Carpe Diem, Carpe Pellegrino

Other than the rockin' weather here in NYC, there are few other developments on which I need to expound. However, that doesn't mean that a) the weather doesn't merit some acknowledgement, b) that nothing's been going on, or c) that I would fail to do my job in telling you what has been happening in the land of Boogie.

So, without further ado (although there really wasn't prior ado, so I'm not really sure if any ado is worth a to-do)...

As indicated above (and at any weather site in which New York City weather is described in any particular level of detail), this weekend, thus far, has been wonderful weather-wise. It's the kind of weekend you go take a walk and light up a cigar and enjoy not having to do anything but exist under the sun. I am heading out in a few minutes thusly, as I did some errands and some work this AM (more on this later). It's nice because I live close enough to the water to go hang out nearby and absorb the wind, the serenity and the sunshine without too much effort. The one negative, of course, is the post-winter spandex -- I've said it before and I'll say it again: there should be a law (yeah, I know -- sort of hypocritical on my part) that one needs to qualify to wear spandex in public. This not only applies to women, by the way -- the few guys that think I want an up-close-and-personal view of the outline of their sacks are way, way off. I don't. I don't need to know what your religious proclivities are, so keep the jewels off the boardwalk and we'll all be better off. And women who wear spandex should be required to apply for a license to do so; part of the licensing application process should include having a photograph of said applicant's ass, in said applicant's choice of spandex, shared among her friends. If any of them remark in this vein -- "Jesus, whoever that is has a huge ass, what're they doing in spandex?" -- said license will be denied. Sorry for the specific, harsh outset (especially on such a lovely day); it's just that if you are going to use spandex to show off not-so-goodies and ruin my day in the process, expect repercussions.

In returning back to non-spandex matters, I spent this AM doing some around-the-house work cleaning, organizing and walking around semi-nude, unshowered and unkempt. Then I high-tailed it into the shower and then got ready for a shitload of work. By 12:30 everything was wrapped up and I got out of the house soon after, met a friend and she and I headed to Costco on Roosevelt Island. I haven't been to a Costco -- ever -- though I have gone to a few other warehouse clubs in Northern NJ. Aside from the variety of people filtering through a huge warehouse space filled with anything that can be legally marketed in this country, I was amazed. I bought a variety of stuff: a 4-liter bottle of A-1 Steak Sauce; a 75-pack of Charmin (wink wink) that virtually assures me I'll need a new toilet before I need more toilet paper; a case each of Pellegrino and Diet Coke; a two-pack of Ceasar Dressing (in a convenient, 1/4-gallon jug size); a block (actually, a half-pound) of parmiagiano reggiano cheese; a bottle of garlic pesto sauce; a bottle of Advil; a 4-pack of Ziploc freezer bags; some socks -- for dress emergencies, o' course -- and a combo-package of two fans (one large/floor model and one small one). I also picked up a copy of Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code, and was going to buy mah woman a combo of Duran Duran's Greatest Hits on CD and DVD, but the package I had picked up, I noticed later, had a large crack down the middle, and I was concerned that one of or both discs might be damaged as well, so that went back on the shelf. I picked her up a few goodies elsewhere anyway, so she'll have to wait another day for the cracked Duran Duran combo ;-)

My friend purchased less chazerai than I did; she ended up getting the same fan combo pack, and bought water and some other stuff. All told we barely managed to fit everything into her car, but once we did we absconded ASAP from the Costco parking lot (which was as hazardous to navigate as the inside of the store itself).

I actually was pretty impressed with the variety and the sheer volume of stuff they sell in that place. I was also impressed with the quality of some of their food products; they had some good stuff floating around their meat case, and the prices are a lot better than those I've seen in NYC markets. And aside from Eli's, which is right near me, I think the quality of their stuff is as good if not better than what I've seen here (except for Eli's, which, I believe, has the best meat, fish and produce of any market in the City, Dean & Deluca/Gourmet Garage/Zabar's/Citarella be damned).

The only negative, of course, is that you have to buy in bulk, so unless you have the space to store a jug of salsa and will consume the perishable food items (in these huge quantities), you'll wind up tossing some of the goodies in the trash (which sort of defeats the purpose of saving money in the first place). But I liked the fact that they have everything and anything -- rubber gloves (a 24-pack), 1000-count packages of Dixie Cold Cups, and Pink Floyd CD's -- all under one roof.

Oh, the other negative, incidentally, is that the people in that place seem to be devoid of anything remotely resembling common sense when it comes to navigating with a shopping cart. I actually bumped into three or four peoples' carts because they were off drooling over the 96-pack of adult diapers or the Dr. Scholl's Gift Set section. But overall, it was a mesmerizing experience, one which I will repeat again the next time I have the urge to fill my hot tub with mango-corn chutney :-) In all seriousness, I might just have to rent another apartment to make sure I have room to store all my purchases, and get friends to come over and imbibe, ingest and enjoy the splendors of shopping for 40 :-)

The major development on the horizon, if the above was not sufficient, is the looming visit of my other half to NYC this coming weekend. She and I have have been working so hard that neither of us has had time to kick back and spend time with the other, so now that we've both got a quasi-respite in our schedules, we'll finally be able to spend four or five days of what will amount to be a vacation. Each time we're together, no matter where or when or what we're doing, I just find my life to be just right, and she manages to recharge, inspire and invigorate me in ways I never imagined possible. It doesn't have the potency of, say, a drum of Costco Anti-Freeze, mind you...but whatever she's got is still very powerful stuff :-)

So knowing she'll be here soon, the sun shining and the breeze cutting through my hair reminds me I have no right to complain -- ever.

And the fact that I haven't mentioned how incredibly well my father is doing here -- or even thought to worry or felt those pangs of concern about his well-being in a long, long while -- just ices a cake that I don't ever want to finish.

I'm going to go enjoy some fresh air...or, in its absence, go take a walk around my 'hood and enjoy myself, see the sights, hear the sounds, and take it all in. If there's anything to report (and when isn't there?) I'll let you know.

Issues Far and Wide, Plus The Minutemen

Well, despite a juicy, all-encompassing post that defined the meaning of life, the joy of seeing a piece of shit named Matthew Hale receive a 40-year sentence resulting from trademark arrogance, and the wind-down for the Pope's send-off, Blogspot wasn't having any of it.

So instead of these pearls of wisdom, coupled with my trademark irreverance, sarcasm and the occasional shout-out to my partner in crime (Kaia, you know who you are), Blogger was a little backed up and, apparently, wouldn't accept my post. Some fargin' nerve...and while it was out of my control and most assuredly the Big Man's way of telling me something (no, not Marlon Brando), I do apologize.

So rest assured, ye HoB faithful...this space will continue to be updated for as long as Blogspot is free and up and running. Once they start charging, I'll still be here -- I'll just start selling off my personal collection of used, unwashed boxer shorts. Incidentally, I'm not sure why when some 18-year-old twinkie from Sweden offers to sell her used panties they call it "sexy" and when I do the same they label it "laziness."

In any case, if you were wondering, I wasn't preoccupied with laundry, some 18-year-old twinkie's panties, or even Matthew Hale. But I was laughing a bit about the US Border Patrol's decision to empower civilians to keep watch over our borders. The "Minutemen" have been effective, but at what cost to us today and to us down the line? To wit, yesterday, Bryan Barton, one of those whose charge it is to protect our borders from illegal immigrants, was on patrol with two other Minutemen when they happened upon an illegal, and instead of simply detaining him or returning him to his country, they instead gave him food and water and took the photograph shown below.

The shirt's caption, for those who cannot make it out: "Bryan Barton caught me crossing the border and all I got was this lousy t-shirt."

There are myriad questions and problems with the "Minutemen" as a solution to our problems. On the surface, it's sad and pathetic that we've outsourced the protection of our borders to civilians (whether or not you think the above photograph is a good example of a sense of humor or simply one human being degrading another is irrelevant). The notion of vigilante justice -- despite what Charles Bronson did to improve its cache while he was alive -- is not something to which we should aspire but something we need to avoid. In addition, the gentleman pictured above accused Mr. Barton and his colleagues of improperly detaining him.

The police in question reviewed the incident and it was determined that Mr. Barton and his colleagues did nothing wrong.

However, this raises another interesting question: when will the first incident occur in which policemen side with immigrants -- illegal immigrants -- against citizens of this nation? Legality aside, what happens when one or more of the "Minutemen" decide that an illegal immigrant (eg a female) is their "property" and commit one or more crimes against her or her companions? Crimes committed on US soil are crimes, regardless of the nationality or the citizenship of the victim(s). However, in these sue, finger-point and settle-out-of-court times, this is a can of worms that will only get worse, not better. This "Minutemen" idea doesn't even sound good on paper.

The overall concern is that it invites trouble not simply legally but morally as well. In addition, despite the notion that we as citizens have a right and a responsibility to protect our nation, it is pathetic that we as a nation must enlist the help of civilians to prevent our borders from being violated. The answer: hire more police and border guards who are trained professionals, not a bunch of assholes with t-shirts, video cameras and paintball combat awards. It's silly, it's ridiculous and it needs to stop, before something really bad happens. This idea, especially considering today's litigious society, is like a festering hemorrhoid oozing the collective stupidity that is government-sponsored vigilantism. All it will take is one "shoot first, ask questions later" episode to remind us that, given the opportunity, humans will degrade and defile their fellow man, whether they are in Japanese internment camps, the sights of a 30-06 hunting rifle near a US border, or in concentration camps, the ghosts of which litter Eastern Europe. We should know better. By now, we should know better.

Of course, by "we" I mean people who aren't members of our government.

http://www.polstate.com/archives/006829.html


Image Courtesy MSNBC

We're Living In A Virtual World And I Am A Virtual Girl

Nothing is quite like the first really nice day after a dreary onslaught of winter weather. Today in midtown NYC was no exception. Aside from the fact that it hit 76 this afternoon, it was sunnyish and people were walking around in shorts, short sleeves, and the requisite spray-on spandex, jiggly thighs be damned.

But since I spent most of my day inside looking at the world through my PC monitor, I didn't have much time to enjoy anything but finishing up a shitload of work. So aside from enjoying the weather and today's efficiency, there were a few other observations which sparked neurons in the gray matter between my ears (I never said there was none, just not very much).

I've been using a P2P client called Ares at home. Ares is a file-sharing service, much like Napster was and Limewire and Kazaa are; whereas Napster was strictly a music-sharing concern, Ares, like Limewire and Kazaa, are programs which seek out other PC's running the same software and connect. Once connected, one user in New York can search for a file -- say, "Dancing Queen" by Abba or "Welcome to Planet Motherfucker" by White Zombie -- and a list of appropriate titles will pop up. The user then points his or her mouse at what he/she wants and clicks download -- and that's basically it.

"It," as indicated above, means you'll be waiting for a week to download a three-minute song unless said song is really popular, like "Lose Yourself" by Enimem, Gwen Stefani's "Gangsta Love," the Prodigy's "Smack My Bitch Up" (Kaia's favorite) or anything off U2's newest album, "How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb."

Even if your Internet connection is blazingly fast, like mine is, any P2P client (the acronym for peer-to-peer) will slow you down. It will do so on a number of levels, but, mainly, it sucks out bandwidth in connecting to whoever has the stuff you're downloading, as well as the stuff that other people are downloading from you. Sharing means you not only get goodies from other people but they can get your goodies too. For the most part, it's "illegal" and I don't advocate it -- except for the simple fact that I only listen and/or view the booty before I either decide to buy legit copies thereof or delete it from my system. What's most interesting is that stuff that you can't go out and buy -- like recordings of Dave Matthews at Madison Square Garden on 12/17/03 doing Led Zeppelin's Fool In The Rain -- are ripe for plucking. So for all the hype and the paranoia surrounding the MPAA/RIAA going after illegal downloaders, the stuff that makes the entire practice worthwhile is the stuff over which they have no control, jurisdiction or legal rights.

My CD collection these days is roughly, give or take, at 8,000 and counting, but a lot of those have been ripped, boxed up and stored virtually on a hard drive or an iPod and literally in a box somewhere. I'm a music person (duh) and I have a varied, eclectic collection, and as my girlfriend has pointed out, how can a person listen to that much music? I think that, for the most part, I've pretty much nixed watching TV aside from a select few shows and lots of Yankee, NY Giants and NY Ranger telecasts (when they're actually playing). So what becomes of all those little silver discs once their treasures have been ripped (digitally copied onto a hard drive) and stored for playback elsewhere? They either get sold, old, or packed away.

So where does that leave me, and why the hell did I take you here? Well...if PC's are increasingly our link to the outside world, then anything that grinds their speed to a halt is clearly a problem. And based on what I've been seeing and hearing from other users of P2P clients (not just Ares), this phenomenon is increasing rapidly. Despite the threats of lawsuits and technology and copyright infringement, people are sharing all kinds of stuff. I downloaded a clip of Cameron Diaz on SNL in the "Ladies Man" skit (nothing wrong with a little Courvosier -- ask my woman if you need verification). However, when I returned to find the clip had been fully downloaded, it turned out to be a couple of Asian people doing things that were at best entertaining and at worst illegal. I won't go into more specifics, but I'll never look at oak trees, salad tongs or a alligator clips in quite the same way.

Where's my point in all this? I think, for the most part, that when the entire world -- virtually speaking -- is available at the click of a mouse, the price -- essentially the slowing down of your virtual existence -- isn't worth it. Granted, I'd really love to be able to get an advance release copy of Robert Plant's new album, "Mighty Rearranger" -- it's not due out until mid-May but I can go get a copy of it and will have the entire thing on my drive in about a half hour -- but by doing so, I'll be forgoing any other function my PC could serve, including letting me complete a spreadsheet I started this afternoon for a new Application, doing some advance research at the Department of Buildings, and, most importantly, sending my other half some pictures I took. Yeah, I know...most of these issues are relegated to a little memory upgrade; but if God really wanted us to be able to download stuff, he wouldn't let people badge tree-porn with the names of legitimate stuff.

What I've found is that more and more of life is being lived via little devices -- cell-phones, iPods, Palms, pagers, PSP's, etc. -- and it's interesting how the generation after mine -- which grew up under the umbrella of the established Internet -- will react as virtual life evolves, devolves and corrupts itself as the framework on which its built can't keep up.

Meanwhile, right this second, I'm relieved knowing there's some guy sitting on his porch, smoking a pipe and drinking some cheap bourbon, admiring a sunset, talking with his wife...

On a cellphone. ;-)

Off-Day, Back On The Clock

I could have started off by saying I took yesterday off to mourn the passing of the Pope, but that wouldn't be quite true -- by any stretch. I could have said that seeing the Pope in all his Popeness, lying on that table, freaked me out a bit -- or even more than just a bit -- but that's not true either. In actuality, a friend of mine was in from (way) out of town -- Honduras, to be specific -- and he had an 18-hour layover in NYC so we wound up hangin' until he had to head back to the airport. Since we don't get to hang out much (he spends a load of time traveling all over the place) it worked out well. So last night we made our way over to Monster Sushi on 23rd -- a double-platter of eel, yellowtail, tuna, spicy California rolls, a Christmas roll (huge -- three bites each) and a Dragon roll, not to mention, of course, the requisite chilled sake and some tempura.

The first time the two of us went for sushi was a place in Georgetown (DC) -- we wound up each doing an oil can of Sapporo Dry, had some sushi, each having another oil can of Sapporo Dry, and then we went to see (in the theaters, to give you a sense of timing) Arnold Schwarzenegger in Total Recall. Despite our complete, total and utter inebbriation, we completely understood and figured out the entire movie.

Needless to say, we've each seen said movie several times since (though in far more sober states of mind, respectively). Without speaking for him, I can't figure that damn movie out at all.

So, boys and girls, moral of the story: life is better when you're drunk on beer (no, I didn't get paid by Anheiser-Busch to write that -- but the check is in the mail, if ya know what I mean).

Anyway, back to the present tense -- he's on his way out of town in a few hours so I am going to get a few things squared away downtown for business, then we're going to get some food, he'll head to the airport, and I'm back on the road to the office.

One final note to keep in mind: we watched The Girl Next Door with 'the' Elisha Cuthbert, about a porn star who gives up that world in exchange for being a normal, everyday person. She temporarily moves into the house next door to a college senior recently-accepted to Georgetown University, but he's a total dweeb. She likes him, he likes her, and the only thing standing between them is her former producer, a freak named Kelly. Question is: is the guy who played Kelly the same guy from the HBO series Deadwood? I'm thinkin' yes. Either way, for another typical teen-angst-dork-finds-coolness-and-love-with-a-pornstar, it was entertaining. It didn't hurt that Elisha Cuthbert is so easy on the eyes, but as I told my other half several times, the one negative, for me, about the film was I kept being reminded how far away she lives now and focusing on how great it will be when she's living next door (or, at the very least, nearby).

So for the time being, fiction will have to supplant reality.

Of course, Kaia, my other half, was never a pornstar (at least I haven't been able to verify it was her), so that's always, um, a plus... ;-)

Yet another dose of reality: it's been nearly eight months since she and I have been in eachother's lives and we're still laughing, smiling and each wondering how we got so lucky. So I guess I shouldn't lament the negative but focus on the positive...

Thank you, The Elisha Cuthbert! ;-)

(Yes, I know I'm gonna pay for that)...

-B-

RIP Pope John Paul II, A Man For All Seasons

I feel a bit awkward writing this second of three obituaries I've written this week, especially this following my April Fool's story. As much as I've dedicated this space to humor, logic and intellectual pursuits, it's also a place for sharing emotion and introspection, so I hope that the prior entry doesn't negate or in any way diminish from the message contained herein.

***

I recently discovered that Pope John Paul II was born on the same day as my grandmother. And watching the Pope's health decline so publicly, so rapidly and so markedly, touched me on several levels.

Being Jewish, I never held the Pope as a personal religious inspiration. However, over the last 25 years, and observing his accomplishments -- not only as a clergyman to the world but as a world leader -- especially in his reaching out and conciliation to other world religions, his involvement in the decimation of Communism in the Eastern Bloc, and his peaceful, calming influence on an otherwise violent, chaotic world, is stirring and impressive. He was the first Pope to enter a synagogue as well as the only Pope to enter a mosque. And he was the first non-Catholic to become Pope in 450 years. In short, he was a man of many achievements who did a lot of good -- as much as he could -- in any and all situations, and did so with a message and in the spirit of peace, no matter what he addressed or how violent, turbulent or difficult the issue.

The sound in the background as I'm writing this of the bells of the Vatican announcing the death of a Pope is coupled with a heavy rain here in NYC. I wonder if it's a coincidence, and I wonder where else -- and how heavily -- it's raining right now all over the world.


Editor's Note: One of the HoB faithful alerted me to a mistake I made in describing the Pope as the first non-Catholic to assume that position in 450 years; it should have read "the first non-Italian to become Pope in 450 years." Thanks to P.O. and my apologies. -B-

Link, The Peanut Butter, and The Plunger

So I had an interesting day.

After receiving a half-dozen death threats for my "Kill Terri Schiavo" doormat (one of which, written on toilet paper, was attached to my door -- with a hunting knife), I left my apartment this morning with a 40 oz of my favorite, Price Chopper Malt Liquor. But by the time I reached the bus line I was feeling a little woozy from the warm brew, so I cut in front of an old lady in the bus line and pushed a kid aside so I could sit in the last remaining handicapped seat. Then, mebbe it was the 40 oz I was knocking back, but all of a sudden I started belching -- and couldn't stop. The bus driver even turned around to ask me if I was okay. I almost threw up, and actually had to hand him the 40 while I leaned forward to prevent the dry-heave from becoming actual heave.

So finally I was able to suppress the natural urge to puke, but then I see the bus driver's parked my 40 in his cupholder or whatever. When I reach forward to grab it and he pushes me, and in my drunken haze, I fall back and down, taking with me a lady in her 60's or so wearing a fur thing around her shoulders. Only a) being drunk I actually thought it was something alive but that died when I landed on it, so b) I start freaking out; then when I realize she's all upset because I landed on her fur thing, I start stomping it like it's not quite dead yet, and as I do I'm yelling "Rat! Giant rat on the bus!" She swats at my face and nearly hits me, but I lean back, bumping into the bus driver, which sends the front end of the bus into a parked police car. As I'm trying to keep my balance, I grab at the fur-lady, but instead manage to tear at her blouse, or at least the part that was (mercifully) covering what was left of her breasts, which were pointed at the floor, if ya know what I mean.

So the bus driver jumps up at grabs me and tries throwing a punch at me but between being drunk (and rapidly sobering up) and half-ready to throw up from seeing the fur-lady's fun-bags alone, I fall down again -- just as the bus driver connects with a fat uppercut to fur-lady's schnoz. She drops like a brick, her blueish hair flying, her breast-like things flapping, and her dead fur thing swirling down the aisle of the bus.

So as I survey what's going on, the bus driver screams "Get up you asshole!" in my direction, and since I don't take kindly to being condescended to by bus drivers who steal my brew, I spin around and kick him square in the balls. He sank like the fur-lady's boobs and was squeaking something at me in Spanish as he grabbed the family jewels. Then I turned back and looked out the windshield of the bus to see two police officers with their guns pointed at the bus, so I figured I'd better blend in and looked over at the seat I'd been sitting in, but some little blind kid had grabbed it while I was on the floor, so I took the only other seat available -- the driver's seat -- and re-started the bus, stomped on the gas and got it moving. By the time the bus was back on the route, we'd only been hit by two of the cop's bullets.

Next thing I know, people are screaming for me to stop the bus, so I slam on the brakes, which causes everyone to shoot forward in a pile. People are yelling, cursing me and being impolite, so I figure I'd better get off the bus toot sweet, especially before the bus driver gets up and his jewels feel better, so I hit the open door button and bound down the stairs faster than a priest renews his subscription to "Boys Life." Suddenly I hear sirens and see flashing lights and I figure an ambulance is a-comin', so I run towards the lights, figuring I'll tell them some bullshit story and hightail it outta there -- but it's the cops, including one of the ones who shot at me.

Next thing I know, I'm spread eagled across the hood of Joey Bag O'Donut's patrol car, ass akimbo, and they're telling me that they would shoot me if there weren't so many witnesses. I make a mental note that I plan on suing the City for the poor attitudes of law enforcement. So anyway, next thing I know, one of the officers limps over and starts pointing a finger in my face and telling me they're going to lock me up for a long time. And he uses foul language. So I turn and give him a kick to his knee, which drops him like a sack o' potatoes, only with foul language. And the other guy yanks on my arm and asks me if I like that. I say "Not really, Pig, that actually hurts -- a lot."

Finally, a couple hours later, I wind up in a police precinct -- they still haven't told me which one -- and I was sharing a holding cell with Link, a performance artist who happens to specialize in using peanut butter in creative ways. He gave me a publicity picture which I've linked to below. Anyway, Link spent most of our time together on the toilet, and I don't think he was actually using the toilet, but common decency prohibits me from going into more detail. Suffice to say that he was making some weird noises, mostly the kinds of noises squirrels make right before they find their soulmates for the winter.

Link's Publicity Pic

Anyway, by the time I was released on my own recognizance, it was about 4:30 in the afternoon and I hadn't eaten and had to piss like a racehorse, so I walked a bit until I came upon a Starbucks. Knowing they sometimes sell food and snacks and have bathrooms, I stepped in and ordered a peanut butter brittle swizzle brownie, in honor of my newest friend Link. Then I went into the john and peed for what felt like a half hour. I come out and walk over to the fixin's counter, just like at Wendy's, only there's no ketchup.

As I am reaching to grab a napkin and some stirrers (they're great for entertaining blind kids), I accidentally knock over a cup of coffee that was on the counter, and -- what a coincidence -- who was standing there with coffee all over her but the fur-lady with the magically droopy boobs. I say "Howdy!" I was glad to see a familiar face, but she turned all red (except for her hair, which was still blue). So as I begin to help dry her with the napkins, I start patting her chest area dry as she starts yelling at me. So I say "Hey, I'm just trying to be helpful, no need to be so nasty, saggy!" And she responds with this horrific gasp, and then called me a hooligan, which really irritated me, because I hate soccer. So I say "Oh yeah, I saw your saggy boobs, blue-hair, they're saggy, saggy, saggy, saggy, saggy saggy!" To make sure she got my point I started skipping around the fixin's area of the Starbucks yelling "Saggy!" and all the customers are paying attention and laughing, so I hop on over to fur-lady and reach out to grab on of the fun-bags when I feel a bump on my head and I awake back in the same holding cell with Link, who was kneeling over me sporting a peanut-butter mustache and a q-tip sticking out of his ear.

The last thing I remember is hearing "Hey, Boogie, you need mouth-to-mouth?" before the cops came and processed me again. So they let me out, again, on my own recognizance, and as I was walking to the exit some big hairy cop says to me "Don't come back again, idiot" and I said "Have no fear, Dickweed, it smells like your shorts in here anyway." Apparently that was the wrong answer, because he swung something that looked like a billy-club (or a plunger) in my direction and that was all she wrote. I remember being dragged and then I passed out again.

So here I am, back, cellin' with Link, a tub of peanut butter and -- somehow -- a fur wrap that seems to be glued to my ass. I'm going to have some prison-made whiskey a little later and have Link rip the fur-thing off. He says peanut butter will soothe the area once he does it, so he told me to bend over the bunk once I'm good and drunk.

Somehow I have a feeling it's going to be a long night.

If you have $2,500 for bail and a place for me to crash, find me at holding cell #14, prisoner #154788. I'll be the one with a tail, peanut butter on my ass and reading a dog-eared copy of Big Juggs.

Oh, by the way, Happy April Fool's Day!

Image Courtesy http://drunkenstepfather.blogspot.com/