years." And after I finally moved into my first apartment in college, Fritz came to live with me. We lived together for a couple of years while he grew very old, and deaf, and blind, and finally he just couldn't keep defying death just to be there for me. So, I still think about him. Sometimes more than others. Lately, a lot. I've started looking at dogs online for the first time since Fritz (although in his day, you didn't look at dogs "online"). When I was looking earlier tonight, the tears were just rolling down my face and dripping onto my shirt. It's so transparent. I'm losing someone, something very important to me (even though it's the natural order of things, to be sure, and I know that). But here I am looking at online dogs and getting weepy over the ones that look like Fritz.


And it had to be in the fall.

Does Brooklyn have another tree that we can borrow?

My new job is in the Hill District. People my age and older may know about the great TV show in the 80s called "Hill Street Blues." The "NYPD Blue" of its time, if you will. Like NYPD Blue, it was created by Steven Bochco, who attended Carnegie Mellon and who based Hill Street Blues on the Hill District, presumably the Pittsburgh Police Zone 2 Station, which I drive by everyday. If you remember the show, and even if you don't, let me tell you that the Hill District is depressing. Boarded-up houses and storefronts everywhere. And no trees. Seriously, it's so sunny in the Hill because there are no big, leafy trees lining the street or scattered about in people's yards. There are no trees. When I'm driving to work, I pass through Oakland and all of its trees and vitality, and then as I pull up to work, I can see some of the taller buildings beaming ahead in nearby downtown. But in the Hill . . . there's just sun, and heat, and there are no trees. When I'm there, I really have no idea where I am. I'm not even sure that I know what I'm doing there.

End of summertime blues

It is September first, and it is an absolutely perfect, beautiful day in Pittsburgh. I'm told by people who know weather that this weekend, we are expected to have some of the best weather in the country. Despite what everyone thinks or says, we do get some of the good stuff here nestled among the hills and the river valleys of Southwestern Pennsylvania, in the gateway between the East Coast and the Midwest.

As glorious as the weather is, today marks the beginning of fall for me. I can feel it. So, while I relish the perfection of the day, deep down inside of me somewhere, there will be a little itch of discomfort that knows summer is over. It abandons me every year. But I always forgive it.

One year later

Alas, fellow Pittsburghers, we will never know what the city might have been like under this man.




Instead, we're stuck with this joker. And his team of top notch advisers.

Seriously.

Bob was so excited that the beautiful Linda had finally agreed to "look at his CD collection" in his bedroom that he grabbed her up right off the ground to whisk her away. But then he noticed that she was wearing red rubber shoes.

He was rather deflated by his discovery.

I have a question . . .

What the fuck is that?

There's no sense in the Champagne Room

Am I like the last person to hear about our Boy Mayor and his juvenile hi-jinx with some buddies at a strip club? Jeepers. First the golf outing. Now, some strippers. Luke appears to have developed a fondness for holes surrounded by well-manicured bushes.

I want to know if it's the Feds at the door

So, today was my first official day at my new job. I had been looking for a new job for a while, and this one came along at the right time on the right day. So here I am. I'm wondering how my blog may suffer from my impending case of chronic exhaustion. Anyway, that's not at all what this blog is about. I'm sure my job will produce plenty of fodder for future blogs, so there's no need to force one on this occasion. However, while I was at the location of my new job, I was meeting some new people who I won't work with, but who also work in the same location. You know what I mean, and even if you don't, it doesn't matter. So, I meet this very nice older woman (who actually knows my father, but that's also a story for another day) who gives me a couple of pamphlets for her organization, which provides free installation of security and safety hardware for those with low incomes and bad neighborhoods. They provide things like smoke detectors, deadbolt locks, and door peepholes.

I open one of the pamphlets and see that there is a chart that shows the income guidelines for a household of one person through eight people. The cut-off for an eight-person household was $61,100. I'm not going to tell you the cut-off for a one-person household because I qualified. And by a comfortable margin. So, I'm thinking to myself about how I'd really like a peephole for the front door of my condo. I don't have one, and I think that they are an excellent security measure. For anyone. I don't want to spend the money to have one installed by a professional peephole installer. But I can't possibly apply to get one for free because of my income level. I work there, after all.


I sure would like a peephole.

Funny cartoon. Not so funny dog killer.

Confessions

I have abandonment issues. There. I said it. It's out there. When I make real connections with people and I let them into the inner circle, then it means something. I have a ton of acquaintances. I know people all over this city. I could probably run for mayor. But I have very few close friends. And as happens in life, when you move or go to college or get jobs in different cities, people who have become an important, if not integral, part of your life sometimes have to leave it physically. Which is certainly hard enough to deal with on its own. What may be even harder to adapt to is the change that often accompanies that relationship that moves it from what I would term a "daily" friendship to more like a "weekly" friendship. Or even a "monthly." Or a "yearly." Phone calls turn to emails, which turn into . . . well, every situation is different, of course. But this is what happens.

Even with a backdrop of psychological-grade abandonment issues, I have been placed in situations throughout my life thus far where I have had to say good-bye to people who were once members of that inner circle. You have to say good-bye for any number of reasons, but the underlying theme is always the same: they are leaving. Leaving for another high school. Leaving for another country. Leaving for college. Leaving for the Army. Leaving to return to their home from college. Leaving you for somewhere else. Or someone else. Leaving because they died. Leaving because they've met their future spouse. Leaving because their spouse is now their new best friend. Leaving because they want a spouse and a new best friend. All leaving.

And by now, I'm well-versed in the routine. I see the signs of a future leaving well in advance of its actual occurrence. But inevitably it happens. And I have to find a way to channel that energy, that emotion, that time, that commitment into something else. And the periods between those outlets can be a very difficult time. Depressing. Lonely. Boring. Drunk. But you find a way, and life goes on. You don't envy the happiness (sometimes not so happy) that others have found in their committed relationships and eventual marriages. You may envy that they have dogs. Or maybe a very special cat who could do commercials and who reminds you a little bit of your last dog. Who also left. And who may be the hardest leaving of them all, when it's all said and done. And may be proven by the fact that the first tear just appeared as I was composing that last sentence. What can I say? Dogs get me every time. And the friends, both the now and the then, know just how much that's true.

So, I just keep going, doing my best to adjust as my life and my relationships shift every now and then, and I remain what some have even called "the constant." I'll be here. I'll be in Pittsburgh. I'll be teaching someone something, and I'll be learning something myself. I'll be having fun, and I'll be regretting a thing or two along the way. I may get into a little trouble every now and then, but never anything serious. And I'll be sitting quietly somewhere, having a cocktail or just driving around, and I'll be observing. Because that's what I do.

Has anyone checked to see if Millvale is still there?

I had the weirdest dream last night. Morgan Freeman came to my condo and told me to build an ark.


So, I guess I should probably go to Home Depot today.

PNC Park: the Best Place to Watch Fireworks

Last night at PNC Park, a capacity crowd of 37,072 witnessed what I'm told was an outstanding fireworks show. Unfortunately, they were forced to watch a Pirate game first.

We don't like it when you steal our tax money and murder doggies

After a few quiet days, dear readers, I thought I'd at least make an appearance to end the work week with a few "farewells" to a couple of people who are finally going to be going to trial for their alleged crimes. And by most accounts, it looks like they're pretty much screwed.

So, to Twanda Carlisle and Michael Vick: enjoy your remaining days of freedom. You probably won't end up in a high security prison, but it's still gonna suck. And you both deserve it.

But, on a positive note, I will leave you with some words of wisdom from Walt Disney himself, who said, "You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you."

Hello, Feds? It's me, Margaret.

Have you been following this story? The one about the government's wire-tapping program and all of the folks who are suing because they think that they were targets of the program. Oh, that crazy George and his notions about what the government can do to monitor the behavior and speech of its citizens. I'm not talking about Bush, of course. I'm talking about George Orwell. You know, the guy who wrote 1984 and Animal Farm. Does anyone read anymore?

Speaking of animals as metaphors, I certainly hope that the government hasn't been monitoring me while I've been ordering monkeys from internet companies in Great Britain and Amsterdam. That would certainly suck. Oh, hold on. Someone's at the door. I'll be right back . . . .

Good-bye, Mr. Bonds

Top notch story by Ron Cook in today's Post Gazette:

http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/07226/809287-63.stm

I liked it so much that I wrote him a little note:

Mr. Cook:

Nice story about Bonds in today's paper. I've been watching and listening to Bob Pompeani, Bob Smizik, and yourself talking about Bonds and the early 90s Pirates over the last couple of weeks, and it has honestly given me chills to see the way your faces light up when you watch clips of that team and talk about them. I feel the same way, and it just makes what's happened since then all the more painful to endure.

As Bonds's comments indicate, the ownership of the team was no better then than it has been under McClatchy/Nutting. The difference was that Sid Thrift knew how to draft, trade for, and develop talent. Once the CEO ownership group drove him out of town, it was the beginning of the end. We just had the pleasure/pain of watching the players finish their contracts and then leave, one by one.

As I like to say about all of the ridiculous, unwarranted criticism of Bonds's final play as a Pirate, if it had been Jason Bay out there in left, he would have just lobbed the ball into second. At least Bonds tried for home.

Regards,

Dave

Breaking News: For Real

I just heard on NPR that Karl Rove, Bush's longtime advisor since his days as the paper Governor of Texas, is resigning from his position.

After he made the announcement, he was said to have disappeared in a puff of sulfur-laced smoke and a trailing laugh that sounded remarkably like Vincent Price.


Can we leave Iraq now, George? Please?

The rites of autumn

The days are getting shorter, dear readers. Despite the recent hot and steamy weather, make no mistake, the cool autumn breezes are gathering just around the corner. This is not the easiest time of year for me, as I suffer from some form of seasonal affective disorder. Spring and summer are my seasons. On those particularly unpleasant hot days when all anyone can do is complain about the heat, I embrace it (and put on a little extra deodorant) because I know that when January and February roll around and we're stuck in what seems like the eternal dead of winter, I will covet those hot days.

Another clear indication that summer is coming to an end is the annual ritual that is the return of the college students. With two fine universities (one a little finer than the other) in close proximity to me, I can see the shift in the local population as more young people are flitting about. Plus, there are all those U-Haul trucks parked up and down the streets. But I knew for certain that the college students were returning on Friday night when I was awakened by the sound of a beer bottle being dropped out of a car driving by and onto the street outside my window. Those crazy kids and their fun.

Sunday morning musings

You might think that at my age and level of life experience that there would not be that many lessons still to be learned. But recent events in my life have proven otherwise. And without going into any unnecessary detail (plus, it's none of your freaking business), let me sum of my thoughts thusly:

I have recently come to believe that while it may be easy to get really mad at someone about whom you care very much (friends and lovers), it seems to be hard to stay really mad at them.

Call it the effect of history together or the weight of the investment that you've both put into cultivating those relationships. But whatever it is, I hope that it's more common than I might have thought.

Missed it by THAT much

Did you see it? Bonds hit number 758 against the Pirates last night in San Francisco. Again, at least it wasn't number 756. But my prediction was just two off. Whew.

The Pirates have to play the Giants for the next four games in a row, although Bonds is not expected to play in all of them, perhaps even including the double-header here in Pittsburgh on Monday. Still, I wonder how many more bombs he's going to accumulate at the expense of the beleaguered Buccos.

Oh. The Pirates actually won the game. But, really, does anyone, anywhere even care anymore? Not me, that's for sure. I didn't even watch the game. Moments ago, I caught the highlights (read: the Bonds homerun) on ESPN.

It's just water over the bridge

After yesterday's barrage of intense and destructive storms, today is the day when we all start playing the blame game and pointing fingers at anyone who doesn't appear to be packing. That's all fine and good, and we all enjoy playing Monday morning quarterback in this burgh. However, let me tell you something, dear readers. I have no personal or political agenda here, because I think everybody involved is a doorknob. But if you look at the areas that were hardest hit by the flooding that took place, you realize that those areas are situated downstream from other areas of our region that have been undergoing what we affectionately refer to as "development." We just love that word, development. It sounds like such as positive thing. But while all of this great development, both commercial and residential, has been going on in recent years, environmental experts have been warning us that this unbridled development was going to have an effect on the rest of our region's ecosystem.

I'm not making this up, folks. I read the papers and watch the news about as much as an average person, and I actually read what these people say. And they always warn us. And now we're seeing the direct result of all of this development. We've messed with our topography in every direction, and now the earth can't handle the damage that we've done. This was bound to happen. It's sort of a microcosm of the effects that global warming is having on the entire planet.

Now, I live in the city, and the worst thing that happened to me yesterday was that my power went out for about an hour and a half in the late afternoon. Even with the two monsoons that blew through here yesterday morning and afternoon, there wasn't even water coming into my basement from the overrun sewer system. And if you know anything about Pittsburgh's sewer system, then you realize that that's a pretty impressive feat. So, why none of the hardcore problems in the city that they had outside of it? Well, that's an easy one. Because there's no significant "development" in the city. And, despite what the politicians might say, maybe it's actually better that way.

Wait a second. Wait just one second. Does the Tunnel of Love count as development? Well, let's see. We're going to dig under the Allegheny River (lots of water there) and build two channels big enough for a lame subway to run to and from the North Shore. That won't affect our city's ecosystem, will it? No, no. I'm sure somebody did extensive studies on that before they ordered the big hole-digging machine from Germany. Right?

He looks like a human bobble-head and sounds like a porn star

I didn't enter the contest to name this fellow, but had they asked, I would have suggested the "Mauler." But I can see where that would not necessarily have been a welcome idea.

I imagine that this fellow will last around here about as long as a starting quarterback who throws three interceptions in two straight losses.

Art Rooney II looks like he's choking back a little vomit in this photo, don't you think?

3678 American deaths in Iraq. And counting.

Busy morning. Lots to talk about. I decided to do something this morning between coffee mug number one and coffee mug number two that I hadn't done since the debacle in Iraq began. Fortunately for me, I only know one person firsthand who is or was in the military. He's my age, and coincidentally, he left our shared university for basic training very shortly after the first invasion of Iraq took place under the first George Bush. So, I found the website on CNN.com that tracks the deaths in Iraq, and with some hesitancy (thankfully assisted by my slow internet service), I searched the P's for his name.

Cpl. Charles O. Palmer II, 36, from Manteca, California.
Cpl. Cory L. Palmer, 21, from Seaford, Delaware.
Spc. Eric C. Palmer, 21, from Maize, Kansas.
Cpl. Joshua D. Palmer, 24, from Blandinsville, Illinois.

But thankfully, no Douglas Palmer from Pittsburgh.

I haven't had any contact with Doug for a very long time. Not long, in fact, after he had become a proud member of the elite Army Rangers. But I was still glad that his name wasn't on that list.

If you'd like to perform a similar search, just to make sure, about someone that you know or used to know who is or was in the military, this is the place to do it:

http://www.cnn.com/SPECIALS/2003/iraq/forces/casualties/2007.08.html

I hope you find the same relieving result that I did.

Wake up and smell the steroids

And while I'm thinking about Barry Bonds, dear readers, let me just say this. Pittsburgh sports fans pride themselves on their knowledge of their sports (read: football). However, there is one topic which never seems to get reconciled properly for those same fans (read: Yinzers). They cry and bemoan and gnash their teeth on the local sports talk shows about what a cheater Barry Bonds is because he may or may not have taken performance enhancing substances. And yet, they all seem to turn a cataract-ridden eye to the Steelers of the 1970s. If they don't think that some of the big men from their beloved Super Steelers and their four Super Bowls didn't take steroids or the like, then they're just plain stupid. They did, folks. Sorry. I know we don't like to talk about that around here because of how revered those teams and the players on them were, but there is plenty of information out there to suggest that they did. Sure, there's no quantitative evidence of that. But then again, the same is true thus far for Barry Bonds. So, shut up and watch your Steelers pre-season games and make your annual boastful Super Bowl predictions. There's a better than average chance that there's still at least one person in that locker room who's taking performance enhancing substances right now. But you probably could care less. As long as they win.

Bonds.

Barry Bonds is the best baseball player I ever saw, and I, for one, will not apologize for that.

I saw a lot of him when he was with the Pirates from 1986-1992, which, at this point, seems like a very long time ago.

At least I was wrong with my prediction, and I didn't have to suffer the eternal pain of watching him hit number 756 against the crumbling franchise that I used to call my Pittsburgh Pirates. In this case, I don't so much mind being wrong.

Monday afternoon email about skibbees

FF: I put my underwear on inside out today. I've now made this mistake three times this week . . . and I'm not even smoking.

Dave: I thought that's what the tag is for. They sure do help me.

FF: Yes, but when you wear skimpy little underwear like I do, and it takes a Masters degree just to figure out how to unravel the damn things once you pull them out of the over-stocked underwear drawer, and it's 7:45 in the morning, and the coffee hasn't kicked in, and you are over 30 . . . well, you get the point. I'm putting my underwear on backwards. It could be worse. I could be forgetting it all together.

Dave: Are they inside out or on backwards? I require clarification.

FF: Inside out. I've been putting them on inside out -- although I have put them on backwards before. Specifically, the Gap pairs, because they are tagless and the part that covers the p-hole is nearly the same size as the part that covers the a-hole, so you can see how easily that mistake can be made.


So many jokes. So. Many. Jokes.

"20,000 Leagues Under the Allegheny"

Look at the plan for the "T Tunnel." This is going to be great fun.

Feel free to click on it to get a better look.

I think the Pirates are losing.

More Tunnel talk

I forgot to make a prediction in my first (of many, perhaps) post about the "North Shore Connector" Port Authority tunnel project.

As I stated in that post, the estimated cost going in was $435 million. When, and if, the project is completed, I predict the final cost will be more than $1 billion.

$1 billion.

With all of the budgetary problems PAT is experiencing, I wonder if there will be any bus routes still in service to take folks to the nearest T station.

Apparently, Uncle Sam does NOT want me

Big news, dear readers. I got a letter yesterday addressed specifically to me (as opposed to, say, "Current Resident") from, are you ready for this, the U.S. Army. The Army. You know, the military. The same folks who are sending young men and women to be killed and injured in Iraq because Bush is an idiot. Yeah, that Army. I wish you could see this letter. It's fantastic. Either I am the victim of identity theft (by someone who apparently really wanted to join the Army), or it's just a simple mistake (does the Army even make "simple mistakes?"). Either way, they rejected my "application" to become an Army of One.

There is not even a complete address and no phone number at all on the letter. I couldn't try to clear this up if I wanted to.

Most of the letter is just gobbalee gook (try to spell check that, my friends), but the crux of the letter is summed up in the opening:

Dear Dave:

We appreciate your interest in the Army. However, since one of the basic requirements for enlistment is that the applicant be a United States Citizen or United States National. your citizenry makes you ineligible to enlist.

Should I hold onto this letter? You know, kind of like a "get-out-of-jail-free card," should the military actually ever come a-knockin'? Because contrary to what I'm sure is classified, super secret information, I am, in fact, a United States Citizen.

Although, I stopped boasting about that around 3700 American military deaths ago.

Those who do not heed history . . .

FF reminded me this morning about a topic that I've sort of let slide to the backburner, ever since the final approval was given to this project, thus ending any chance of stopping it before it was too late. In other words, it's too late.

So, have you been following this ridiculousness that is the Port Authority's tunnel under the Allegheny River to connect the downtown T to the North Shore, so that already overweight Pittsburghers don't have to walk over the many bridges available to them to get from downtown to the North Shore? The project has an estimated cost of $435 million, which is a lot of money to be spending on a tunnel under the Allegheny River by the same Port Authority that has been notoriously poorly run in recent years and just recently reduced service by 15% with a fare increase expected in January.

Seriously, has no one in Pittsburgh ever heard of the so-called "chunnel" in Boston under the Charles River that was once referred to as "The Big Dig?" It was a disaster of monumental proportions for the tax-paying citizens of Boston. And they're still having problems with it, not to mention paying for it. For instance, as I saw firsthand during a visit to Boston just a couple of years ago, water leaking into the tunnels and turning into very dangerous ice during the winter months, which in Boston pretty much includes November through April.

Since I occasionally like to make predictions, I predict that this will be the biggest boondoggle around here since the release of "The New Coke." It will run grossly overbudget, it will encounter numerous unforeseen and unplanned for problems, and it will be a subject of contention around these parts for years to come. Hell, it's already begun: http://www.post-gazette.com/pg/07207/804514-147.stm

Unfortunately, the Port Authority won't have the luxury of just re-releasing its old formula and slapping the name "Classic" on it.

Did you do anything interesting today, Dave?

Today, I put pomade in my hair for the first time. I like it. Who knew?


Of course, I bought the pomade about a year and a half ago at the encouragement of FF.


Sometimes it takes me a little while to try something new.

Weekend sexy

I sure do like Eggs Benedict.




[That's not my shirt.]

Dave's Email Inbox

Jim: My wife and I happened to notice last night that our neighbor's teenage son was upstairs in his bedroom sticking his head out of the window with a lighter in one hand and smoke clearly visible. I'm not sure what, if anything, I am expected to do in that situation.

Dave: You're the parent, my friend. I'm sure you'll figure something out. Or Google it.

Jim: Parenting the Google Way. You should write a book.

Dave: I probably should. But I'm way too busy just trying to keep up with my blog.

A-ha! Mark Cuban was right!

You know, I started to write a little blurb for my blog about the NBA, but then I deleted what I had written because I realized that no one really cares about the NBA. False alarm. You may go back to what you were doing. Move along, now. Nothing to see here, folks.

Bugger!

It's true. It's finally happened. The Beckhams, Victoria and David, have arrived in America to, among other things, I'm told . . . provide the Bush administration with an exit strategy from Iraq, increase America's understanding of what it means to be truly beautiful, entertain us with their whimsical nature, and something having to do with soccer. I don't know much about that one, but I've seen David on ESPN a few times, and I think that they were talking about soccer. Regardless, it's a glorious time to be an American! Woohoo!

Today, on Dave's email . . .

I had hoped that I had fully used up my childlike need to write blogs about my monkey. But today's email exchange with my friend Jim forced me to give in.


Jim: I went out for a few beers with a couple of former co-workers last night. didn't think I drank much (or any more than usual), but wow, do I feel like crap this morning. We are old, Dave.

Dave: Yes, I know. That's one of the reasons that I try not to drink too much anymore, and instead do other things. With my monkey.

Jim: We're still old. No matter how your monkey makes you feel.


So true, Jim. So true.

And another thing . . .

I have a prediction. I predict that Barry Bonds will hit his historic and controversial 756th homerun against my team, the Pittsburgh Pirates. Stay tuned.

No cell phone left behind

So, I got up this morning, went downstairs to make myself a cup of coffee, and then, as I often do, I stood in front of my big, beautiful windows in my boxer shorts and looked out at the world. And there she was. The queen of all multi-taskers. Now, I've seen people like this before, but she appeared to take it to a new level. She was pushing her baby in a stroller, walking her German Shepard-esqe dog, and talking on her cell phone. As I said, I've seen this before, and I think it's crazy. But this woman had to stop and bend down to clean up what her dog had just done on the grass. Did she get off the phone in order to facilitate this? No. She bent down to pick up the doggie droppings with a plastic bag and kept right on talking.

Was it wrong that I secretly hoped that she would drop her phone in the poo?

From Amsterdam with love

I'll admit it. Things have not been going all that well for me lately, dear readers. But today I did receive a little bit of joy and happiness in the mail. My new monkey arrived from Amsterdam. Unfortunately, I am not presently equipped to properly use my new monkey. But rest assured, when the time is right, I am going to play with my monkey like I've never played with it before.

No, seriously, it's brand new. It's never been used before. And I'm going to use it. A lot.

Seasonal depression . . .

You know, I've always been this way. As long as I can remember. I don't want to be home in the summer. I want to be out. All the time. Every night. It's just such a glorious time of year that it feels like a waste not to go out and do something every night. And so here I am, home on a summer Sunday night, and yet I'm restless. I want to be out.

Not just for hunters and fishers anymore

You know what? I order most of my clothing from L.L. Bean. Yep, good old L.L. Bean. And for the most part, I love the shirts and the pants that I get from them. Good, solid clothing at a reasonable cost. I love it.


Come on, look at that photo. It could be an advertisement for Bean. With the Maine Hunting Boots and the cute little dog.

Yeah, I found it on the internet. I stole it. The dog's name is Miya. I feel terrible. I'm a thief. But I'm well-dressed.

Not to be confused with Ted Kaczynski . . . [Alternate title: It's not exactly an iphone . . . ]

So, I'm a man. Which means, among many other things, that I like little toys and gadgets. And I'm naturally pretty good with technology. That having been said, I am never among the first to buy and try new technological devices. I was very late coming to the cell phone party, and once I did, I even did that a little unusually, choosing a Virgin Mobile "pay-as-you-go" calling plan over other, more conventional calling plans. Anyway, all of this is back story to the fact that I recently purchased my second cell phone to replace, well, you know, my virgin one. Just my second. I know folks who get more than two cell phones each year. Anyway, I'm just going to let the visual tell the story, and then you, my dear and devoted readers, may commence with laughter or whatever it is that you do.

The photo on the left is my first cell phone ever.

The photo on the right is my new and improved cell phone.

See no evil, hear no evil

So, I'm just wondering. If the Pirates play a baseball game, and I don't watch it on TV or listen to it on radio, or know anything about the game, then did the game actually take place?


Yeah, yeah. I already know the answer. I suppose I was just fantasizing.


Damn that Sid Bream.

And this is what we've been reduced to . . .

I received this email this morning from my college roommate and best friend of many years ("Focker") who now lives across the state in Philadelphia with his lovely wife:

what type of toothpaste do you buy, and do you always buy the same one?

My response:

I change toothpaste all of the time. Presently, I'm using Crest Pro-Health and I rather like it.

FOCKER: you know, usually i like arm & hammer, but when it costs $4.59, and then you look over at a colgate or other brand that's selling for $1.89, what is a man supposed to do??? i can't really figure out the ingredients, so i assume they're trying to rid some inventory, and phase out the latest gimmick brand, so i just went with the colgate with "oxygen bubbles". can you believe it, "oxygen bubbles".

My equally as compelling response:

My dentist says that as long as toothpaste has baking soda, then they're all the same. I have not been impressed by Arm & Hammer's toothpastes. And they do cost more.

You just can't make this stuff up.

Which of these two fellows would you trust with your baseball team?

One of these handsome devils is Dave Littlefield, the General Manager of the Pittsburgh Pirates, and one of them is Matt. It's a nice photo, taken at the Pirate game this past Sunday. My only problem with this photo is that Matt is clearly using the wrong finger.

Footlong frankfurters for Father's Day

Let me just say a few words about sauerkraut. It's tasty, with that subtle bitterness that it has when it's made right. And it's a relatively good condiment for many meat dishes, from hotdogs to pork tenderloin. But as enjoyable as it is going in, that sauerkraut really does get its revenge during its exit strategy.

Maybe I should stick to barbeque sauce. One of my rapidly growing legion of readers emailed me that he had barbeque spare ribs for dinner yesterday, and he sounded pretty happy about it.

Barbeque sauce fever: catch it.

I'm feeling a little saucy

Today I only ask one thing, dear reader(s). Is there anything that doesn't taste better with barbeque sauce on it? Mmm, barbeque sauce. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.

Plenty of good seats still available

Wow. The Pirates have won two games in a row (again, over the lowly Texas Rangers). And last night's starting pitcher Ian Snell was actually allowed to finish his masterfully pitched game (only the Pirates' second complete game of the season), rather than the standard "starter through seven, set-up reliever in the 8th, and closer in the 9th" format that has become the norm all around major league baseball. As Pirate fans well know, it's just that formula that has cost the team some devastating losses this season when our struggling (read: horrible) bullpen has blown saves and lost games late. And those losses really hurt, taking an obvious toll on the other players on the team. When will these managers learn? Sorry. Stupid question.

Just a moment in time

Did you see this? Bush was in Albania, where he is considered a heroic figure, for reasons that are well beyond my understanding. And while he was shaking hands with a crowd of people, he lost his wristwatch.

I couldn't help juxtaposing his experience overseas with that of our military in Iraq. Unlike those brave men and women, he actually was greeted by the people as a hero.

And, lucky bastard, all he lost was a watch. Hmm.

Woohoo! Back to just 10 games under .500.

BREAKING NEWS. THIS JUST IN. The Pittsburgh Pirates actually won a baseball game. The final score was 7-5 over the Texas Rangers of the American League. The Pirates' current record has them as the fifth worst team in baseball. How did they win, you may ask? Uh, well, the Rangers have the absolute worst record in baseball.

Pirate fever: catch it!

It's a hole in one (head)

So, the young, inexperienced, and frankly, undeserving Mayor of Pittsburgh is just plain fun to watch and see what kind of trouble he can get himself into. The U.S. Open golf tournament is being played at Oakmont Country Club this weekend, just outside of the city, and a story in today's Pittsburgh Post-Gazette said this about the exuberant Mayor:


When reporter Megan West for The Golf Channel checked in with city hall and said she was coming to get "local flavor," Mr. Ravenstahl was all over it.

He led a tour of the city, touted the April finding that the city was again the Places Rated Almanac's Most Livable City, and was filmed knocking golf balls from Point State Park into the rivers.


Now, let's just stop and imagine that image. Mayor of Pittsburgh. Standing in beautiful, lush Point State Park. Right at the tip of the city, at the very confluence of our sparkling three rivers. Hitting golf balls into the water for The Golf Channel's cameras.

Not only is it against the law to pollute the waterways, but this fellow touts himself as "the green mayor."

As a friend of mine said in an email, "He’s the green Mayor – not talking environment."

I was green with envy that I hadn't thought of that line first.

And some of us think with our boxes

So, FF and I were sitting around on this beautiful summer, Sunday morning, drinking coffee and chatting, and she asked me what I thought about an older woman dating a younger man. I said that if the two people involved were happy and comfortable with each other, than I didn't see any problem with it. Then (as I had expected), she expanded on her query to reveal that she was attracted to a younger man that she has recently gotten to know. She is 31 and this fellow is 20. We talked a little bit more about the situation, the pros, the cons. And then, knowing that FF is eager to meet and date a nice guy, I said,"You have to think outside the box if you want to get someone into your box."

We think with our hoses

So, I've been living in my condo (once referred to as a "cool, great space" by FF) since December 2005, and sometime last year, I joined the condo association's board, which consists of the president, the vice president, the secretary, and the treasurer. I am the treasurer. Now, this little band of condo owners is quite a group of individuals. I already have countless stories that I could tell about each of them and the interactions that take place between them. Most of our communication as a board is done through email, which by itself is somewhat humorous because we all live in the same big house, just in separate units. But since virtually all communication is done via email these days, that's the way we do it, with an occasional board meeting thrown in for good measure.

As the relatively new treasurer, I peruse budget statements for the building, and I occasionally am asked to approve certain landscaping invoices. Just this week I was asked to approve a bill for $40 for what was called "put hoses out" on the invoice. So, after a little email exchange between members of the board about the hoses in our expansive yard, I wrote a funny little email just to the secretary, who I occasionally joke with about the tone and nature of some of our group emails.

Now, what makes this all amusing (since I know you've been waiting for something in this post) is that the secretary is a priest, presumably Catholic, who has a pretty good sense of humor. Oh, and he obviously works out a lot, because he is in very good shape, particularly for his age. FF calls him "buff." So, my email read, "Too many hose jokes here to even attempt one, I'm afraid, Father." This was his reply: "I haven't heard a hose joke in a long time."

I still haven't stopped laughing. Thank you, Father.

Michael Vick: After further review . . .

You know, it's been a few hours since my last post, and nothing particularly noteworthy has happened since then, aside from some light house cleaning around my condo and the still in-progress download (dial-up) of R.E.M.'s first greatest hits album. However, in that time, I've come to the decision that I might not be satisfied with just putting people like Michael Vick in jail. And since I know that that would never happen anyway, I think that the only thing that would truly satisfy my anger, my outrage at dog cruelty would be to put him in a little makeshift box that serves as the arena for dog fighting and then beat him with a baseball bat (since football doesn't really have anything equally cudgel-like that I could use). Either that, or I'd use said bat to do some serious damage to his Cadillac Escalade. Either way, I'd still be able to sleep at night. Sometimes, as even a story in the Bible suggests, an eye for an eye is the only true justice. Amen to that, brother.

The occasional soapbox pontification

So, dog fighting and betting has recently been in the sports news because the highly overrated quarterback of the Atlanta Falcons Michael Vick has been linked to the underground activity that is apparently quite common among certain factions of our society. Listen, I don't have anything clever to say about this topic. Dog fighting, dog cruelty, hell, animal cruelty of any kind or in any form is just plain wrong and frankly, uncivilized. I wish there was more room in our overcrowded jails to put those who engage in these kind of activities away for lengthy sentences that would reflect their level of wrongness. But since there isn't, people found guilty of animal cruelty usually just get a slap on the wrist and a fine. If it were up to me, people like Michael Vick would go away for a while, and I wouldn't have any trouble sleeping at night. And, I'd be willing to bet that more than a few Atlanta Falcon fans would thank me for ridding them of their troubled quarterback.

You can always get through a Friday . . .

So, since last night included some drinking and other partying, the actual conversation is a little bit blurry. But I can bottom line it for you, even though that will hardly do it justice. FF and I were sitting at Gullifty's, enjoying some cocktails and jazz, and we were talking about some of the women that have been in my life and some of their personal problems. After some clever, witty banter that I wish that I could recall verbatim, I declared that having a vagina is not easy. And there you have it, folks. Pearls of wisdom from the mind and mouth of Dave. Stay tuned for other, equally as compelling gems sure to follow.

Did you miss me?

I'm back. Wow. Haven't posted in a long time. That's not good. And it's not like I was doing anything particularly important or time-consuming during that time. Oh, well. Better to look forward rather than backward. Or something like that. So, on with the show . . .


From an email exchange with FF (female friend) this afternoon:


Dave: Do you realize how many changes/additions that I've made to my wardrobe just in the time that I've known you? It's practically a complete turnover.

Seriously, I'm digging the tropic weight fabric. It's so perfect for warmer weather, but it's not that linen crap that so many men wear in the summer. I hate that fabric. It has no shape. And on a man who already has no ass, no shape is no good.