Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Jane goes
To the store at eight
She walks up on St. Andrews
She waits
Gets her dinner there
Pulls her dinner from her pocket

I think I am, maybe, just a little bit, oh, I don't know....

¿En Fuego?

(By the way...

I defy you to dig up a cooler punctuation mark than ¿.

Come on, punk.

And don't bring me any of that weak-ass ¡

Show me what you got.



Fucking umlauts?

¿Que Pasa, pendejo?

What's next?

You gonna step to with a tilde?

Just go home.

Tuck your semi-colon between your legs and just get tae fuck.)

¿So, what was I sayin'?

Oh, yeah...

I am on fire.

Whoa, whoa, whoa.

I'm on fire.

Sheets soakin' wet, freight train runnin' through the middle of my head type of on fire.

We're talking Allmans at the Filmore.

Band of Gypsies, New Year's Eve, 1969.

Nirvana, 1991.

Stones, 1972.

Beatles, 1966.

Band, Last Waltz.

(Oh, no you di-in't.)

O.K., maybe I pushed it there.

This is, after all, just a blog.

(I have a feeling I am losing you. ¿Time for a pretty Montana picture?

Too, bad...

You'll get snowboarding and like it.

This is a video of me snowboarding. You can click it. This fantastic blog entry won't disappear on you, no it won't. A safe, little video will pop up and play. And, as a bonus to you, Jimmyboy narrates. If you have never heard a full-on Wisconsin accent, click and enjoy.

Welcome to 'Sconi.

I have snow on the brain.

It's like water on the brain, execpt colder>)

An old law school friend reached out to me today.


He sent me a sweet email.

Brought me right back to 1991.

Come to think of it, I was on fucking fire then, too.

I can provide testimonials.

Anyway, Chuck is going to come out here to ride with me at Big Sky.

Kid's got chutzpah.

In spades.

I thought I fell off the radar of my law school friends.

What, with them taking Big Pimpin' gigs in L.A.

And me going to solidify the Cartel in the Dam.

We used to joke that I would become Mayor of the Dam.


¿Y'know what?

I could've.

Become Mayor, that is.

Hey, Dam Readers.

¿Would you have voted for The Dude as Mayor?


That's what I thought.

Damn straight.

All of you would have.

P., Husker, Micah, Ann, T-Rex, Alison, Rick, JimmyD, Mom (right? ... right?), dad, Rudy, Chris, Wendy, plus, like, twelve other people, which constitutes a majority in the Dam.

It would have been in the bag.

Pretty much all I would have had to do was not get pulled over for drunk driving in the month preceding the election.

Like that guy, Rasshole.

(If I had been pulled over for DUI more than a month prior to the election, it would have been disregarded.

This is Wisconsin, people.

Milwaukee just got voted drunkest city in the nation.

Our hero, Brett Favre, won a Super Bowl ring and three consecutive NFL MVPs with a vicious Vicodin-Miller Lite-College co-ed habit.

Ask Chmura if you don't believe me.

In Wisconsin, if you can't put down a twelver and drive home, you may as well book your sex change surgery in Amsterdam. It's a foregone conclusion.

Or ask Max McGee.

He stayed out all night and caught the first Super Bowl touchdown in 1967. Go Pack!


¿Where was I, anyway?

Oh, yeah.

I am going to California.

A couple times.

No Cal.

So Cal.


Gonna see Dan-O.

Liz, my sister.



Twink, for certain.

Maybe Whit, if he can get a kitchen pass.

If he remembers me, that is.

We lived together for a couple years.

I bet he remembers.

Cause I am pretty hard to fucking forget.

Once you've met me.

(Right, Blain?)


Thanks for hanging in this long, A.D.D. Nation.

Here's a pretty picture.

That's right, Mayor.

I was president of the school board, and everyone knows that is the steppingstone.

I was being groomed.

For Mayor.

Because, I am pretty much the Mayoral Package.



Good Dancer.

Know how to handle a bear.

Smooth with the ladies.

Numchuk skills.

Fights crime.

Drives a cool car.

Could probably grow a mustache, given enough time.

That's right.

Doesn't need pepper spray.

Doesn't need a seatbelt.

Doesn't need a helmet.

And knows that stop signs are for pussies.

Great driver.

Except you'll be in the back seat.

Because my nuts will be riding shotgun.

Because I have elephentiasis of the nuts.

¿Right, Claire?

(Told you.

En fuego.


P.S. This is a joke. Lest you think I really had aspirations to be Mayor. A joke.

In the stands, the home crowd scatters
For the turnstiles, for the turnstiles

Shot with rust.

The hinges protest.


The Entropy here has a foe, and her name is Destiny.

I interviewed a maid today.

Her name is Destiny.

I am neither kidding, nor writing a porn script.

She got the job.


A few people emailed me and said, "Dude, you need to go on a date," or "Get back on the horse."

I appreciate the sentiment, but I am not ready for that right now.

It's gonna take a little time.

Time alone.

I've written on the virtues of time spent alone before.

Solitude is a good thing.

And that is what I am going to do.

For those of you who come for the pretty pictures, here are some pictures from the elk rut in Yellowstone.


Yeah, I live in the coolest place on earth.

This is a mountain lion.

(Not a gopher.)

I chickened out and didn't want to get too close to get a good picture. Plus, India was freaking out. Yeah, blame it on her.