I'm retiring from the Air Force in a couple of weeks. That's sort of taking up all my mind these days. I have a lot of applications in all over the place, trying to find a way to keep my family fed and housed. Until I have something locked in, I'm going to be a bit edgy. There are a couple of real possibilities. Of course I'm obsessing about making "the right" decision. Is it enough money? Will I be happy with what I'm doing? Will I be home enough? What the HELL was I thinking?

Yeah, I'm basically a wreck right now. I know clarity will come. I'll intuitively know what to do about what's baffling me. That's the way my life works. I do wish I could skip all the obsessing beforehand though. You'd think I'd be better at this by now. The making decisions thing I mean. You'd think but ummm, not so much.

One of the things that keeps me relatively sane is hanging out here. I'm not even sure how it happened. Somehow I wound up in the middle of one of FTTW's email threads and it was the most fun I'd had in a long time. Next thing I knew I was writing here. I know I'm impulsive to a fault, but it usually ends in something I've got to work like hell to get out of. This isn't one of those times.

I was going to write about my history of blogging and how I know Michele and Turtle and the rest of the gang, but then I realized I have no idea what year what happened and I couldn't tell you if I first met some of the gang here on one blog or another and hell, some of them I've just realized recently I've known for YEARS instead of the couple months I've been here. Don't take it personal…I've been preoccupied. It's been kind of crazy for the past 17 years or so.

The thing I want to say most is Happy First Birthday Faster Than the World. Thanks for letting me hang out in the basement with your big brother's old stereo after school. Thanks for inviting me out for coffee after the dance. Thanks for letting me play in your playground.


FTTW would like to say thanks for sticking around, Timmer. And all of you.


The Back Booth Archives

Posted by Tim O'Connell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Inspired by Pink’s “The One That Got Away” as performed Live at Wembley Arena. If you were thinking of downloading the video off iTunes, I would highly recommend it. I might stick out like an old sore thumb at one of her shows, but after seeing the video, I’ll be there the next time she’s anywhere near me. The woman knows how to put on a show. All at once outrageous, sexy as hell, strong, vulnerable, innocent, wild and she’s got a set of pipes that her albums just don’t reveal.

You know the one. That guy/gal that you had a slice of time with and you were both grinning from ear to ear like a couple of idiots. Then poof, they were gone.

It was one of those sweltering Chicago summer days in August of 1980. One of those muggy Saturdays that made you just want to stay inside and read and listen to music. I was 18 going on 19 and had just barely survived my freshman year of college. Going from a Chicago Public High School where I coasted through with A’s and B’s to a Jesuit run University famous for training young minds in the classical tradition had nearly done me in.

I got a call from one of the gals at the hotline I was currently volunteering/training at. She wanted to know if I wanted to hang out with her and another gal down at “Taste of Chicago.” Nancy and Annie were fun. Both were older, long since graduated college, gorgeous and with more money than sense. Okay, when it came to hanging out in the city outside of the better areas, they had NO sense. “Taste of Chicago” was one of those HUGE Chicago Street Fairs that Mayor Jane had set up to get people into and “revive” the downtown area. Food booths, music, beer, music, more food, and half the city’s population…you get the idea. Back then I LOVED huge crowds and a party atmosphere.

Why would two, older, more mature, drop dead gorgeous women want to hang out with me? One was a classic Jewish American Princess with more issues than most, the other was about as WASP as you can get in Chicago without being driven out of town. What the hell were they doing with a good Irish Catholic boy from da far North Side? Dog repellent. That summer I’d been working on a very physical show for a youth center’s Summer Program. Acting as assistant director/movement coach as well as a fill-in member of the cast, I was cut five ways from Sunday and because I hadn’t even begun to think of working on my “anger issues” I tended to scare the shite out of anyone I looked at cross-eyed. I considered my temper a way to get things done. Oh, and they were buying. Yes, I was a whore that way. If they wanted me to hang out so they could have a good time without other guys hitting on them while buying me beer and Chicago BBQ, I was okay with that. Also, I think I told you about my knight in shining armor complex. I was still feeding it back then.

I threw on a pair of black Converse, white painter’s pants multi-colored with various paint and dye stains that almost looked like it was done on purpose and a baseball jersey with the Pink Panther kneeling and playing an electric guitar in absolute Jimi Hendrix bliss. I could get away with it back then…okay, I thought I could get away with it back then. It showed of my muscles though so I figured it was the right shirt.

I met up with “the girls” at the Fullerton El station and we kept going south into the heart of the Near North Side. A very nice part of town, but these things drew folks in from all parts of the city. It always amazed me that these things never got out of control even with the large “presence” of Chicago’s finest.

We’d been bouncing around from music booth to music booth, dancing, drinking, taking time to have a gnosh here and there, dancing some more. One thing about Chicago Street Fairs, especially the ones the city put on, you could bet the music wouldn’t suck. Say what you want about Mayor Jane, she made damn sure the circus portion of her revels were well manned.

We were near the booth that was blasting music from the LOOP. WLUP, Chicago’s Best Rock. Remember, this was way back before Clear Channel. Local DJs and Program Managers still ruled the waves. You may not have heard the band playing on the LOOP in NY or L.A., but you can bet you could catch them at Biddy Mulligan’s or Mother’s. They played the hits, but they also played the local hero’s stuff too.

Anyway, Annie and me had been doing the pogo to some Blondie song, when all of a sudden Annie was gone and “she” was there. The one that got away. Shoulder length, naturally curly blonde hair with colored feathers strategically placed throughout. Crystal blue eyes. Wearing an Indian choker and leather bracelets on each wrist with what looked like Viking runes embossed on them. A very full chest that was sort of held in control by one of those buckskin vest/halter things with more feathers and silver bangle thingies. A ripped torso flared into tight, embroidered, blue jeans which in turn flared into Indian moccasin boots…not the cheap ones from a truck stop either, these came off the res up in Wisconsin or Minnesota.

Our eyes locked and we just danced. You know when you dance with your husband or wife or long time dance partner and you two have known each other forever so you know exactly what to do next? It was like that even though we’d never seen one another before.

The Blondie song ended and I wanna say something by Marshall Crenshaw came on and we kept on going. Neither one of us seemed to know or care that we were in the middle of a huge crowd, in the middle of the third largest city in the nation. We simply grinned and looked each other up and down and danced and danced some more.

We never said a word but the internal dialogue was along the lines of: “Yeah, I like that move, what do you think of this one? Ohhhhh myyyyy, yeah, you do that nice. What was that you just did with your hips? Oh Jeez, mine don’t work like that.”

Marshall Crenshaw ended and went right into “Good Times Roll” by The Cars and we danced even harder and more manic, doing a shoulder to shoulder circling thing that got the Irish cheering.

The Cars came to an end and we moved in close to talk/yell at one another “in private.” Maybe Neil Young was playing, but I always remember that she smelled like cinnamon and apples.

Next thing I know Nancy is grabbing my arm and shoving me through the crowd while I squawked and tried to keep sight of “her.” “She” was gone as quickly as “she’d” shown up.

Apparently Annie was in trouble. Well shit, that’s what Annie does. Nancy led me to what I consider a “very bad situation.” Annie was between two guys my size, who were “dancing” up against her like a couple of drunk, mobbed up, Roxbury Boys with muscles. People were either ignoring what was happening, or laughing and cheering them on. Somehow I managed to convince two slimy drunks wearing Member’s Only t-shirts, chinos, and too much Polo that Annie was my little sister and only 15 and apologized profusely for letting her out of my sight. They were either just drunk enough to buy it, or they didn't want to deal with me. While Annie was cute, she was also 25 and looked 35 thanks to a decade of coke use. I’m grateful to this day that they were drunk enough. Guys who dressed like that back in ’80 almost always had a fucking stiletto on them. Nothing I hate worse when things are tense than the sound of that “SNICK!”

So the slimeballs went their merry way and I tried to get Annie calmed down because she thought for sure that they were going to rape her right in the middle of Michigan Avenue. One of Annie’s less endearing qualities was how she always managed to tease her way into free drinks, drugs, cars, etc. and then was shocked, shocked I tell you, when the guys wanted something in return. And it wasn’t like she couldn’t have bought any of it for herself, I think she just liked seeing how much she could get away with. All it took was one look into Annie’s eyes and I knew she’d gotten something off of them. Nancy brought a few beers over and we found a curb to sit on back across from the LOOP booth. Must have been a shitload of speed in whatever she’d done, ‘cuz Annie wouldn’t stop talking even though Nancy and me hadn’t begun to listen.

“She” was nowhere to be seen.

I was pissed/bummed/grumpy. Even the cop that stopped to give my underage self and my beer the once over didn’t say a word.

Nancy lit a cigarette, looked at me funny and asked me, “So…who was the blonde?”

I looked at her matter of factly, “I have no idea.”

“She’s cute.”

“Ya think?”

“Yeah, nice ass too.” To this day she doesn’t get sarcasm.

“I hadn’t got that far.”

“…sorry, you know…shrug…gotta love Annie.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sitting right here ya know? And did you see the size of that one fucker’s cock? He would have split me in half with that thing…giggle…hmmmmm…hey ya wanna head to the club, the bar’s almost open.”

Nancy gave me a look and said, “Alka Seltzer tube. I’ve got 50 bucks that says if you’d have kicked him in the balls, you’d have cut him to pieces.”

“No shit?”

“Positive.”

“Good to know, guy that size, I kick in the balls first.”

“Come ON…I wanna hit the club before all of this heads that way.” Annie waved her hand like she was shooing a fly. We were about 3 miles south of Rush Street and she was right…once this thing broke up, there would be no room in any of the clubs.

Although, Annie had apparently forgotten that her uncle that owned the club she was talking about had already taken one look at my goy, young self and had threatened to call my boss and have my ass fired for crossing the line. What is it about older Jewish guys? They all know one another no matter how big the town is. It ain’t fair.

I was giving Nancy cat on black velvet eyes (That's Puss in Boots from Shrek eyes for you younger folks) as we headed for the El, hoping that the day wouldn’t be a total loss. “So, you wanna drop Annie at the club and ummm go to your place?”

“I’m supposed to owe you for losing your Indian Viking Princess?

I gave her my best “ain’t I cute” grin. “Well, yeah.”

She patted me on the cheek, but she was thinking about it. “Sigh, Tell you what, take this as a lesson to teach you that when you see something THAT hot that’s looking at you like she wants to eat you alive, get her number first.”

“What if I hadn’t danced with her?”

Nancy grinned and raised her eyebrows. “And that would be the other lesson. You’re learning. Give me a couple more years and I’ll have you trained.”

“Yeah, but then you won’t want me anymore.”

“Hmmm.”

“Hey…I’m coming! WAIT dammit!”

Annie ran up cigarette in one hand, hair flying, bag in the other and wrapped her arms around Nancy and I both in a chummy, “Oh shit I hate coming down this fast.” sort of way. Her, “I love you” embraces didn’t require me to half carry her.

I’ll leave the rest of the night to your imagination, mostly because I can’t remember how THAT particular night ended.

But the blonde? Back in a dark corner where my inner juvenile delinquent plays in concrete canyons, she’s still there. Dancing like an Indian Viking Princess and grinning like she wouldn’t be happier doing any other damn thing. Making me believe that rock’n’roll angels exist. If there’s a heaven, after I check in on my folks, she’s the first person I’m looking up. I mean damn, I never even got her name and that just ain’t right goin’ through eternity like that.

Who got away from you? Do you still think about them?


Tim says he knows that memory probably doesn't match the reality of that day, but begs your forgiveness for filling in the blanks.


The Back Booth Archives

Posted by Tim O'Connell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I know a couple of you are waiting to find out what’s happening with our boy Jack and the werewolves and as soon as I figure it out, you’ll be the second to know.

This weekend we drove down to Ft. Collins CO to see Spiderman 3. We were hoping to catch it in IMAX. The theater is called the Super Gonzo Cineplex Mega Corp “Imax” complex so we figured it would be a good bet. Unfortunately they never built the IMAX and whoever designs their web page never got the news. The manager was nice enough to be apologetic and offered us passes to any other movie if we wanted to double feature it. So we bought tickets and had lunch at the Texas Roadhouse across the parking lot.

Now, I normally sneer at any of the various themed restaurants. I’ve gotten enough crappy food at Outback, Chili’s, Applebee’s, Red Lobster, Olive Garden…you know the ones. You wait at least half an hour for your little electronic hoodoo to flash and vibrate to tell you your table is ready and then you wait forever for your appetizers until you think you’re going to starve and then they bring the appetizer and the main course at the same freaking time. That will cut a tip to 5% faster than the ribs with ½ inch of rub on them I got at Outback once.

I’ve eaten at no less than four different Texas Roadhouses in three different states and every one of them has had the same outstanding service and really tasty food. Yesterday was no exception. We did have to take a booth in the bar and we were too close to the kitchen, but our waiter/bartender, Quinn, made tending bar while waiting on no less than eight tables seem simple. When we didn’t have our appetizers after five minutes he went back to the kitchen and apparently cooked it himself in less than two minutes because he came back out with them in hand. Our drinks never came close to being empty and I was drinking ½ iced tea and ½ lemonade and most places normally mess up THAT combination as a matter of course. Not the Roadhouse.

I’ve never had a bad meal there. From steaks, to ribs, to the pulled pork sammich I had yesterday. The food has always been excellent. They smoke a lot of their dishes and none of the smoked things ever have that dipped in liquid smoke aftertaste. They really just let their food just get all smokey the old fashioned way. And their sauce has a bite without blasting your head off.

As for the movie, I’m still not sure if it was the best of the series so far or the worst. There were too many bad guys. The pacing was manic. They tried to lay the backstories well enough, but everything was happening so fast that you really didn’t care. That may be my biggest complaint about the fight scenes. There was so MUCH happening on the screen that when it was over you had to ask yourself, what just happened there? The effects and CGI were too slick. My other problem with the fight scenes is simply, “Spiderman is NOT Superman, he gets hurt dammit!!!”

Toby Maguire read the script and then cranked it up another notch. Instead of throwing away the corny scenes where the black goo makes him overly aggressive, he grabbed ahold of them and rode them for all they were worth. His dedication to the character made those scenes hilarious when they could have been just plain dumb. That shows me a lot bout him.

Kirstin Dunst. She’s annoyed me in everything she’s done since Small Soldiers so I’m not the guy to ask. I can’t put my finger on it. All I know is that I’d rather seen almost anyone else on screen than her. She’s never been MJ to me.

Topher Grace becomes Venom at some point in the movie. He’s another one. If I never saw him in anything again, I’d be cool with that. But then again, he’s supposed to be a petulant brat so I guess it worked for him.

Thomas Haden Church as Sandman worked for me. When I first heard he got the role I was all, “He’s too skinny!” but apparently a LOT of time with a good trainer fixed that. I’m always impressed when someone puts that much muscle on because I know from experience; it takes a ridiculous amount of work and a small fortune in protein powder.

The movie runs 2 hours and 20 minutes and my butt was ready to go at the 2 hour mark. The action scenes went by fast and furious, which just made the “character development” scenes all the more snooze-worthy. It’s like the Anakin Skywalker and Princess Amidalla scenes in Star Wars II (Titanic in Space). I’ve met Luke and Leia, I can guess what happens next, mmmm’k? But I guess it needs to be in there for people like my wife who’ve never read comic books.

All in all it was a good way to start the summer movie slam. Boyo, 11, seemed to have more fun than me and his Mom so that should tell you a lot. The only other real annoyance was all the product placement in the movie. Everything you see on the shelves at Walmart? It’s alllllll in the movie.

We're looking forward to the rest of the Summer Movie Season. The final chapter of Pirates of the Caribbean, Shrek the Third, another DieHard. Which one are you looking forward to? Why?


Timmer smuggled a cactus blossom into the theater.


The Back Booth Archives

Posted by Tim O'Connell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

As I write this I'm sitting in my recliner. We have two overstuffed, over-large recliners in our living room. Coffee colored. I'm a bit of a slob when it comes to my morning coffee. Although they've both been super Scotch-Guarded, I'm a realist. I spill coffee. I spill Pepsi. I spill. When we went to the Gonzo Huge Furniture Warehouse back in Omaha, we told the salesman, "Give us chairs with enough room for one of us, plus a cat." Back when we bought them, we just had two cats. Maximum Dawg wasn't a part of the family yet.

During the winter months here, the winds blow up to about 40 miles an hour. With the various rain and snow and not to mention the constant dust that blows off the plains, going outside isn't conducive to someone who enjoys their flesh remaining on their body. My fitness routine of walking Max completely fell apart. We don’t stroll, we don't leisurely stride. We walk fast. I work up a good sweat, he works up a good pant.

I'm not going to tell you that I couldn't have gone to the gym. I'm not going to make excuses. After a bit of inactivity, the aches and pains that my body goes through when I'm not working it settled in. The arthritis that the Air Force says I don't have, made camp in my lower back along with a re-awakening of sciatica. A round of plantar's fasciata worked itself into my right foot and that took a good massage therapist to work out. Add some funky blood pressure meds that cause me to get tunnel vision when I try to go aerobic…I let myself get pretty jacked up. Let me make this clear, my fault, no one else's. I'm not a kid anymore. I don't recover from inactivity like I used to. I know it. I can't get away with sitting on my ass for a week, much less a month or two.

So what's that have to do with my recliner? I let my butt get glued to my recliner. I woke up, I'd let Max out and then lock him back into the room with my wife. The remaining cat (no, the other cat didn't get eaten by Max, it lost it's mind and tried to take a chunk out of my wife. We didn't put it down, we took it to the pound where she was adopted out.)…the remaining cat, pops out of the basement for her kibble. I grab my coffee, fire up my laptop and read the news and a couple of daily read blogs. The cat comes over and makes herself comfortable and we hang out until it's time for my shower and suit up time.

At work, I mostly sit in front of a computer all day. Writing reports. Answering questions from higher up via email. I talk to troops there. I figure out budgets there. Mostly all from my butt.

When I got home from work, I lost the uniform and again, planted my butt into the recliner. Sometimes with the laptop, sometimes not. I might have gotten up to get dinner. I may have got up to let Max up a couple more times. Otherwise, I was back in the chair from when I got home from work, to when I went to bed.

Now, maybe I'd stretch a little in the morning or a tad before I went to bed at night, but mostly, I just let my back get all out of alignment, I let my core muscles almost completely atrophy, I could barely walk from the parking lot and up the stairs without getting almost asthmatic.

I go through this every couple of years or so. I get lazy. I get tired of doing the things I need to do to keep this thing I travel around in moving well. I did some damage to my body when I was a kid. I didn't do football or baseball and in my day, we barely knew what soccer was. I was into martial arts and was a Frisbee freak. Ultimate, guts, freestyle. I was one of those guys that made the Physics Teacher talk to himself when me and the guys got rolling out on the blacktop of the parking lot. As I got older, I got into some beer soaked brawls. My right shoulder blade feels like it's got glass in it in the winter time from when some frat brat hit on one of the girls in the show I was in and wouldn't take no for an answer. I stepped in between her and a 6'4" freak of nature and got thrown into a wall for my trouble. To be fair, I did break his nose…on purpose, he had reason. I had a bad habit of wearing shining armor for people that didn't need saving. Still do on occasion. I blame the Anglo side of the family. Add to that I kept doing martial arts long after the doctors told me to quit because of my knees and the fact that I have feet that never should have gone into combat boots in the first place... I'm not a guy that can afford to quit doing stuff to keep my body moving.

So, once again I'm back to square one. Over the past few weeks I've been going back to doing Chi Kung and Tai Chi after I've let Max out and fed the cat, and also before I go to sleep at night. I went out and actually bought walking shoes vs running shoes. I can't tell you the stress that's taken off my knees and back. I'm never going to run again unless someone's chasing me, it's time to accept that. I've gotten a couple of good 1-2 mile walks in. I'm religiously loosening up before I walk. Once I get some endurance going I'll dust off the free weights and start on my old light weight, high rep routine. It's the only time I allow techno to enter my ears.

Now the only thing I have to watch out for is the old trap. Hey, I'm feeling better, I don't have to work out today. Okay, I'm a little stiff, but all in all, no big deal. Damn, I'm too sore to move much less work out.

My recliner? I won't be getting rid of it. I just won't be living in it any more.


Timmer has also reluctantly accepted the fact that, well, the smack ain't making him any younger either.


The Back Booth Archives

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Of Course There’s a Fairy

Jackie sighed and took three deep breaths, one for his center, one for his heart, one for his head. Find your center, clear your center. Find your heart, clear your heart. Find your mind, clear your mind. Clearing his mind took some additional breaths. All the partying he’d done with Jules and Kat hung around the fringes of his consciousness like dust-bunnies. He shot his attention at the five across the two softball fields and didn’t think he wanted to face them fuzzy. He felt the green energy from the earth spiral up through his legs; he felt the silver energy from the sky spiral down through the crown of his head. The energies met in his three cauldrons, as Gran would call them, and against everything he’d learned in his Art and Physics classes, but right along the lines of his Gran’s stories, the energies became the blue fire that he seemed able to control. Witchfire. Somehow he’d tapped into witchfire. Gran’s stories?

The fact that all of her stories seemed to be coming to life in one night, in HIS body and at Touhy fucking Park no less, was completely freaking his shit. He’d imagined these energies before in his meditations. He’d thought he’d almost managed to blend earth and sky together before but…just as he’d felt the shift to blue, part of him would crow triumphantly, “There it is!” and of course, it would be gone.

“So what’s different about tonight?” he asked the night outloud.

You’d think he wouldn’t have been surprised that the night answered but…

From up above a small, strong, deeply silky feminine voice with a pure South Side accent explained, “Dat’s because dohs two witches spent da last three days preparing you. What, yous thought maybe it was just a long party? Fuckin’ Jules. How many times I’m gonna hafta tell dat slitch dat she needs to TELL her clients what she’s doin’?”

Jack started and half-ducked while raising his arm defensively and looking up, just a bit of blue flashed from the oak in his hand but didn’t reach the owner of the voice…luckily, since the voice seemed to be coming from…sigh…a four inch tall winged fairy. Just when he knew the morning wasn’t going to get any weirder, tah dah. The fairy glowed a bit silver herself when she saw the witchfire, “Whoa! Easy big guy, I’m on your side.” Jack half heard, half felt a yelp come from the five, but his attention was fully on the fairy flitting about the lower limb of the oak above his head. He made sure his energy was under control but didn’t quite drop his arm all the way to his side. Jack got control of himself and looked closer and what he saw made him glad he was a boy. Long BLACK curly locks down past her shoulders but not covering a set of full tits capped with large and currently very pointy nipples. A heart shaped face surrounded full rose bud lips and emerald, almond shaped but at-the-same-time huge eyes and a little perfect nose. Full hips surrounding, I shit you not, a heart shaped redder than HIS hair bush over bald and full lips. Her ivory white skin was covered in the most intricate dark green Celtic knotwork he’d ever seen. He wondered if it was ink, tattoos or…just the way her skin was?

Jack gave up his famous off center grin, the one that made his Mom call him her lil Elvis, “Okay…I’ll bite. Who might you be?”

The fairy laughed a deep, sexy, chuckle that sounded just wrong coming out of something so small. “You want my name? Out here? In da open? Wit dohs five standing right over dere and a portal to da Udderworld standing wide open? Oh, you’re funny Boyo. You’re a real fucking comedian. Next you’re gonna tell me your Gran didn’t teach you better.” She jiggled in the most amazing way as she continued to laugh at the boy, but Jack was starting to lose his patience. All things considered, he thought he was holding up pretty well, but the fairy laughing at HIM after what he’d put up with so far, was just about to unravel his last good nerve.

“Okay, fairy,” he said it like it was a bad thing which made her frown, “let’s put this into perspective for you. As far as I’m concerned, I was out partying for St Pats with Jules and Kat, two girls I’ve known forever who have never shown me anything resembling witchiness, and ummm, by the way, have never mentioned hanging out with a fairy, so I already think you’re full of shite. I’m on my way home to crash after afore mentioned partying and the pretend, let me say that again so you catch it, pre-tend magic bush that my Gran and I used to make up stories about apparently DOES have some very real magical properties and there are five things over there that I don’t know much about other than there’s something in my gut which tells me that they don’t belong here. Out of almost nowhere, I’m able to combine green and silver meditation energies, stuff from my imagination mind you, into blue guardian’s witchfire. Don’t ask me how I know what to call it, I just do, and that bugs me too. What else? Ummm, there’s something deep inside of me that seems to truly need me to blast the living shite out of those five critters over there without asking any questions and I have no doubt I COULD do that, but again, don’t ask me how I know that. What have I left out? Hmmm, those are summer stars up there and it’s still fucking March, I smell blossoms when I should be smelling Captain Nemo’s Sub Sandwich fixin’s or oil from the garage next door or fruit from the fruit stand up on Clark Street, and it’s probably 80 degrees outside, which makes me say again, it’s fucking MARCH. Oh, and just for fun, there’s a naked, sexy as hell, four-inch fairy flitting about above my head blowing me shit. Care to fill in the blanks for me?” She seemed to smile at the “sexy” description for a second but frowned again, deeper, and with some worry as Jack wrapped up.

Her South Side slipped a bit into brogue as she put her fists on her hips, “You mean to be tellin’ me that you’ve no idea what you’re doing here or what those are?” She was pointing at the five.

“You got it Irish. You win a cookie.” Mom would like that one, she loves Don Rickles. Hey Mom, I dropped a Don Rickles on this fairy…no, not a gay boy from Wrigleyville, a real….nevermind…you want me to build you another vodka and lemon-lime?

The fairy looked like she was ready to kill something as she flashed hot silver again, a couple of the five yelped this time. Jackie just squinted.

“I’m NOT Irish you big human lout!” she fired in a very good brogue, but that was clearly not what was bothering her as she flitted/paced back and forth. There was a dark, ugly chuckle/yip thing from the five and it spread quickly as her pacing quickened. The fairy glanced their way and flashed silver again…which caused a chorus of yelps and angry noises, some of them forming the words, “You go too far…” before fading into mumbles and curses and, Jack could feel, no small elation.

Muttering something that sounded like, “I’m soooo going to kill that slitch.” she stopped and hovered for a moment, closing her eyes the way Jack had seen his Gran and Sister Margaret do, hands spread wide about a foot away from her body at her sides…her eyes not fully closed but not open by any means and he knew she was searching, seeking…walking paths he’d never ventured upon…or thought he truly could. He couldn’t help but check out her nipples…damn those are freaking amazing.

Everything before this moment had led Jack to believe that most, not all, but most of what his Gran had taught him were the ravings of a wonderfully crazy old lady whom Jack had loved with all his heart. He was still playing catch up with the reality of the non-real things happening and something told him he had absolutely no time for that.

The fairy sighed deeply and opened her eyes, fully busting Jack checking her out, which made her smile again.

“Well, I have good news and I have bad news. Da good news is help is coming.” She sighed again. “Da bad news is dat help is about 15 minutes away from here no matter what dey do to get here, and dohs guys over dere?” She pointed at the five. “Dey just began thinkin’ dat dey can take you and dey’re moving dis way.”

Jack looked over as the five began moving, albeit slowly across the fields.

“So what do we do?” asked Jack, falling into her eyes now.

The fairy looked truly sad and sounded much older and wearier than Jack thought would be possible out of something THAT cute. “WE don’t do anything Boyo. My kind can’t interfere directly. I may pay dearly for holding dem off dis long. Da best I can do is give you my blessing and make a few things clearer in da process. Bow your head.”

Jack did as he was told though God only knows why. He could hear her muttering in what he thought was Gaelic at first but he couldn’t understand a single word, like back when Gran first began to teach him, and he felt silver light falling on his head and shoulders like light and musk imbued rain. Both thinner and yet purer and stronger than the light he pulled from the sky. All of his doubts about what was real and what wasn’t fell away with each breath of light and sound like musical rain, and scent…he knew…he knew it all... he KNEW dammit, and…oh son of a fucking bitch!

Jackie looked up, “Did I just let a fairy pee about my head and shoulders?”

She giggled, flitted down and kissed him on the cheek, “Aye, Boyo, that you did, now calm yourself, dat’s da price you pay for my blessing…dis time. Next time I’m gonna want quite a bit more. And trust me, that cost me a LOT more than it cost your pride.” She flit lower, bit his lower lip, drawing blood, and flitted back up into the oak. “Ow…dammit.” But he didn’t get riled. He was too distracted wondering how he could make it work with a four inch schizophrenic fairy and then more so by clarity of thought he’d never experienced. He knew exactly what to do…with the five…he’d work out the fairy later. Maybe she could shrink him magically when they both had more time.

He could hear her voice like a chant of old, almost sounding exactly like Gran at her prayers except the fairy was in his head, “Calm yourself Boyo. Slow down. They’re not from your world. Go too fast and you’ll miss them entirely. They don’t move at our speed. Slowly, slowwwwwwllllly, that’s it. See their rhythm? Breathe their rhythm. Now get under it. Under it…slow and steady…there ya go…and remember, they don’t much like circles.”

Jack took three deep breaths and then quite slowly, and with a grace he’d never before experienced, moved out from under the tree and circled to the right around the five, not directly at them…who stopped dead in their tracks. None of them were chuckling at all. Four of them were looking at the one in the lead and middle. That one was focused on Jack, drinking him in with his black eyes, smelling the air. Jack sucked blood off his lower lip as he rolled out and around, getting a charge as he did so, “Oh good…” he thought, “Now I know which one to blast first.”

Jackie Finneran, Jack Finn, threw his head back and crowed, feeling a rush that he never dreamed possible. Witchfire filled his veins. He was madly in love with a

This time when he crowed, the magic didn’t run away. A mist arose around him, embracing him, cooling and energizing him. He had nothing to do with that, that was the park offering its help to the little boy it helped raise.

The five weren’t chuckling now as the mist rose around the Jack. They didn’t quite know what to do, so they howled together in voices that had never…ever…been human to answer his crowing. Jackie paused as everything human about them faded away in the mist.

Jack just giggled. Werewolves…fucking werewolves…of course…makes perfect sense.


The editors realize, in retrospect, that werewolves do make perfect sense.


The Back Booth Archives

Posted by Tim O'Connell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

There will be no Druid this week. I’ve got to write Jack out of the park and there are some details that just aren’t working, and honestly, it’s hard to focus on Jack and the crew while the news of the day rattles around in my head. I’m starting this on Monday night…yeah, I’m late already, sorry, I got distracted.

I don’t think those poor kids were cold before the pros and the antis were out spouting their usual pitches: “More guns would have made it better.” “Less guns would have made it better.” “It’s violent movies.” “It’s the video games, they’ve desensitized our youth.” “Spotlight Hollywood is already on the scene, following movie producer…” “I find it offensive that it’s assumed that he’s an undocumented immigrant.” “I find it offensive that a Chinese National is allowed in our country.” “Ah yes, another immigrant doing a job Americans won’t do.”

I find them all offensive. Every one. And to the last one, “Go fuck yourself you miserable thundercunt.” I mean that from the bottom of my heart. No, I'm not going to link to it, you can find it if you try.

Let’s all take a breath and remember that 33 people are dead. I don’t care if you pray. I don’t care what you do. Just turn off the fucking politics for five minutes please.

What happened on Monday was a horrific act, apparently perpetrated by one deranged individual who could not see a clearer path than to massacre as many people as possible before ending his own pain.

I don’t understand the need to share that kind of pain. The quips come quickly. “Why can’t they go straight to killing themselves? Why do they have to bring all of us into it.?”

I don’t know. Maybe he was embarrassed by something. Maybe he thought he had to try and erase all evidence of his shame. Maybe he had a toothache.

I don’t understand monsters. This man was a monster. He can’t be a regular human. That’s too scary. If he’s a normal, then we’re fucked. That’s where my head goes. There’s got to be something wrong with people like that otherwise it’s not long before the worlds of Bladerunner and Children of Men start looking like right outside the fucking window. I’m not ready for that yet.

Remember when we were just afraid of the world being taken over by computers? Or Logan’s Run? Phase IV?!!! That was how we were supposed to go out. Not individually because some pissed off English major got dumped, either real or imagined.

The story about the professor who got in between the shooter and his students made me cry. I had to shut the door to my office.

I gotta shake this and I know I will. I gotta tell ya though, I’m feeling dark like I haven’t in a long time. I’m not seeing a lot of hope. I don’t see the light. I don’t have a sense that things are going to get better. So I’ve got to remember, again, that there are things I can effect and those that I can’t and I need to concentrate on the ones I can and let the other ones go. I’m not good at being where my hands are. I get all wrapped up in other people’s crap. I know that makes me human and I’m okay with that, it’s just even after X years of sobriety, I’m not quite THERE when it comes to being okay with feeling the hard stuff. No…I don’t know where THERE is either but I don’t think it’s here.

Sorry if I brought anyone down. I had to write this out before I did anything else though.

The Back Booth Archives

Posted by Tim O'Connell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

The Bard and The Seer

Just a little over half a mile due South of Touhy Park, in the rectory of St Jerome's, Father Joe Brennan awoke in a cold sweat. He was panting, cold, hot, cold, couldn't get warm, couldn't get cool enough, his skin was one giant nerve. Out of nowhere cold blue fire enveloped his brain.

Witch fire? Witch fire in the parish? Who in the name of God? No one in the parish was strong enough in the old ways. This wasn't possible. Ever since Granny McCool passed away, there were no more practitioners of the old ways. That meant someone new had entered the parish. Lightning flashed in his skull. He took a deep breath and began reciting Hail Marys in his head, calming the fire, cooling the heat, putting up a buffer between the magic being thrown about and his nervous system.

He was about to go for his harp case when barefoot footsteps ran up to his door and knocks came frantic with a frightened young female voice, "Father Brennan, Father! Dammit Joseph, let me in. We have unwelcome guests in the parish." Joe Brennan threw on his plaid bathrobe over his cotton pajamas for the sake of modesty and then opened the door.

Sister Mary Margaret came into the room dressed in a plain grey jersey track suit that she wore when she wasn't in her full habit and, of course, her Chinese slippers. Basically from ten o'clock at night until seven in the morning. From five to seven in the morning, she jogged the mile from St. Jerome's to Loyola University on the lake. She walked a cool down over to Mundelein and then taught a very unofficial Tai Chi class on the North Lawn of Mundelein's Library to anyone who would join her, rain or shine, summer or winter. Always wearing nothing but one of her grey track suits. The Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary who ran Mundelein had often asked her to move her "class" inside where everyone on Sheridan Road who bothered to look couldn't see her and her students. Mary Margaret would simply say, "No thank you, it's better outside." The Sisters absolutely refused to come out and say it was an embarrassment for them for a Catholic Sister, a Carmelite no less, to be practicing Taoist exercises on blessed ground. Sister Mary Margaret thought it made perfect sense. As the pastor of St Jerome's, the SOCOTBVM let their feelings about his rebel charge be known. He promised them, often, that he'd speak to her about her transgressions, but never quite got around to it. Since he was one of the only people in the city who could actually play a 36-String Celtic Harp in a city full of Irish Catholics, they gave HIM some leeway.

She came in and Joe closed the door behind her. Mary Margaret paced back and forth, hugging herself and breathing deeply and fully. After about the fifth lap she finally settled into that weird way of standing the bothered Father Joe. She looked like Bruce Lee right before he dispatched a bunch of Chinese thugs, hands at her sides, looking nowhere and everywhere, absolute relaxed tension, ready for anything. Father Joe was known to go downtown in civilian clothes and catch a martial arts film festival. He considered it a not-too-guilty pleasure.

"What have you seen Sister?" Father Joe Brennan's deep voice was legendary. Many parishioners referred to him as The Big Bopper. Father Joe began to unzip his harp's case.

"In the park to the North, behind the Cullen's, the portal has been opened. It's too late, five have entered from the Otherworld. Five who are not friends to this side."

"That doesn't make sense, I felt blue witchfire, there's a guardian present there…who?"

"Jackie… Jack…Jack Finneran has come into his own early."

"Jack?" Father Joe Brennan staggered and sat down on his bed. Granny McCool's grandson. Of course. He'd heard Jack had been hanging around a couple of low born witches with practically no powers but with a passion for potions. Father Joe had kept his eyes and ears throughout the parish on Jack, knowing that someday Joe might have to take some action in guiding the boy if he ever came into his powers, but he didn't think it would happen so soon. Of course, the fact that Jack hadn't been back to Mass since he graduated grade school didn't help matters either. He'd come into his own with a deep deep resentment toward the Church. Sister Theresa (Sister Spitfire to the kids, partly because she resembled something out of a Nazi horror movie and partly because she literally spit whenever she talked) had made sure of that. She was old school, Germanic, pre Vatican II, and she had no tolerance for those who practiced the Celtic with the Christian. She and Jack had almost come to blows when she went on a tirade about witches and old crones one day…making no attempt to hide that she was talking about Jackie's Gran. Jack had stood, his freckles fading into his burn, Kevin Calahan and Mike Kelly held him before he rushed her…he shrugged them off but then simply walked out of her catechism class, but not before he'd muttered something under his breath in Gaelic. Sister Theresa had fallen ill the next day and didn’t get better until she'd entered St. Francis hospital over in Evanston. She'd gotten better and then tried to come back, but once she crossed Howard Street back into the parish, she was stricken once again. She never returned. The children were told that she was teaching up in Wisconsin somewhere. Jack had been grounded by his mother for over a month and his Gran didn't intervene for a change, even though she did bring him all his favorites and let him watch whatever he wanted on the television.

"He must be either very tired, very high, or both" concluded Mary Margaret. Her eyes rolled back in her head for a moment. "He's picked up a piece of oak and he's playing with his energy, that's what you've been feeling. He knows the five are there. He knows they don't belong here. Joseph…I think he's figured out what his name means."

Father Joe grunt-chuckled, "He's just playing so far? Jesus help us if he gets serious. How strong is he? What all did she teach him?"

"How exactly do you think I'd know that?" Mary Margaret snapped and paced again. "It's not like Granny trusted me with any of her knowledge. She didn't like me much, remember?"

Father Joe nodded. Granny McCool wasn't too fond of "blenders." This generation kept finding links between cultures and blending their arts. Mary Margaret was definitely a blender. He was just as happy celebrating Mass as she was attending an American Indian drum circle as she was going down to Chinatown and practicing Tai Chi in the park with about 250 other practitioners. Oh, and of course, she was one of the most powerful seers Joseph Michael Brennan had ever encountered.

By all rights and tradition, Granny McCool should have taken young Peg Kelly, red-haired and all knees and elbows under her wing when her family first came to the parish. Peg's parents had moved to Roger's Park when she'd started having her visions, at about the age of 13. They'd heard Granny had taken other girls under her tutelage and hoped that she'd take on Peg. After their first meeting though, both women, young and old had decided that they simply couldn't work with each other. Granny thought the young lady was confused and distracted by too many different schools of thought. Peg thought the old lady was simply a close-minded throwback. They didn't "get along." Luckily, Roger's Park wasn't exactly short of…practitioners of alternative arts. Over on Estes and Greenview lived the Birch family. Emily was the matriarch and, as seers go, wasn't too shabby herself. The fact that she was British and Anglican no less, didn't make Granny's love for Peg grow any. No one was more shocked then Gran when Peg disappeared at age 18 and then had come back six years later as Sister Mary Margaret.

Father Joe shook off the wool gathering and stood up. "Well, step outside and let me get dressed. We should get over there. One way or the other, we'll have a mess to clean up when all is said and done."

The nun just stopped and put her hands on her hips.

"No. No matter what we do, it will be too late. You can play and sing a warding for him, and I can pray but other than that…"

She turned to look at him.

"He needs a druid is what he needs, not us."

Father Joe got angry now. "Don't start that again. You know we can't call himself."

"You can't obviously, you're the one that pissed him off."

"I'm the one that wouldn't let him go any further while wearing the collar you mean."

"Exactly. It's not like we're pure as the driven snow."

"He wanted to head down paths too dark. I believe many of the old ways are gifts from God, but he…he wanted to explore the serpents' arts. The fact that Patrick was made a Saint tells me everything I need to know about what the church thinks of that!"

"And yet still, the five have entered from the otherworld, a young, untrained Jack is about to confront them, and we need himself this morning like we've never needed him before."

Joe's eyes flashed now. "We don't know it's the five o' them. We don't. We have no idea which five have crossed." He went back to opening his case.

Sister Mary Margaret took a deep, calming breath and whispered, "I do Father. I know. It's them. I'm not likely to forget the likes of them."

Father Joseph Michael Brennan met the young Sister's eyes. "I know." He could feel the witchfire crackling in the distance, wild, uncertain, too powerful in one too young.

"Call him, do NOT use my name. He always loved the boy, use that."

The Back Booth Archives

Posted by Tim O'Connell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Well, here's the first part of the first chapter of the novel that I've had in my head for about the last five years. Do you want to see more or should I just keep it to myself?

-------- The Druid of Chicago, Chapter 1, A Jack in Roger's Park--------

Jackie was coming down. He decided to stand in the train on the way home so he didn’t crash and get woken up all the way down to Howard Street. Three days hanging with Kat and Jules is enough for anyone. This night was almost already gone as it was. Hopefully Ma wouldn't already be up when he got home. He'd called, but that didn't always keep her from worrying. Especially if she'd been up late with her vodka and yummy lemon lime.

Kat was a "friend." She'd dated every one of Jackie's friends but no matter how often he'd been there for her, she wouldn't go out with him. "That would be too creepy. You're like my brother." Great. Thanks. So happy I can be here for you. He wouldn't mind if she wouldn't treat him like shit when she was dating someone else…usually one of Jack's buds so he had to hear all about it from both sides and then when it blew up, and it always blew up, she turned into a wreck in his arms.

Jules was another girl entirely. She was perfectly happy to sleep with Jackie but she was perfectly happy to sleep with anyone. She just refused to stay faithful to anyone. Which usually meant that another one of Jack's buds would think he was in love with her and she'd basically laugh at them and then shut them off. "I'm 17, what the hell do they want? Marriage? I don't think so Boyo." Jules was one of the few people that could get away with calling Jackie "Boyo" without pissing him off. His Gran was another. How or why Kat and Jules ever became "best friends" confused Jack to no end.

This had been one of those legendary Jules' runners. A little of this, a little of that, add some wine and some grass to take the sharp edges off the "that" and all in all, it was a mad way to spend a couple of days. He thought they'd hit every outdoor fest and party for Saint Paddy's da fair city of Chicago had to offer. Planxty had been jammin' and Jack couldn't get some of those reels out of his head.

Jack got off the El at Jarvis and decided not to hit the 7-11 around the corner. He'd been going without a break for over 72 hours. He didn't need a coffee, he needed sleep. He headed west on Jarvis, past Ashland and Pearlman's Pharmacy. At Paulina he hopped the fence and moved through the playground. He stopped and sat in one of the swings. He really missed the days when it was a painted wooden plank instead of these canvas things. The sandbox needed filling again. The slide needed a few kids to run down it on wax paper. He smiled at that, remembering his Gran pulling sheets of wax paper out of her bag for all the kids to slide down and get it good and slick. The big ol' 10 foot steel slide was getting old. Pretty soon the city would hit this playground and put one of those wooden monstrosities in here. Short slides. Swings you couldn't even slide off of at the top of the arc. Hell, they'd already pulled out the monkey bars. He'd been the pilot of many a space expedition in that set of steel bars.

"Okay Boyo…you're too young to be living in the past." Jack took out his pack of Marlboro Reds, thought about the last joint and decided to wait until he woke up for that. He lit a cigarette and held the smoke…then exhaled slowly. He shivered a bit in the spring too-early morning even though he was wearing a hoody under his leather. Fucking March. It was 70 yesterday and it was supposed to snow later today. Fucking Chicago in March. And OH FUCK Easter was in a couple of days which meant the church fight again. FUCK! Jack took a deep drag and decided, not this year, he wasn't having that fight this year. If Ma started up again, he'd just disappear for a few days.

He smoked some more, swinging around a little and then…froze. Someone was in the park…not here in the playground…Southwest, over by the Tennis Courts. What the fuck? How did he know that? He didn't know how he knew…he just knew. "Okay, calm down Boyo, you're coming down from way too much this and that and…" Okay, bullshit! He KNEW there were things over there…right by the magic bush and…they were trying to figure out if he'd sensed them yet.

The magic bush was right behind the Cullen's backyard. Actually it was about 6 different sticker bushes that formed a perfect cave if you were small enough to crawl under one end of it. Jack had first found it when he and his Gran picnicked over that way under the elm tree behind the backstop of Field 2. Gran had been the first one to call it "The magic bush." She taught Jackie how to used his imagination and pretend that cave would lead him through the mists to the Otherworld.

Otherworld. Suddenly the park smelt like summer instead of early spring and that just wasn't possible. The crab-apple trees wouldn't be in bloom until June.

Jack started moving along the fence line behind the swings, all of his senses focused on the bush and it's surrounding area. There were five of them, sniffing the air like dogs but looking almost human. He stopped at the edge of the basketball court. Moved behind the field house and moved along it's wall. They'd caught his scent the moment they'd appeared, but now they knew they were being hunted.

Hunted? What the fuck? What did he think he was going to do when he had them in sight? He didn't know, but he knew they didn't belong here and that they had to go back. Jack also knew that…they were more afraid of him than he was of them.

Jack moved from behind the field house to under the big oak behind Field 1. He could see them now…shapes in the dark, huddled around the magic bush…which, by the way, this wasn't weird enough, was glowing. Kat…where the hell did you find those mushrooms? This was some serious vision quest kind of bullshit.

But it wasn't. Somehow Jack knew that it wasn't. Those weren't men huddled across two softball fields from him wondering if he was going to close on them. They were something else. This was beyond paranoia. This was serious mind fuck shit out of one of Gran's stories.

Jack took a couple of soothing breaths like Sensei Chuck taught at the dojo and tried to tap into his chi. He wasn't surprised to find he could reach it with no problems. He found his center, tapped in, raised it up and out then looked at his hands. They were glowing blue. Of course they were. Tonight wasn’t weird enough yet.

Jack. "My name is Jackie Finn and I'm the biggest, baddest, giant killer in all of Chicago." And his Gran would just laugh at the little boy with his fists on his hips, his feet planted wide, and the gleam in his eye.

She never told him to hush when he got cocky like that. She'd tell him to hush if he was being disrespectful to his elders. She'd hush him if he asked the wrong questions about God from his Ma or the Fathers over at Saint Jerome's. But when she told the story of Jack the Giant Killer and he started swinging branches all she'd do was chuckle and tell him, "A Jack always uses oak Boyo."

Jack looked around the tree and found an old branch about a finger thick and about a foot and a half long.

He looked up and…and saw the summer sky in the stars. The warrior should still be out but the big and lil dippers were up there instead and suddenly, it was way too warm and moist for his leather and hoody. He didn't take them off though…he was Jack and he was about to go to war with some Otherworlder baddies and it was the only armor he had.

Note to self: Next time Uncle Mike and his SCA buddies wanted him to get some armor and join them, say YES for fuck's sake.


Timmer's been more productive since he's found the vodka and yummy lemon lime.


The Back Booth Archives

Posted by Tim O'Connell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Bong Hits 4 Jesus.

That's what's in front of our Supreme Court this week.

Bong Hits 4 Jesus.

Google it, you'll find it.

Ya know, back in the day and that day was Tuesday. (No, FUCK Dane Cook, I've been cracking that joke for years, I'm not stopping just because he did it on HBO…besides, how fucking arrogant do you have to be to try to improve on the finger? Superfinger my white and furry. Sorry, didn't realize I felt so strongly about that.)

Back in the day, seriously, the late 70s, we would have killed to have some sort of dumb druggy banner make it to the local news, much less make it all the way to the Supreme Freaking Court as a free speech for students case. I mean my class were the ones that when the principal tried to ban tube tops and halter tops, he announced, "Bottom line, belly buttons MUST be covered." What did the girls do? You got it, they wore tube tops and halter tops and covered their belly buttons with band aids. Some of the guys joined them. It was a liberal neighborhood, and seriously, not that far from the gay village. We were very accepting…especially when it helped frustrate the administration. I think the jocks even quit locking them in lockers for almost a month after that just because the Principal was so pissed.

And where do these kids come from? New York? Nope. L.A.? Wrong again. Chicago, Phillie, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, San Fransisco? Not even close. Juneau fucking Alaska. Not even Anchorage, Juneau. Granted, it's not like they don't have a lot of time on their hands between first snow and breakup, but still, how do you have the balls to take a stupid prank and turn it into a Supreme Court case that has legal analysts talking to each other in somber tones about the first amendment. Gretta's all over it. Nancy Grace is practically catatonic.

Bong Hits 4 Jesus.

Joseph Frederick, the young man who created then unfurled the banner during an off-site school function? Son, I salute you. To push this all the way to the Supreme Court is a riff that must have Andy Kaufman laughing in his grave. You are my fucking hero.

No…don't tell me you're serious, just don't. I don't want to hear that. You'll ruin it for me. Because it's the spoof, it's the riff, it's the fact that you pushed the limit and made the joke last longer than humanly possible that has me impressed. I kneel in full Wayne's World supplication, "We're not worthy."

Mike Meyers quoted his father as saying, "Silly is a state of grace."

Bong Hits 4 Jesus is what's in front of the United States Supreme Court this week.

Joseph Frederick, you are the Virgin Mary of silly.


Timmer supports any initiative that might postpone his own court dates.


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Posted by Tim O'Connell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I'm gonna wimp out this week and do a list. I've got nuthin' that's either not ridiculously long or just plain silly. Open up your music player. List your songs in alphabetical order. No songs that begin with numbers, in italics or other bullshit. Just 26 songs. A-Z. Music, no comedy, no books on tape, no podcasts. No repeating bands so you may have to go with the next one down. I was going to give this a St. Patrick's Day theme and have you try to pick all Irish performers, but then quite a few of us would nothing but a list of U2, The Chieftans and Irish Rover songs. Which reminds me, I have to put my St. Paddy's Day playlist together.

Éireann go Brách ya beautiful bastards!

Isn't it good to know ya don't have to drink to be that kind of annoying?

ABC – The Jackson Five

Ziggy Stardust – David Bowie

Now youopen up your music player. List your songs in alphabetical order. No songs that begin with numbers, in italics or other bullshit. Just 26 songs.

Timmer doesn't swear that some of those songs are for other people anymore.


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Posted by Tim O'Connell at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

The crowd I ran around with in high school was weird. A mix of wanna-be hippies, kung-fu jocks, former gang-bangers, and musicians all came to hang out at what we simply called, The Center. It was one of those federal and state-funded store-fronts in the 70s with a bad mural on the wall that “the clients” had painted themselves. Yeah, we were clients. “Adult” supervision was provided by a mix of 70’s pop culture shrinks, a graphic arts/photography teacher, a video teacher, and a director who…as best we could tell would simply have been called the treasurer in any other organization. We mostly hung out, listened to music, did our homework, or played board games. Three rules: No sex. No violence. No drugs or alcohol. Any of those would get you banned. The idea back then was that if you educated teens on drugs, they wouldn’t WANT to do them. Yeah, well it was Carter…shrug.

Some of us did photography and silk screening, some were working on the city wide video competition. Me, I worked the mixer at the Saturday Night Coffee House and volunteered back in the hotline room.

I had a sweet lil 8-channel Yamaha mixer/amplifier going into a couple of 4X12 1969 PA Marshall Columns (don’t ask). I rarely had a chance to mix a full four piece, but when I did, I had a freaking blast. One of the local guitar heroes wouldn’t let anyone but me or Dutch take care of his vocals. He had a good enough voice, he just needed a hint of reverb to get rid of the annoying Bob Dylan-esque nasality that he didn’t get rid of until he broke down and went to a vocal coach…a nun of all people. Most nights it was do the sound check about half an hour before we opened, set levels. Let the place fill up and then use just the master volume to adjust. Most folks would look at the equalizer and want me to play with it for them. If they were decent I’d do a little with different songs. There was a three girl trio that I’d stay at the board for their entire show. I’d been there the first time they jammed together and knew what worked with them and what didn’t.

Looking back, working on the hotline was just plain insane. Fourteen to eighteen year old kids, taking calls on one of the last drug crisis outreach lines in the entire city. Don’t get me wrong, if you sucked, you were out, but looking back on some of the things we were doing…I get stone chills. Suicides, overdoses, people just calling in to have us look something they bought up in the PDR. My favorites were the folks on bad trips. I just had a way of getting into their heads and turning them around before they went into complete melt down. If I had someone already in full out BAD TRIP mode, I’d have the other folks make me a fresh pot of coffee and call my folks to let them know I was going to be late. I might turn ‘em around quick but some people simply should have never ever ever ever ever done acid in the first place. Some people say LSD enhances all of your psychosis…for normally up or manic folks, that’s kind of fun, for down or depressed folks, that’s a VERY BAD THING.

In the summer of ’78 some very pure and very clean LSD hit Chicago on a blotter with a red dragon stamped on it. The state lab guys that kept track of that stuff said they’d never seen anything off the street that clean…ever. There was a new lab somewhere and the people doing the cooking were very good. People who normally didn’t do acid were trying it. Recreational trippers were doing MORE because it wasn’t making them sick and since there was no speed in it, they could trip harder without getting that lockjaw, muscle clenchy/twitchy thing. Of course…some assholes who didn’t make their shit that good started simply copying the stamp and our lives on the weekends became all about talking down the bad trippers. It was so bad we added four extra lines and I got kicked out of the coffee house on Saturday nights for almost all of August.

For the record, talking to trippers is really easy. You need to be very calm, and very trustworthy. Don’t just SOUND calm, they pick up on nerves worse than your Mom when you’re trying to tell her that you’re staying at Jimmy’s rather than Jenny’s. Once they’re listening to you and believing you? The rest is gravy. Hell, half the time you just have to get them to change the music they’re listening to. “Dude, I’m freaking out.” “What’s that in the background?” “Blue Oyster Cult.” “Whoa, little heavy don’t ya think? Have any Grateful Dead?” “Ummmm, yeah…Mars Hotel?” “How ‘bout Blues for Allah?” “Really, you think it’s better?” “Not better, just better for your head right now…trust me, I’m a professional.” “Snickkkkerrrr.” Once you can get a tripper to giggle, you’re on the right track. And the real cool thing is if they’re seeing shit that ain’t there coming to get them, you just tell them to blow on them and they’ll never touch them. Hey…it works. And no, The Dark Side of the Moon wasn’t the best “bring them back alive” album. Pink Floyd was hit or miss. Some folks don’t react well to it at all.

High School. Not your normal way of getting through it, but it seemed to keep me occupied and alive. I wasn’t wearing colors and I mostly was safe from all of that. The gangs let us be because they knew they could come to us if they needed to get a message from one to another without calling a formal truce. The Cops let us be because they knew if we found out about any nasty shit hurting people, we’d tip them off on the assholes, and because they could always stop in to get a cup of coffee or drop off one of their own fucked up folks if they needed to. We gave EVERYONE confidentiality…even the jocks who claimed to hate us with every fiber of their being. Long story and this one’s already pushing 1000 words.

Our parents? Wow. I don’t think they have any idea to this day the kind of stuff we were up to. Don’t think they wanted to.


Tim didn’t go into psychology after this…he figured shrinks were more messed up than the rest of us.


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I recently saw a call for “Shutdown Day” on 24 March 2007. These folks want us to shutdown our computers for 24 hours. Don’t log on. Keep the computer off for 24 hours.

My first thought was, “What the hell for?”

Their answer:

“It is obvious that people would find life extremely difficult without computers, maybe even impossible. If they disappeared for just one day, would we be able to cope?

Be a part of one of the biggest global experiments ever to take place on the internet. The idea behind the experiment is to find out how many people can go without a computer for one whole day, and what will happen if we all participate!

Shutdown your computer on this day and find out! Can you survive for 24 hours without your computer?”

Now, I’m kind of cool with this. I read a lot. I have a lot of studying to do between now and the end of April to get my A+ Certification done once and for all. I’ve taken the classes numerous times but never bothered to get the paper. I also read a lot of books. Going without a PC or laptop for the day seems more than possible.

But what about my other computers? Technically, without stretching my imagination, I have a LOT of other computers in my house that I use every day.

All of the telephones in my house are digital and are either wireless or on Voice Over Internet Protocol. Computers. Do I have to shut them off all day too?

And let’s not forget about my favorite computer of all time, my iPod. I listen to music every day, usually via my iPod. Okay, go down in the basement and pull out my…CDs which I would play on my home theater…the amp and tuner and CD/DVD player being a…you got it…take away the shell etc. it’s basically a computer.

Okay…so read books, go to the gym, watch TV…wait…the digital deck…can’t watch TV without utilizing a computer…unless I want to try and pick up the old VHF/UHF channels via an antenna.

And now that I think about it I’d have to walk to the gym, because I don’t know about you, but I can’t drive without a computer…my cars both have computers in them. Walking to the gym and back, that would be a workout in itself in my case. We’re talking about 2 miles there and 2 miles back. Again, you want me to just walk around without my Shuffle? Completely dull. It’s not an overly stressful workout, but none the less, four miles isn’t something I normally do all at once especially without headphones.

Stop using computers, even for 24 hours? 24 hours…let me ask you something else…how are you going to keep track of those 24 hours? What exactly do you think all the clocks in your house are? Anyone still have an analog clock they’re winding up? Wait. Isn’t an analog clock STILL a computer? I know, I’m knitting picks but even the simplest mousetrap is a computer.

I guess my point and my question is, “Exactly how far would you like me to shutdown on the 24th of March? How many of my computers would you like me to shutdown?” I mean I could shutdown completely…but I’m thinkin’ it’s going to be a very long, boring day.

Don’t get me wrong, we do fine without technology a few times a year…we call it camping. We drove our daughter crazy with this and plan on torturing our son the same way. When we camp, the rule is, nothing you have to plug in, not even our iPods. We may use a flashlight to get to the latrines…or the hole that I’ve dug if we’re really out there…but that’s about it. Propane lanterns and stove only if there’s an open fire restriction. When we camp, we read, we eat, we might fish, we read some more, we eat some more, there’s a lot of napping, maybe some hiking or swimming, we play cards, more of that napping thing, but we really turn off the signal for a good couple of days. We do take digital pictures. I suppose if we wanted to be pure, I could dig out my old 35 MM.

I’m sorry though…if I’m home and doing a “normal” day, I’m digital. I’ve gotten used to it. I like it. I don’t want to be “unwired.”

You know why I’m jazzed about the iPhone? Because it’s the first step to having more computer in a smaller space. You know Body Glove is going to have something so we can strap it to our left forearms and make it look cool. If they’d offer a bluetooth implant in my skull so that only I could hear what’s being transmitted and I could talk to someone online without having some funky thing hanging off my ear? Dude, I’m so there.

So…no…not going to Shutdown on the 24th of March. It’s way too early to be camping in this part of the country.

Tim really hasn’t been reading too much William Gibson.


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Hmmm, car week.

Fuck.

I’m not a car guy. I’ve never been a car guy. I mean, I used to like change my own oil but after I turned into the email joke I started letting Jiffy Lube handle it.

My buds Mark and Mike and Paul were the car guys in high school. Denny in college was a car guy. Hell, our buddette, Tracey in Germany could change a tire and not lose her entire freaking cigarette ash.

Me…not the car guy.

Dad wasn’t a car guy either…but he liked big fucking boat cars. If you hit my archives you’ll see him standing next to his 47 Caddy. That was BEFORE Mom and me and my sister. At least I know where I get my “Got money? Must buy something NOWWWW!” thing. It’s genetic.

But I got some car stories.

The first car I remember us driving around in was a 1965 Mercury Montclair Breezeway. You know the one you think about when Steve Miller sings about his Mercury with the fins in aqua blue?

Of course Dad sold that car just as I was coming of age. Something about my lead foot not getting that much engine in front of it. Looking back, Dad was a wise man, but seriously, when he and I drove around in the Merc while I had my training permit? That was some of the most amazing driving I’ve ever experienced. That car rocked.

My Dad was pretty cool. In the middle of winter, while there was a LOT of snow and ice on the ground, he made me drive over to the big ass parking lot at Lawrence Beach. It was completely empty. He had me pull over and said, “Okay, go crazy. I want you to whip donuts, get into skids, get OUT of skids like I’ve showed you. Basically, do everything you’ve been taught NOT to do and do it right here.” That was two hours of pure fucking magic. At one point he had to get out and go talk to a cop who had pulled in with his lights flashing and I guess that worked out alright because the cop went away.

My first car? I had a 1967 Malibu Classic with a small block.

Mine was in no way as cool as the one above. I bought it off a friend of my Dad’s for $400.00. That left me just enough to take it to Earl Scheib for a $49.95, “No ups, no extras” paint job to transform it from metallic mint green to midnight blue. My friends who were into cars and somehow managed to have an entire mechanic’s garage full of extra parts behind the local Italian Shoe Repair shop (Hey, in my neighborhood, some stereotypes were based on fact, sorry.) had great plans for my car. Bigger engine, nice rims, chrome pipes. My biggest problem was trying to figure out how to explain how I was going to make the mods on my Drugstore Delivery Boy salary. Dad would have understood how you could deliver things besides groceries and prescriptions, but Mom? She’s SUCH a farmgirl from Wisconsin.

Like I said, we had plans for the Malilbu…and then I had to give Barb a ride home from The Center (Teen Center, LONG story, it’s coming someday). Barb was the one that always seemed to get away. I was dating someone else, or SHE was dating someone else. We only hooked up once and it was brilliant…but this was before that and it was raining and she had a long way home so…I gave her a ride. Which meant that I wasn’t paying attention to the road, I was paying attention to her soaked t-shirt and she knew it and I was trying to figure out where to park for awhile that wasn’t tacky but wasn’t a cop cruise. I was running East on Albion at the stop sign crossing Ashland. I stopped. There was a big ol’ panel truck on the corner. I didn’t see anyone coming from the North, I couldn’t. The car coming from the South was plenty far away. I hit the gas. The tires spun on the wet pavement, I moved out slowly into the intersection. BAM from the North, sliding sideways, BAM from the South. T-boned two different ways. Barb had a cut on her head and my neck was fucked up for a couple weeks, but we were okay. That was the end of the plans for the Malibu…and parking with Barb. Yeah, in that order, I was 16. What?

I wound up driving my Mom’s ’73 Montego on and off through high school and college. Had a Grand Prix and a Caddie Seville as work cars when I worked for Harry in the siding business. Why would I have sweet rides in the siding business? When I wasn’t pounding the pavement, trying to sell home improvements, I made a lot of pickups and deliveries where I didn’t ask and he never told. Let me put it this way, when a 72 year old Jewish man who’s got a picture of himself shaking hands with a smiling Al fucking Capone on his wall tells you, “Don’t ever open up one of these envelopes or I’ll break your fucking kneecaps.” You just sort of nod and enjoy the ride. You gotta remember I grew up in a neighborhood named for Roger “The Terrible” Touhy. Respect was paid.

These days, with all the dreams of being a player long behind me, I don’t spend a lot of money on my “rides”. We have a Hyundai Elantra and Santa Fe. Any extra money for toys is spent on iPods and computers and home theater stuff. I want a car that gets me from point A to point B. I like the looks of cool cars. I lust after the latest Shelby creation, but I refuse to be one of those middle aged guys riding around in a muscle car to compensate for my dick not having the, shall we say, OOMPH, it once had. It’s just so sad.

I do wish I could get my hands on an ol’ Mercury though. I just remember all that CHROME on the dashboard and in the stereo speakers in the back. And that rear window that slid down, mixed with the vent windows…who needs air conditioning?

Timmer admits to owning Steve Miller’s Greatest Hits…but he doesn’t inhale.

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So our old friend calls us last Sunday and tells us that he may have found the perfect house for us. We’ve known him for almost 20 years and one of the few real friends that has stayed in touch through all the military moves. Our daughter and son-in-law went over to see the place; they think it’s perfect. Daughter sends pictures and friend sends contract. Credit Union jumps in with a fully pre-approved application. Wow…looks like this is happening. But wait a minute…I put in for leave and get it and then drive my happy butt ten hours West on 80 then 84 because, I’m not signing for almost a quarter of a million bucks for a house that I haven’t at least walked through. I guess it’s the old cold warrior in me…trust but verify.

I LOVE driving I80 across Wyoming. I know, call me weird, but the prairie changing to buttes, changing to mountains is one of the most calming and centering drives I know of. Even wired on two Full Throttles and a Diet Coke, I feel calmer than I have in forever…even Utah didn’t bring me down. It’s the Mormons. They make me nervous.

Driving around with my daughter has been amazing too. The town’s changed, but it’s still pretty cool. The mountains to the North have a fresh dust of snow while it only rained down here in the valley.

There are more Moxie Javas than Starbucks and for me, there’s no better coffee shop. They play better music and they’re coffee doesn’t taste burnt. Starbucks suffices but it’s not Moxie.

And there are at least four diners I know of that serve up the best breakfasts ever. Rae Dean’s has the most amazing chicken fried steak I’ve ever tasted. Tender, crispy, and juicy with real cracked pepper in the white gravy. I had it for breakfast with a couple of perfectly basted eggs and just right crispy hash browns.

And the house? Well the neighborhood is mostly 60s and 70s ranch houses and it sits on .21 acres of REAL grass that used to be mostly alfalfa back in the 50s…it helps to have a realtor who was a teenager in the area you want to move into…they know all the weird stuff. You have to be military to understand that getting a house that doesn’t have a dead lawn is such an amazing happening. I just walked around the lawn and it felt amazing to my feet…it was aerated in the past year, felt amazing. Three bedrooms on the main floor. HUGE kitchen dining room area with big and deep cabinets. The back yard is big enough to put in a flower garden, a vegetable garden, a Zen garden and even an octopus’ garden in the rain. Two old growth trees take the edge off the sun. The basement is laid out a lot like the main floor and is fully finished…including another fireplace and kitchen. No one can legally live down there until we get either a window deepened or an entrance dug…but that’s for later when Boyo is tired of us and we’re tired of him and he wants to move out but isn’t 18 yet.

I drove around the town today, checking to see if old favorite places are still there and wondering which direction I want to take for my second career. Taking another government job seems the safest bet, but too easy and I’m not sure I want to make my whole life about federal service. There’s nothing wrong with it, I’m just not sure if I’m more tired of the military or of the bureaucracy. And I know there’s bureaucracy no matter where you go, but Uncle Sugar tends to really know how to do it.

I’m not sure how I can make this make sense to folks who haven’t spent their whole adult life moving, but to actually be buying a house somewhere we know and are comfortable with feels amazing. Getting ready to leave the military feels like I’m losing about 100 pounds off my shoulders.

Right now I’m sitting in one of my favorite Moxie Javas, sipping a double mocha and enjoying some of the fastest wireless I’ve ever seen, and listening to some of the weirdest coffee orders I’ve ever heard. Some white kid with dreads just ordered a lowfat soy chai latte with…lowfat chai? The gal behind the counter doesn’t even know what that means. And Fall Out Boy just came on over the speakers. Yeah…June can’t come quick enough. I might even freak out my old Sifu and drop in on Monday Night Tai Chi and Chocolate Chip night.

Oh…I just remembered…this is being posted on Valentine’s Day…otherwise known as Hallmark’s make or break day. Give your sweetie a shnogg and let him/her know you lover them. You can’t go wrong with an appropriately timed shnogg.

Timmer knows good coffee, and good people, when he finds 'em.
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I'm really out of it this week because life all of a sudden revved up into high gear.

We're moving back to Idaho in June. We've been working with a couple of realtors, one an old friend who couldn't help because he's in the middle of building 50 some odd houses and another one who helped our daughter out a few years back. We were getting ready to sign the contract with that one when our friend called Sunday saying that he was just about to put one on the market and he thought it was perfect for us. He went over with our daughter and checked it out and the pics look amazing and our daughter and son in law loved it. Built in the 60s, old growth trees in the front and back yards. BIG back yard for Boyo and Max (Maximum Dawg) to run around in. Recently refurbed, fireplaces, fully finished basement. Basically, exactly what we're looking for at a price just above what we wanted to pay.

So now I'm scrambling to get pre-paid on a loan and get my VA stuff all added up and meanwhile, in the back of my head, there's a little voice SCREAMING, "Guys like you don't buy houses!!!" I'm used to that voice. It's told me over the past few years, "Guys like you don't get married." "Guys like you can't be a Dad." "Guys like you don't get to be Master Sergeants." "Guys like you shouldn't have this many people's lives in your hands."

Ya see my inner child is a juvenile delinquent. Even though I left the streets a little over 22 years ago, there's still part of me that crawls around there when I get inside my head for too long. Right now I'd love to just put on a pair of headphones and live in my head for the rest of the day.

But I'm buying a fucking HOUSE! Oh, and I still have to put on the uniform and show up for work while I'm doing it. Sometimes this being a grown up shit really pisses me off.

Sorry this is so short...I'd truly love to indulge in a little more public freaking out, but all the funny parts are over and the rest of it is just kind of more screaming and shuddering and quivering internally. I haven't really figured out how to write that in an interesting manner.

Timmer would like to find his inner child and kick his little ass.
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So we’re doing the 70s this week. I thought I’d go with the difference between me now and me 30 years ago.

1977: I hated waking up earlier that 9:00 A.M..

2007: I wake up at 0500 no matter where I am or what I’m doing that day. Waking up later I feel like I’m wasting a lot of time. I sometimes sleep in on the weekends.

1977: I only drank coffee for breakfast, except on weekends or to go to the diner.

2007: No change.

1977: I was perfectly comfortable in Levis, hiking boots, black t-shirt and a flannel shirt

2007: Ummm, I’ve switched to Wranglers and running shoes and rarely wear flannel but otherwise, yeah, kind of comfortable there.

1977: Two years out of Catholic School believe that the Church is one of the most fundamentally evil organizations on the planet mostly made up of frustrated lesbians and pedophiles.

2007: Shrug.

1977: Honestly believed that one evening when “Sky” Daniels was broadcasting on the LOOP FM, that we’d receive our instructions for taking over the world.

2007: Wonders who's brownies I’d stolen.

1977: Thought Springsteen was the be all and end all of rock’n’roll stars.

2007: Can rarely stomach anything of Springsteen’s done after 1977 and none of his folksy, “I gotta be Bob Dylan” stuff.

1977: Was rabidly anti-military. No, seriously, the military was nothing but evil men doing evil things for an evil government. I thought that all war was useless.

2007: About to retire from the Air Force with 23 years of service. Realized that we’re not perfect, but we’re better than most.

1977: Refused to watch television except for Saturday Night Live. Wonder if this “Bill Murray” guy is going to be as funny as Chevy Chase.

2007: Cheddar who?

1977: Computers are evil and they’re going to destroy us all.

2007: Computers are our friends, computers are our friends, computers are our friends.

1977: Never went to bed before midnight, usually didn’t crash until one or two A.M..

2007: If I’m awake past 11, I’m kind of screwed for the next three days.

1977: Honestly believed that Jimmy Carter was going to bring hope and dignity back to The White House.

2007: Hawwwwk! Tooooie!

1977: Was waiting to see if the Space Shuttle was going to work and was anxious for the International Space Station to be completed.

2007: Waiting to see if the Space Shuttle is going to work and no longer care if the International Space Station will ever be completed.

1977: Started hearing some band called The Clash on college radio.

2007: I listen to part of The Clash Anthology just about every day.

1977: Stood in line to see Star Wars. Over and over and over and over again.

2007: Smile when Boyo tells me he’s taking the collection to watch it yet again.

1977: Very excited for the future because The President has created The Department of Energy promising a comprehensive energy policy to reduce our dependence on foreign oil and research renewable fuel sources.

2007: Yeah, 30 years ago, still freaking waiting.

1977: The Commodore PET computer is first sold. I figure it’s a geek thing, who’s going to need a computer at home?

2007: There are currently five computers in various states of disrepair in our home. Three work well.

1977: Psycho Killer by Talking Heads is released. We all wonder WTF is this shit?

2007: Never did figure that out.

1977: Never Mind The Bullocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols is released in the United States. Most of us already have the import.

2007: I have no idea why I ever listened to The Sex Pistols except I know that Vodka was involved.

1977: Saturday Night Fever is released. I’m pissed off that almost everyone misses the message of the movie about how hollow and pointless “the boogie life” is. Can’t believe I spent an hour in line in the fucking snow to see this shit. Seriously, she wasn’t that cute.

2007: Thirty years later, most folks still haven’t figured it out. She’s married to one of my best friends. She still makes him “Hustle” and “Electric Slide” with her at weddings.

Timmer made this up, as anyone who remembers the 70s, simply wasn’t there.
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Introduce Myself, Why Not?

Michele's been asking me to join the band here at FTTW for awhile and with everything going on, I was kind of putting it off. Then I realized I was spending more time commenting here than I was writing over at The Daily Brief.

That makes sense to me. Even back in the ASV days I felt like had Michele and I grew up in the same neighborhood in the same town, we would have hung out, listening to her cousin's or my big sister's albums when we could get out of their houses with them under our army jackets or pea coats. We would NOT have dated...that would have been weird, but we would have bought beer for one another and hung out when the other's umfriend turned into a bitch/dick. We both knew that guy who carried his guitar with him where ever he went and wore John Lennon glasses and smelled like a cat box and refused to learn the words to Louie Louie/Hang on Sloopy yet insisted on singing them at every freaking party. It's not just 'Chele. All ya'all here seem to have grown up doing the same shilly sit (sic) and now we're over it trying to figure out what to keep from the old days and what to drop and how the hell to be grownups and parents for Christsakes. How the fuck did our generation get through the 70s and 80s without going completely batshit crazy, I dunno.

Wow, "The Carpet Crawlers" just popped up on Radio Paradise , I wish I could import RP into my car. Genesis was so fucking GOOD with Peter Gabriel.

What? Your head never does that? Shhhhaaah.

So I'm over here now and if you're expecting military news or political rants, ummm, you should probably go over to The Daily Brief 'cuz I'm going to leave that over there. Better still if you want mil news, hit up Blackfive or Greyhawk. If you do go over you'll see I don't write much of any of that anymore anyway. It's kind of been boring to me.

I'm more likely to go off about a new favorite album or old favorite album, or sci-fi novel or latest Eastern Philosophy thing that's caught my eye. I watch a LOT of TV and movies. I practice Tai Chi. I play Frisbee with our dog Max when it's fucking warmer out and this winter fucking SUCKS for the cold and wind and snow. I'm not a huge sports fan but if Da Bears or Cubbies are doing well I'll be doing happy dances.

Sometimes you might see this out of me too:
Listening to: The Wallflowers, Gin Blossoms and Toad the Wet Sprocket. I think it's the cold weather...these are summer bands in my head.
Reading: The Spiritual Path by Osho. Yeah, I know he was some sort of culty Guru but so far his take on Buddha is pretty clear-cut. It was on sale at Borders...shrug.
Watching: I gave in and started watching 24 again this season after missing a couple seasons. The DVR makes all the difference. So currently, it's 24, House, Grey's Anatomy, CSI (not any of the tagalongs JUST CSI), American Idol and waiting for Battlestar Gallactica to start up again.
Cool Blog of the Week: Lifehacker really good and yes, useful, downloads for both Mac and PC.

Oh, I'm a recently converted Machead. When my Toshiba started acting weird I bought a MacBook Pro based solely on the performance of our iPods and iTunes. Yeah, I'm one of them. Couldn't be happier. I'm sold. If we could get more games for the bigger Macs, we'd go Mac throughout the house.

What else, oh, we're getting ready to retire from the Air Force and move back home to Idaho. Gorgeous Daughter lives there with Dashing Son In Law and our best friends are back that way. Boyo's 10 and has more air miles than most grownups who don't travel for a living. It's time to settle him down where he can make friends he isn't sure he's going to have to say goodbye to.

And that's enough out of me for the first time. I've got stuff ta do.

Timmer's settling in. Say "Hi", dammit!

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