PDQ: 20 Years of Rockin' the Free World!

My musical career was pretty short-lived and didn't make me an international star. But it was damn fun. In fact, this past April was the 20th anniversary of the beginning of my band. We didn't put out a special two-CD set to commemorate the event or anything, so don't bother rushing to your local FYE or hunting on iTunes or Amazon to find it. In fact, we never put out a CD. I'm sure there are some bootleg videos of us around somewhere. Actually, we were just a cover band that played at weddings and such. Not that cool. And we haven't played together in over ten years. But, as I said, it was damn fun while it lasted.

The band was called PDQ. Not after the "pretty darn quick" line, or after the chocolate milk mix. It was after the names of the guys in the band. Pomeroy, DiMeo, Quatrone. Pretty clever, huh? So, my two brothers were in the band, one on drums, the other on bass, two Pomeroy brothers, both guitar, and one Quatrone who played keyboards. I sang. Oh yeah, I was the lead singer. Which meant, I got all the chicks. Actually, it would have meant that if I was really good looking and in a real band.

As I said, we performed at weddings and assorted parties at church halls and Knights of Columbus events, for people in their 50s, 60s and 70s, playing songs from the '50s, '60s and '70s. Oldies that old people could dance to. Or at least shuffle to. Sometimes we would play something that would send the seniors clamoring for their nitro pills. I'll never forget the time we threw "Expressway to Your Heart" into the mix at a Holy Name Society Valentine's Day dance. I'm sure there were a few Depends that needed changing after that. From the looks on their faces, you would have thought we were playing Ozzy Osbourne or Metallica or something. Of course, it never failed, the geezers would arrive early, as we were setting up, and even though they had the pick of the whole place for seating, they would place themselves right next to the speakers. So you do the math: old person + seat next to speaker x live music = old person complaining that the music is too loud.

At the Christmas party we played every year for the same Holy Name Society (Oh, yeah, we got the big jobs) there was one guy who always came up and requested "Jingle Bells" in Italian. I don't speak Italian. For the couple Italian songs we did, I had the lyrics written out phonetically, like "Vo-La-Ray...Wo wo. Con-Tar-Ray...wo wo wo wo..." So this old guy would get on the mike and sing "Jingle Bells" in Italian. People in the crowd began holding up their lighters and swaying. It was awesome.

Okay, maybe not.

Truth is, we didn't just play to the geriatric crowd. We actually became very popular in South Philly for our serenades. Lately, the tradition of serenades has kind of waned, but back then, we were the serenade band. We played dozens of them. What is a serenade? Well, for those of you not Italian from South Philly, a serenade takes place the night before a wedding, when the groom hires a band to play for the bride at her home. It would become a huge block party, the bride's family serving scallopine, beer and cannolis, streets getting blocked off, people getting drunk. It was a blast. We would have the guests, neighbors, and passersby dancing to "Hang on Sloopy," "Twist and Shout," and "The Mummer's Strut." We had to know that last one or we would be blackballed from ever playing in South Philadelphia again.

We had a regular playlist we would try to stick to, because it worked well. In that playlist was nestled a song called, "If you wanna be happy." If you're not familiar with it, the lyrics went something like, "If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife, so from my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you." It goes on like that through the whole song. Sure, not the most PC tune to hit the airwaves, but a fun song that people generally liked and danced to. Except at this one wedding where the bride looked like a five foot bowling ball with the face of Curly from the Three Stooges. I remember singing the song and looking out over the crowd. You might have thought I was stomping on a puppy's head while singing. It was as if they all were very aware that the bride was as ugly as a donkey's ass, and we were making fun of her. It was uncomfortable, but we pressed on...singing "Don't let your friends say you have no taste, go ahead and marry her anyway..."

We didn't make a whole lot of money, but we had a great time playing. That's what music has always been for me. Fun. Even if it meant scaring a few octogenarians along the way. Hell, they needed to lighten up anyways.

I miss those days of singing with the band. It was a great outlet for my wannabe singer personae. Nowadays, I get my kicks singing out loud in the car or the occasional karaoke night. The guys from the band are all a bit older now, some in their 60s, just like the people we used to play for. But then again, so are the Rolling Stones. Paul McCartney knows what it's like when he's 64. And The Who are very far from Teenage Wasteland. Okay, I know how ridiculous it is comparing PDQ to The Who. I doubt if Pete Townsend ever windmilled in front of a bunch of blue hairs in a church basement. Or Mick ever pursed his lips in front of the home of a human wrecking ball the night before her wedding. But a reunion would be most welcome. I know my brothers would be into it. I haven't talked to the other guys, but who knows. You may soon be reading about a PDQ jam session, I hope.

In the mean time, those old people will just have to complain about something other than "Runaround Sue" being too loud while trying to gum their baked rigatoni at the St. Patty's Day Social.

Rock on, PDQ, wherever they are now.

The Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes...Screw Them.

This past weekend, I bought a pair of old school red Converse sneakers. I have a black pair that I got at Target, the best store in the universe, and found the red ones on sale at Hot Topic. At the risk of sounding totally "Sex and the City" gay, I had to have them. In just three short days, they have become my favorite footwear.

Currently, Converse are hot, so naturally, they're overpriced. So getting my red pair on sale at half the regular price was a real coup. I wore them to work this morning, proud to show off my red Converse, with their blinding white laces. And people noticed. A woman I didn't know commented that she liked my sneakers because they reminded her of the Keds she used to wear as a kid. She had to be around my age. I know that because most of the people wearing Converse today didn't wear them as a kid. When they were kids, their sneakers had silhouettes of Michael Jordan on them, or the famous swoosh that told them to "Just do it." Now, Converse All-stars and Chuck Taylors are fashion statements, worn by the creative community and pissed-off rockers who give the finger to paparazzi. I'm not wearing them for any of that. I have no plans to flip off any cameras pointed in my direction, or to show that I am a card-carrying member of the "creative community." I've always wanted a pair, but they were hard to find. But like that woman this morning, I like them because they remind me of my past.

They feel like my childhood, running around the streets of South Philly in my awesome new sneaks. Playing stickball, riding my bike with the banana seat, butterfly handlebars and sissy bar in the back, and chasing the Mr. Softee truck. Of course, back then, we called similar sneakers "bobos." There was even a song, sung to the tune of "The River Kwai March" that went: Bobos, they make your feet feel fine. Bobos, they cost a dollar ninety-nine. Bobos, they're worn by hobos, so get your bobos, your bobos today." What a shining moment in music history.

You actually could buy them in five and dime stores. Yes, we had five and dime stores when I was younger. If you don't know what they are, picture a smaller, homegrown version of Wal-Mart, where you would ride over on your sweet Huffy, walk around in your canvas and rubber sneakers and buy cheap candy, cool Six-Million Dollar Man t-shirts, the latest 45 RPM singles, a new goldfish, and Revell monster models, all for the change in your pockets.

The sneakers remind me of summer days when it was a daily occurrence to disappear from the front of your house until lunch, then again until dinner, then once more until curfew. And never once did my mother call the police to report a missing kid or worry about strangers leading us off to our doom. They were on my feet when it was perfectly acceptable to play with toy guns and shoot imaginary bad guys, like Nazis and VietCong, not in a video game, but out in the street. I used to have sneakers like this when I would ride over to Annamarie Martino's house to see if she was outside playing. I remember attaching those metal skates to the bottom of my Converse, using that key that you always managed to lose, and rolling on metal wheels up and down Colorado Street. In fact, by the end of the summer, my pair usually bore the scars of those metal skate grips up at the front. I was wearing them the first time I snuck a peek at one of my dad's Playboy magazines. And when I first discovered Mad Magazine and Archie and Batman comics. All of these things helped shape who I am today and why I do what I do. So, I might consider these sneakers my personal time machine, leading me through the path of how I got here.

I pity the people who see these sneakers and just don't get it. I understand if they're just not your style. But some people just consider themselves too mature, too sophisticated, too conservative to wear them. And they consider anyone my age wearing them to be too old and immature to be wearing such frivolous things. They chuckle when they see people like me still wearing them, as if I must be crazy. But, let's think about it: if we lose those slivers of fun and creativity and simplicity we had in our youth, it's time to hang it up. If you can't get up and dance around your house to a song you loved as a kid, even when you're alone, or name a toy you loved as a child, then you probably have a little soul-searching to do. I'm not trying to recapture my youth, just embrace it. I'm comfortable being different, moving away from the mainstream white sneakers that scream "Corporate America!" Hell, mainstream isn't just boring, but it saps the youthful innocence out of the world.

Oh yeah, you could say that they're just a pair of sneakers I got on sale. But they will keep me dancing to cheesy hits from the '60s and '70s. In them, I'm once again roller skating on my street, running home to get there in time for Prince Spaghetti night, and checking out my dad's Playboys. Okay, that last one has changed somewhat thanks to the Internet. But, I'll enjoy my time in red Converse without flipping the bird to any paparazzi. Because, after all, I am constantly being pursued by the gossip rags. I'll save that for another posting.

By the way, this is a first for my Live Musings Nightly. The photo is an actual shot taken by me, not some stock image downloaded from the Internet. Wow, technology doesn't always suck.

Where there's smoke...

I know it's coming. Soon. The kids will ask me if I've ever done drugs. And then the dilemma hits. Do I tell them the truth or do I lie? Do I tell them that I did a lot of pot, but I didn't try it until I was in college, but man, do I have tons of hilarious stories about being high with the guys. However, that doesn't mean they should try it. Or do I just say that I never did drugs? Their mom can honestly say that to them, I can't. Not that I haven't lied to them before, I mean, hell, the Santa/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy trifecta is one big fat lie that millions of people perpetrate upon their simple-minded kids. Or the one time I told them that all the beaches in the country were closed for cleaning, just so I wouldn't have to take them all the way down there. But this is a bigger issue. I assume my kids look up to me. So telling them the truth could be bad in two ways. They could lose (more) respect for me, or they could figure that it's okay to go out and experiment with drugs. Yeah, I know, a little pot never hurt anybody, but it's still disconcerting to know your kids are doing it.

So, that's my dilemma. And while my last attempt at smoking pot a few months ago left me with a massive headache and a lousy taste in my mouth, I'll never forget some of the stuff that took place when I was younger and the stuff had a much more enjoyable effect on my brain.

I'm sure everyone out there who has ever taken a toke has at least one really friggin' riotous story about while they were stoned, dude. So, at the risk of sounding like a pothead pining for his youth, let me share a couple of tales with you. Call this, "Cheech and Chong's Nice Dreams, only without two Hispanic guys, and a bunch of South Philly imbeciles instead." Oh, yeah, these stories in no way condone the usage of marijuana cigarettes.

So my brother once saw Jesus. Oh yeah. He was wearing all white and he was behind a tree. He saw him as we smoked in our car, parked behind some tennis courts at the local park. My brother freaked out. We told him Jesus wasn't there. He swore Jesus was there. We told him to calm down and we would go get him $40 worth of Chinese food. He wouldn't calm down, because Jesus was watching him from behind a tree. We watched the tree in question. Suddenly he appeared. Only it wasn't Jesus. It was a homeless guy in an old t-shirt taking a leak. We left the Son of God in the park and went to get $40 worth of Chinese food.

A lot of stories like this revolve around my younger brother and his friend, who shall remain nameless for the sake of his privacy, and because he's bigger than me and could kill me with his big, hairy Italian palms. You see, he was the guy that could get the stuff, and my brother was neurotic and nervous to begin with, so it was always extra funny to get him high.

When I lived in North Jersey, these two boneheads decided to come and stay with me on their spring break. Oh, what a great idea. For them, it was one long week in stoner heaven. For me, it was one long week of having two fat, high gavones farting in my apartment and eating everything in sight. I went to work one morning and warned them not to eat the ice cream my roommate had in the freezer. It was like talking to two glassy-eyed Saint Bernards. They looked at me with their tongues wagging and assured me that my roommate's favorite chocolate ice cream would be safe.

I came home from work to find the kitchen covered in chocolate handprints. There was chocolate ice cream melting across the table, mixed in the Chinese food, and dripping down the sink. Again, they assured me that the ice cream was safe. So I smoked a fattie and broke the news to my roommate. He wasn't happy. But he smoked with us, and all was better. Pot has that effect on people. Bad blood can go away pretty quickly. After all, no one will remember why the other was pissed. Whether it's chocolate ice cream or acts of terrorism, maybe if everybody just smoked some pot, it would all be okay. Everyone except my kids, that is.

Okay, so anyway, there was this other time when the bunch of lugnuts I like to call friends headed to our favorite summer weekend destination, Wildwood, New Jersey. There were about 6 or 7 of us, and the majority of us were pot smokers. All but Anthony. He didn't want anything to affect his tennis game, so he stayed far away from the stuff. Until we decided to bring it closer to him. As he grilled burgers out on the back porch, we sat inside working up an appetite. And I don't mean exercise. It just so happened that we had a lot of extra stuff on hand. So we called Anthony inside and one of us went out and sprinkled some buds into the coals. By the time Anthony got back out to continue his grilling, the coals had a good buzz going and he went to work flipping burgers. The smoke engulfed him as we sat inside laughing our stoner butts off. Before you could say "well done" so was Anthony. For the very first time in his life, he was stoned. And it was the funniest thing we had ever seen.

Of course, just about anything you see when you're high is the funniest thing you've ever seen. It could be Caddyshack. It could be a person falling out a 15th story window. It could be a dog on a leash. It's friggin' funny.

None of this will help me decide how to answer the inevitable question from my kids about my drug use. They would find the stories about their uncle very funny. But that doesn't make any of it right. Some people have said they would lie. Some told me they would be honest. And some are going through the same dilemma as I am. I'd love to get your comments. What would you do? And can I buy some pot from you?

Jose Can You See?

So it was the big Fourth of July holiday weekend, offering every American the freedom to sit on damp grass to watch loud, colored bombs exploding in the sky, to wear cheesy t-shirts with eagles and flags on them, and to eat meat that's been burned over coals in the backyard. Such amazing freedoms are denied people in many countries throughout the world. For example, I understand that open-aired grilling of pig by-products in Armenia will get you locked up in an iron mask for 35 years. It's the one weekend of the year where Republicans, Democrats and Ralph Nader can sit down together to commemorate the founding fathers' spirit of independence. Not that any one of them would ever really comprehend the immensity of such a feat, nor would any of them have the heart to strive through such a struggle. Especially after the seventh or eight can of Bud.

I thought about what freedoms we have here and realized that a lot of the things that are considered freedoms for some mean taking away freedoms from others. For example, in many parts of the country, smoking is banned indoors. In bars, restaurants and other public places, smokers cannot enjoy the freedom of lighting up. Not that I disagree with that, because trying to enjoy a bowl of wings and a cold beer in a bar while someone is puffing toxins my way is not fun. However, there's an example of a one freedom outweighing another. I have the freedom to enjoy a smoke-free environment, while smokers have been stripped of something that 10 or more years ago was the norm.

For me personally, I think the freedom to park wherever I want has been crushed by the freedom of "handicapped" people to get special "handicapped" parking signs in front of their homes. Okay, some may actually be handicapped, while others are just friggin' lazy but happen to know someone who can pass paperwork though. In South Philly, parking is at a premium, much like finding a gold nugget in a can of Campbell's soup. But there must be half a dozen of these privileged parking spots on every block, and I know that some of them are stealing my freedom to park there.

How about the freedom to get early doctor appointments so that I can get to work being usurped by the freedom of seniors to take up the early time slots? I mean, really, what do they have to do all day? Just because their internal alarm clock doesn't allow them to sleep past 5:30AM, does that mean I can't get an early appointment? It sure does. So my freedom to get my eyes examined before work is gone so that some 80-year-old can get there and get home in time for their 9 AM bowel movement. Freedom, denied for me. Not for them.

Finally, what about the freedom to enjoy a movie that I paid 10 bucks to see without some annoying jackass either talking or having a rotten brat with them? Okay, so that means their freedom to yak away or bring a noisy rugrat into the theater outweighs mine? It happened to my son and I once. We went to the movies and right before it started, a group of youngsters with their grandmother sat right next to us. They wouldn't shut up the whole time. Finally, I turned and shushed them, and got angry words from the grandmother. How dare I shush them? She wanted to know. I dare because it's my right to enjoy a movie that I paid good money to see, without your ADD little spawn that shouldn't even be in a PG-13 movie, making like it's a Saturday afternoon at the ballpark. That's my right, my freedom. So it was my son and I that had to move seats to enjoy my freedom. Not fair, but such is the case.

My point is that for every freedom, there's someone to dispute it. There's always someone to say that one freedom takes away theirs. From the upper echelon of the Supreme Court down to the fifth row of the theater during Batman Begins. It doesn't matter. Freedom is really only true to those that think it's theirs, and no one else matters.

Oh say can you see?

Holy Crap.

A recent relationship ended because I wasn't the right religion for her. Now, I'm not going to hold it against the woman who ended the relationship, because that's her prerogative. She's a nice, sweet person, and we got along really well. It's just that once things looked like they might be getting more serious, she felt it couldn't go any further because I wasn't the same religion. It was a first for me.

It wasn't because I have a large ceramic bust of Elvis in my living room that she found creepy, or my Rocky impersonation got stale, or I showed her the video of my friends and I performing as the Village People, or my goatee scratched her...chin. Everything about the relationship was pretty good. She ended it because I used to pray to Saint Anthony whenever I lost something, and she would pray to God. No middle man for her religion. She's not Jewish, which can cause some logistical problems as far as who's holiday is better and all. No, we are not complete opposites, it's still the same God and all, just different approaches to how you appreciate the Big Guy.

Okay, I'm not a holy roller or anything. (In fact, does anyone actually use the term "holy roller" anymore? What the hell is a "holy roller" exactly? Christ on skates? Ouch, sorry.)I'm very willing to compromise on the religious beliefs of the woman I'm with. Hell, she can worship Ishtar for all I care(the god or the movie), as long as she's willing to watch "The Big Lebowski" once in a while and enjoys dancing naked. Although, allegiance to Satan is pretty much out. I was married to the Dark One's minion and it was far from a rewarding relationship. Biting the heads off chickens and sucking the blood may be fine for some, but it doesn't get me horned up, thank you.

My faith is basically rooted in nuns slapping me silly, serving mass as an altar boy for narcoleptic priests and paintings of the crucifixion that freaked me out from this big old Bible my parents had. But for the past 44 years, it's worked for me. I have my faith and my beliefs, which are personal. I'm not out to convert anyone to the Catholic Church. I have no plans to find an Amazonian tribe and get them to switch from eating people to eating wafers that represent a person. And I'm not the kind of guy to go around helping neighbors in the name of Jesus. My neighbors often take up two parking spots, so they can go to hell for all I care.

Of course, there's the whole thing with the pedophile priests. It never fails to come up when I mention I'm Catholic. You know what? There are pedophiles everywhere, so there will be priests who like little boy nookie, just as there are waiters, teachers, rabbis and ministers who like it. Sick and twisted all. Bottom line, the church was wrong. But I don't believe in my church. I have a belief in my faith. The church is run by humans. Some humans steal wallets, some kick puppies or drive like selfish pricks, and others cover up mistakes by other stupid humans. I don't have faith in them.

The thing is, I just don't think I have the capacity to relearn 44 years of Catholic conditioning and embrace a new religious direction, no matter who I'm with. I have a hard enough time believing man really landed on the moon, so how could I possibly believe in an all-knowing, all-forgiving Being who molded the moon with lint and sand from His belly button?

Well, I don't necessarily believe all that. Some people hold the Old Testament as a non-fictional account of the world. Again, I have a hard time with that. I get the message those stories are trying to get across, but, I mean, come on...Adam and Eve? Noah? Samson? Okay, Hedy Lamarr was freakin' hot as Delilah in that movie, and I would've cut off my hair for her. But show me proof that those things really happened, and maybe I'll start to believe they're true. Dinosaurs? Yes, millions of fossils found. They existed. Cavemen? Yes, hundreds of thousands of pieces of proof. King Tut? We have a body and lots of mummified cats. Noah's Ark? Not even a hunk of wood. Good story though. So, then why believe that Jesus rose from the dead?

Personally, I don't think that's what it's all about. Whether I believe in that or not is kind of irrelevant to my point. I believe what I believe because it works for me and it gets me through the day, sometimes the night, often through bouts of stomach viruses. It definitely got me through a hellacious second marriage. It keeps me from doing the really, really bad stuff. It's often my conscience when Jiminy is off busy banging lightning bugs. It's not for everyone, and I don't expect it to be. That's not my job.

And if I meet a nice Jewish girl who digs me even though I have a cross hanging in my apartment, that's fine with me. My mother probably wouldn't approve, but then again, she would never watch "The Big Lebowski" with me.

Amen.

Mandals.

Now that the weather is warmer, I see guys walking around wearing mandals (you know, men's sandals = mandals), their big finger toes out in the open, those hairy foot digits displayed to the world. And while I understand the desire to keep your feet cool in the hot weather, do I have to be subjected to them?

There are basically three places sandals on men should be allowed:
1. At the beach. And I'm talking about on the sand, by the water. Makes sense, right? It actually looks silly walking on the beach in anything other than sandals, or bare feet. Unless you're from South Philly, then white sneakers are okay anywhere.

2. Around a pool or in a sauna. Not that I've ever been in a sauna, nor do I have the desire to share a sweat with other guys. No, sitting in a steamroom with a towel draped over my naughty bits with a bunch of fat, clammy men is not something I have ever wanted to experience. But I can understand wearing sandals in there. No bare feet in hot rooms where men perspire. It's a good rule to live by.

3. In a movie about Jesus or ancient Egypt or something. For the sake of historical accuracy, I don't think Moses would have been seen parting the Red Sea in a pair of Italian loafers.

Other than those things, guys should be wearing shoes. It's pretty casual where I work, and some guys show up with sandals. I find it very disconcerting seeing your coworker's or boss's almost bare feet in a meeting. With those little leather toe g-strings between each digit. Kinda nasty. I don't mind women in sandals, of course. It just seems more natural. Not that I'm a foot fetishist or anything, but most women have pretty nice feet, especially when they put the nail polish on them like colorful little hats on each toe. Cute. On guys, not so.

I will never wear sandals anywhere but the beach, unless, of course, I get a bit part in the remake of "Samson and Delilah". First off, I don't want people seeing my feet. Secondly, people don't want to see my feet. And third, I don't want to see my feet.

Would I say that I have bad looking feet? I would. I have bad looking feet. There, I said it. I won't get into any details, because someone reading this may be eating corn on the cob or beef jerky or something, but let me just put this out there: Remember how Fred Flintstone would start his car by putting his boats out the bottom and running over gravel? My PT Cruiser may not actually require this kind of power, (not yet anyway, but soon) but by the looks of my feet, it might as well have.

Yeah, tough, leathery and just as big as Fred's. Yeah, I could wear the shoeboxes instead of the shoes.

So, no. I won't be wearing sandals. But even those guys who get pedicures and care for their feet as if they were newborn babies shouldn't wear sandals. Especially to work. Or the mall. Or restaurants. Or on the streets.

I'm looking forward to the fall, when the mandals get put away and feet get completely covered in leather or suede again. For now, I'm just gonna have to get used to looking up.

What's goin' on?

Yo! I'm back after a long blogless hiatus. And I'm tired of not writing fun stuff. So here I am.

So, what's been going on with you since our last communication? Not much? Are you kidding? Have you looked at the friggin' news even once over the last month or so? Damn, some crazy shit going on out there. Which is why I'm glad I live in my little nihilistic cocoon, safely surrounded by my DVDs and bobbleheads. Do I need to peek out and be part of all that nasty shit that's happening outside my door or in another state or across the ocean? No, of course not. But at least I know what's up.

For example, there were two, count 'em, TWO natural disasters in the past month. I'm sure you've heard about them when they first happened. They're not so newsworthy anymore. After all, Ashlee Simpson being pregnant is far more happening than several thousand Chinese people being killed in an earthquake or a couple hundred thousand dying in a cyclone in Myanmar. Hey, Myanmar wasn't ever mentioned in social studies, so why should we care, right? Besides, it was basketball playoff time. I gave to a charitable cause. I can't do anything about the money actually reaching there. But at least my conscience isn't stabbing my brain with a pitchfork.

Ahhh, I'll never forget the day I spent $4.00 on a gallon of gas. It's a moment I will always remember. But is it me, or are there still lots of SUVs on the road. Smart choice there. I'm sorry, if I have to feel more adequate in life, there are a lot of other ways to do it rather than buy a gas guzzling yacht on wheels. And people still drive like imbeciles too. I read about something called "hypermiling" which is basic driving techniques to save gas. Coasting, driving the speed limit, no hard breaking. So I'm trying to coast more and stay at the speed limit, but that's damn near impossible, because everyone else around me drives like gas is as free as piss. I guess everyone else is making a hell of a lot more money than me and has no problem supporting the big fat oil company a-holes.

Oh yeah, the economy is failing, Hilary is out of the running, finally, and Obama knows how to fist pump with his wife. More important news coverage. Good for him, I'm sure that if he becomes president, that fist pump will help him solve all the country's ills. First, he'll take his magic dust of change and sprinkle it over the economy and the war and global warming and all will be better, just as he promised. Fist pumps all around! Honestly, I'm not a very political person, and I don't think any candidate will make any bit of difference. But it's disconcerting when half a nation can drink the Kool-Aid of a guy who has no experience at all and believe him when he preaches about change and hope. Yeah, we all want change, Mr. O., but I don't think a bunch of well-spoken words are going to get us very far. Where's Ross Perot when you need him? At least he had charts.

Oh, and another season of American Idol has come and gone. And now that it's all over, America can go back to not giving a damn about who won. I mean really, when can that madness stop. Idol, "So You Think You Can Dance?", "America's Got Talent", "Look At Me, I'm an Idiot, But I'm On TV". I know I'm not the only one annoyed by the hoopla that surrounds these shows, but most can avoid them. My 9-year-old daughter is hooked on Idol. I had to watch whenever she was here. Ouch. Well, it's over, until next year. Maybe she won't be into it as much next year. One can hope, right?

Finally, Iron Man was awesome. Speed Racer loses torque about 25 minutes in, and Indiana Jones was just missing something. Summer movies are here with a wallop. There are still a few I'm looking forward to, and none of them star Adam Sandler. I saw the recent Patrick Dempsey entry into the Hall of Shitty RomComs, and man, was it sad. I can't believe that there are screenwriters and directors and producers and actors out there willing to commit to a project like this. Every cliche and inane plot device you can imagine, thrown onto a steaming pile of celluloid. For example, he's trying to get to the church before the woman he really loves but could never tell gets married to someone else. The only way there is to go around a lake. There's no time to run! What to do? Well, thankfully, a guy with a horse trailer shows up. Does he borrow the truck or ask for a ride? NO. Guess...yeah, he rides the horse. Oh, sweet Mother of Mercy. I threw up in my mouth a bit on that one.

Did I ramble enough? Sorry. I have to run. One of the highlights of my summer is here. I picked up the special edition of Dirty Harry on DVD. "Do ya' feel lucky? Well, do ya', punk?" Oh yeah, it's gonna be a good afternoon.