I'm fuggin swamped at work wiping noses and hoses, trying to get pegs in holes before I kick off some candy-sweet reports next Tuesdizzle mornizzle.
In light of that, here's what I have to say:
Drinking Games are dumb. First off, alcohol is not a plaything. Second, nothing, not rules nor a win-loss record, should come between you and getting Ozzy-drunk. Third, the rules always change to benefit whichever guy wants you to get naked. That's why I quit playing them at lunch today again.
Stop using the term "assless chaps." And yeah, I know you are all doing it in everyday converstootion. All chaps are "assless," otherwise they are pants. Perhaps they are pants with the front cut out, but if you're wearing pants with no fronts, you probably don't care what they're called, because your balls are showing. Yeah, I'm talking to you, lady, I can see your balls.
I'm out!
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Globally Warmed, Rap Music, And Like, Totally Sorry About The Phone Numbers
This Blog Brought To You By... YOU. I didn't send this link your way. Thank you for taking a moment to read this sack of hooey.
=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=
If ya wanna go see "Be Cool," gimme a "SHITCHYAY!"
"Get Shorty" is one of my top-5 movies. Travolta's "Chili Palmer" is as cool a cat as there's ever been on the silver screen. When he gets a pair of scissors held to his neck during a shakedown by Ray Bones, he flinches ever so slightly, but more because he didn't want his new jacket diced. I recommend watching "Get Shorty," then joining me on March 4th to see "Be Cool." Come on, Vince Vaughn acting like a thugged-out wignutz? Whaddyoo need?
=-=-=-=-=-=-=
this is a bit I've worked on and it doesn't seem to be taking hold. here it is in prose form.
Global Warming
The weather in Seattle has rocketed past "gorgeous" and is nearing the gravitational pull of "a little scary." It's been all frozen windows and breath-fog for weeks now. But no clouds in the sky. No snow. No rain. We're looking at a winter drought, a potential Summer drought, and the loss of another ski season.
California is sliding into the Pacific, accumulating enough rain to make most celebrities worry their homes are sliding off the hill. Celebs, meanwhile, dodge phone calls from hacked-out people with digits from Paris Hilton's hacked cell phone. (sidenote, the ho-tard is like 22, okay? she thought it was cool to have Avril Lavigne's #, that's her only crime) California is melting like Chyna's new cheek implants. I mean, my sweet hanging Jesus, BLINK-182 MIGHT BE BREAKING UP!!!
It's got to be Global Warming. OR... as I've suspected for some time, this is Hell.
Perhaps this is what Hell is, eternal fretting over wardrobe and recreational choices. You spent $300 on a Gore-Flex jackamet, grabbed some new Rossignols with boots and bindings, hit the front door and... nowhere to go.
Whatever will we do? OH DEAR GAWD, WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO WITH ALL THIS NICE WEATHER AND FEWER JOBS FOR GUYS TO GRAB ASS ON A SKI SLOPE?
Might I suggest... Evolving? Get outside, take a walk. Move a little. Huh? Hey? Yes? No... okay.
I think it only feels warmer because, in general, people are fatter. Pundits ponder the impact of human existence on the environment while clearing their third buffet plate in Vegas. "Could you turn down the heat? It's creating chloroflourocarbons and ice caps are OH SHIT, BILL, MORE MINI-QUICHE, GO GO GO."
One day we'll find out the cause of global warming: Recycling. Decomposing landfills full of organic material. Oh sure, there's a syringe & diaper-load of it, but it's mostly natural. Put a piece of meat in a plastic bag in the sun for 3 weeks, see what happens. You'll think you're watching Keith Richards in "Bubble Boy 2: Liver And Let Die," and it will stink, but it stopped that cow from flatulating. Now, go bundle up all of those water bottles you've emptied, toss them in your Subescapearuvo, and freeze them. Then break them into millions of tiny pieces. Then melt those pieces down into a blob of Dasanifinian glory, and start molding them into bottles. The amount of energy expended to transport, recycle, and refurbish them there bottles just destroyed the ozone over Washington state.
So quit being a baby sugarplum and throw on your Whore-tex.
================
I Don't Tell White Jokes, I Tell Fight Jokes
Pop music and rap music SUCK. They have become formulaic yet more profitable than ever, and therefore will eventually eat themselves. When a boy band is shot with AIDS bullets and a rapper comes out as gay, we'll finally be able to get on with our lives.
Here's how you know rap sucks. First off, these guys want to come off like we have no idea what's going on in tha strizzeets. We ain't know how it goes down on the koneh. Well who the hell is going to tell us? Li'l Jon? The man with catch-phrases like "WHAT?" "YEAH!" and "O-KAAAY!" Is he rapping or getting a ride from his mom? Tell me what's going on then, kind sir, because all I can tell is that, in songs, your stories of growin' up in the projects are best portrayed via the interpretive dances of a large brown ass, or "booty," or "ba-donka-donk," or "bumpercars." I actually looked forward to volunteering with some inner-city youth, what with the rap videos showing how much champagne, jewelry, and fine-ass weed be available.
Second, the TV show "MTV Diary" plays up these diapers with feet like they are new-age philosophers. Listen to an entire rap album, then watch that rapper's edition of "MTV Diary," the tag-line for which is "You think you know, but you have no idea." Right-on, Nas, N.O.R.E. and Fat Joe (named-so because he's, well, ugly). I had no idea. Your music said you came up hard and still lived a fast life of big cars, deep pockets, and rooms knee-deep stacked with ready and waiting poonyatta. I just watched your fat asses sleep off a hangover, tell a fan to f*ck off, and punch a chick in the stomach. You have the money, you should have paid for the morning-after pill, you ass. Your life is retarded, and your biggest problem is that you think you are who the dumbasses at MTV think you are. Yeah, fatty, LeanBack, your knees are taking a pounding.
=--=-=-=-=-=-=-=--=-=-=
If ya wanna go see "Be Cool," gimme a "SHITCHYAY!"
"Get Shorty" is one of my top-5 movies. Travolta's "Chili Palmer" is as cool a cat as there's ever been on the silver screen. When he gets a pair of scissors held to his neck during a shakedown by Ray Bones, he flinches ever so slightly, but more because he didn't want his new jacket diced. I recommend watching "Get Shorty," then joining me on March 4th to see "Be Cool." Come on, Vince Vaughn acting like a thugged-out wignutz? Whaddyoo need?
=-=-=-=-=-=-=
this is a bit I've worked on and it doesn't seem to be taking hold. here it is in prose form.
Global Warming
The weather in Seattle has rocketed past "gorgeous" and is nearing the gravitational pull of "a little scary." It's been all frozen windows and breath-fog for weeks now. But no clouds in the sky. No snow. No rain. We're looking at a winter drought, a potential Summer drought, and the loss of another ski season.
California is sliding into the Pacific, accumulating enough rain to make most celebrities worry their homes are sliding off the hill. Celebs, meanwhile, dodge phone calls from hacked-out people with digits from Paris Hilton's hacked cell phone. (sidenote, the ho-tard is like 22, okay? she thought it was cool to have Avril Lavigne's #, that's her only crime) California is melting like Chyna's new cheek implants. I mean, my sweet hanging Jesus, BLINK-182 MIGHT BE BREAKING UP!!!
It's got to be Global Warming. OR... as I've suspected for some time, this is Hell.
Perhaps this is what Hell is, eternal fretting over wardrobe and recreational choices. You spent $300 on a Gore-Flex jackamet, grabbed some new Rossignols with boots and bindings, hit the front door and... nowhere to go.
Whatever will we do? OH DEAR GAWD, WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO WITH ALL THIS NICE WEATHER AND FEWER JOBS FOR GUYS TO GRAB ASS ON A SKI SLOPE?
Might I suggest... Evolving? Get outside, take a walk. Move a little. Huh? Hey? Yes? No... okay.
I think it only feels warmer because, in general, people are fatter. Pundits ponder the impact of human existence on the environment while clearing their third buffet plate in Vegas. "Could you turn down the heat? It's creating chloroflourocarbons and ice caps are OH SHIT, BILL, MORE MINI-QUICHE, GO GO GO."
One day we'll find out the cause of global warming: Recycling. Decomposing landfills full of organic material. Oh sure, there's a syringe & diaper-load of it, but it's mostly natural. Put a piece of meat in a plastic bag in the sun for 3 weeks, see what happens. You'll think you're watching Keith Richards in "Bubble Boy 2: Liver And Let Die," and it will stink, but it stopped that cow from flatulating. Now, go bundle up all of those water bottles you've emptied, toss them in your Subescapearuvo, and freeze them. Then break them into millions of tiny pieces. Then melt those pieces down into a blob of Dasanifinian glory, and start molding them into bottles. The amount of energy expended to transport, recycle, and refurbish them there bottles just destroyed the ozone over Washington state.
So quit being a baby sugarplum and throw on your Whore-tex.
================
I Don't Tell White Jokes, I Tell Fight Jokes
Pop music and rap music SUCK. They have become formulaic yet more profitable than ever, and therefore will eventually eat themselves. When a boy band is shot with AIDS bullets and a rapper comes out as gay, we'll finally be able to get on with our lives.
Here's how you know rap sucks. First off, these guys want to come off like we have no idea what's going on in tha strizzeets. We ain't know how it goes down on the koneh. Well who the hell is going to tell us? Li'l Jon? The man with catch-phrases like "WHAT?" "YEAH!" and "O-KAAAY!" Is he rapping or getting a ride from his mom? Tell me what's going on then, kind sir, because all I can tell is that, in songs, your stories of growin' up in the projects are best portrayed via the interpretive dances of a large brown ass, or "booty," or "ba-donka-donk," or "bumpercars." I actually looked forward to volunteering with some inner-city youth, what with the rap videos showing how much champagne, jewelry, and fine-ass weed be available.
Second, the TV show "MTV Diary" plays up these diapers with feet like they are new-age philosophers. Listen to an entire rap album, then watch that rapper's edition of "MTV Diary," the tag-line for which is "You think you know, but you have no idea." Right-on, Nas, N.O.R.E. and Fat Joe (named-so because he's, well, ugly). I had no idea. Your music said you came up hard and still lived a fast life of big cars, deep pockets, and rooms knee-deep stacked with ready and waiting poonyatta. I just watched your fat asses sleep off a hangover, tell a fan to f*ck off, and punch a chick in the stomach. You have the money, you should have paid for the morning-after pill, you ass. Your life is retarded, and your biggest problem is that you think you are who the dumbasses at MTV think you are. Yeah, fatty, LeanBack, your knees are taking a pounding.
Even Moby, who once tried to have sex with Earth Day, dropped heat on America's most embarrasing Newlyweds.
You've seen what it's like to live with celebs on all these TV shows. Yeah, there's a camera there and it's not "reality" but would YOU want to wake up to Verne Troyer writing his name in kidney-gin on your wainscoting?
SHITCHYAY you would. OKAAAAAY!
Oh, and Paris Hilton called, she's mass sorry that everyone called your number that she kept in her phone under your name so she could show everyone like you'd signed her yearbook and used the words "Party" and "Love Ya!" The girl's 22. In RichFamily years, that's like 16. In Hollywood years that's around 18. So we'll give her a pass into her Senior Year.
When I say "HO" you say "TARD!"
HO ...
HO ...
SHIIITCHYEEEAAAAAAAAASSS!
Ron Reid, A Man Among Dumbasses
Last night's show at the Comedy Underground brought out nearly 15 audience members at last count. That number quickly doubled if one stopped to count comics. And there were a couple other performers in attendance who aren't funny. What brought out these beacons of anonymity?
Ron Reid, Manager of the Comedy Underground. Ron has done a lot for comics in the Seattle area, from encouraging them to giving them a shot. He's been an active conduit to some dreams coming true, and an honest and fair judge of talent and progress. He also greeted me by asking "What, was Giggles closed tonight? HA HA HA HA HA!"
Grand volley, Ron. And Yes, it was.
So we gave our shout-outs to Ron when we could, and I was confronted by a performer who I talked a large amount of crap about last year... like >20 words. Like last August. I'm not going to further it along here, but I will say this: I had forgotten about it until they reminded me of it, but they DID send an e-mail to Geoff Brousseau regarding the incident; he wasn't even involved in it.
One of the reasons I don't talk to a number of people in general is the old saying "If you don't have anything nice to say, blog it... or don't say anything." Why waste time, energy, brain space, and the heat of my breath on destroying connections? It would take a good two hours to tell some folks "Your laugh is fake, you aren't funny, your lunch stunk up the kitchen again, and your hair is thinning, Miss."
I have stopped kissing ass, but there's really no reason to throw a shovel-load of negative crap on top of someone and say it smells like "Honesty." Why not choose a kid at a mall and say "Don't judge what's on the outside, because you are ugly and from what I can tell, your parents don't have a lot of money. You will never be popular. You need to develop a personality!"? But I suppose there is a point where I just have to tell people honestly and forthrightly "It's okay that we do not talk. We are not family, friends, co-workers, or business partners. There's no reason for us to interact. Fair enough?"
The other way to go is that I just do what I've been doing; Going on with my life and steering around the potholes.
So hey, if I talked a bunch of sauce about you on this blog and it ruined your ability to get booked into rooms any more than your act did, please tell me about it. If it hurt your feelings, I am sorry. Now we all see what happens when someone comes forth with their opinions. And yes, I can be a real prick, but I'd rather save it for when some dumb ho-bag's phonebook gets hacked and my number is posted all over the internet. Instead, E-mail Me, not Geoff Brousseau, and let me know how what I said got back to a club manager, a booker, and/or a talent agent, and how that ruined, RUINED your comedy career, and/or gave you neck zits. Ya got one week.
Any later, and I'm calling "Bygones."
Thank you Ron, and Good Night.
========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Ron Reid, Manager of the Comedy Underground. Ron has done a lot for comics in the Seattle area, from encouraging them to giving them a shot. He's been an active conduit to some dreams coming true, and an honest and fair judge of talent and progress. He also greeted me by asking "What, was Giggles closed tonight? HA HA HA HA HA!"
Grand volley, Ron. And Yes, it was.
So we gave our shout-outs to Ron when we could, and I was confronted by a performer who I talked a large amount of crap about last year... like >20 words. Like last August. I'm not going to further it along here, but I will say this: I had forgotten about it until they reminded me of it, but they DID send an e-mail to Geoff Brousseau regarding the incident; he wasn't even involved in it.
One of the reasons I don't talk to a number of people in general is the old saying "If you don't have anything nice to say, blog it... or don't say anything." Why waste time, energy, brain space, and the heat of my breath on destroying connections? It would take a good two hours to tell some folks "Your laugh is fake, you aren't funny, your lunch stunk up the kitchen again, and your hair is thinning, Miss."
I have stopped kissing ass, but there's really no reason to throw a shovel-load of negative crap on top of someone and say it smells like "Honesty." Why not choose a kid at a mall and say "Don't judge what's on the outside, because you are ugly and from what I can tell, your parents don't have a lot of money. You will never be popular. You need to develop a personality!"? But I suppose there is a point where I just have to tell people honestly and forthrightly "It's okay that we do not talk. We are not family, friends, co-workers, or business partners. There's no reason for us to interact. Fair enough?"
The other way to go is that I just do what I've been doing; Going on with my life and steering around the potholes.
So hey, if I talked a bunch of sauce about you on this blog and it ruined your ability to get booked into rooms any more than your act did, please tell me about it. If it hurt your feelings, I am sorry. Now we all see what happens when someone comes forth with their opinions. And yes, I can be a real prick, but I'd rather save it for when some dumb ho-bag's phonebook gets hacked and my number is posted all over the internet. Instead, E-mail Me, not Geoff Brousseau, and let me know how what I said got back to a club manager, a booker, and/or a talent agent, and how that ruined, RUINED your comedy career, and/or gave you neck zits. Ya got one week.
Any later, and I'm calling "Bygones."
Thank you Ron, and Good Night.
========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Wow... Now THAT'S What I Call A PIE!
We all want a piece of the pie. The pie filling is different for each of us. A la mode? For some, not for others. But we want it.
Sometimes you get a piece as a reward for helping make the pie. Perhaps the pie was your idea to begin with, from the shape to the recipe to the full production and presentation. So you should get pretty much the whole pie, if things were all equal.
Sometimes you are given a piece of pie "just 'cause." You likes pie, the giver knows of your affinity for pie, and why not have a little more?
But there's a giant pie divider that says "No matter how much pie you have, we get some of it. If you want to have ANY pie, you have to share some with others. Not the whole thing, but enough that you'll feel like you are left with crumbs. Some people have NO pie, so enjoy what you get." It's not your fault that some people have NO pie, you're doing the best you can to get yours! And the more pie you get, the more you have to give back. It's the sliding pie-grab scale. Work harder, have more pie in front of you? Prove you made it, and you don't have to give any back. If someone gave it to you, however, not only will the giver have to remove some pie, the HQ of Pie is gonna take a piece of whatever you spread around.
You don't want to throw the pie around, you like the pie. But bills cost pie. Shoes cost pie. Pies cost pie. Every exchange of pie requires a nibble-more than you would like, so that pieholes are filled in homes and roads and schools. It's how the pie goes round, and how more pie comes to you.
Now, you can start making your own pie all you like. It's not an easy endeavor, but if you can turn out enough pies, you will be happier than most folks. Use quality ingredients like blood, sweat, and Granny Smith apples. Use unsalted butter, and only the finest facilities you can afford. Then go on TV with your tiny little twin brother and explain how you did it, so that others will say "YES. If two ewoks can drop on the power of the BananaCream, so can THIS guy who's been up all fuggin' night wonderin' where his pie has gone."
-======================-
In the preceding story, for a lesson in social interaction and financial progress, you can remove the word "Pie" and include "Pimpy Sauce" or "PurpleFlake Colombian" or "GroupieLove." You know how it is in the game, man.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Sometimes you get a piece as a reward for helping make the pie. Perhaps the pie was your idea to begin with, from the shape to the recipe to the full production and presentation. So you should get pretty much the whole pie, if things were all equal.
Sometimes you are given a piece of pie "just 'cause." You likes pie, the giver knows of your affinity for pie, and why not have a little more?
But there's a giant pie divider that says "No matter how much pie you have, we get some of it. If you want to have ANY pie, you have to share some with others. Not the whole thing, but enough that you'll feel like you are left with crumbs. Some people have NO pie, so enjoy what you get." It's not your fault that some people have NO pie, you're doing the best you can to get yours! And the more pie you get, the more you have to give back. It's the sliding pie-grab scale. Work harder, have more pie in front of you? Prove you made it, and you don't have to give any back. If someone gave it to you, however, not only will the giver have to remove some pie, the HQ of Pie is gonna take a piece of whatever you spread around.
You don't want to throw the pie around, you like the pie. But bills cost pie. Shoes cost pie. Pies cost pie. Every exchange of pie requires a nibble-more than you would like, so that pieholes are filled in homes and roads and schools. It's how the pie goes round, and how more pie comes to you.
Now, you can start making your own pie all you like. It's not an easy endeavor, but if you can turn out enough pies, you will be happier than most folks. Use quality ingredients like blood, sweat, and Granny Smith apples. Use unsalted butter, and only the finest facilities you can afford. Then go on TV with your tiny little twin brother and explain how you did it, so that others will say "YES. If two ewoks can drop on the power of the BananaCream, so can THIS guy who's been up all fuggin' night wonderin' where his pie has gone."
-======================-
In the preceding story, for a lesson in social interaction and financial progress, you can remove the word "Pie" and include "Pimpy Sauce" or "PurpleFlake Colombian" or "GroupieLove." You know how it is in the game, man.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, February 21, 2005
A Weak End to The Weekend
Oh Hey there!
Today is President's Day. People all over the nation are celebrating the majesty of the highest political office in the land by sleeping off a hangover, implanting a GPS chip to their 14 year-old daughter's hymen, and/or a JC Penney 23.5-hour sale! See how much our President's mean to us these days? It's been decades since a President put forth the effort and integrity that would deem him worthy of so much as an adult bookstore's wanking closet let alone a public library. But we're erecting... heh heh heh... them like these libraries are serving overpriced coffee. Yay President! More on that group later.
==========
I'll back up a little bit, because I had a pretty great weekend that I want to blog/brag (brog? blag?) about. Friday night took soon-to-be Birthday Girl Killoo Run-Run O'Neill, The Magnificent and Warning-Hot! Alicia, Some other guy, and all 3 of Killorn's parents out to a fine dinner of sweet-assed Americana. Yes, she has 3 parents. Dad, Mom, And Wicked Step-Mom. All three are pretty wicked, in a decent way. We sat and ate and drank wine for three hours. Quite decadent, really. Appetizers were crab-stuffed lobster tails. Maincourse was veal-stuffed lamb-shanks. For dessert? Hot Fudge baby! DE-LISH! I talked real estate investing and market leverage for quite some time with Killorn's dad, who is as jocular and warm a man you'd ever want to buy you dinner. Great food, great people, even if Some Other Guy was there. Frick.
Saturday night was the reception dinner for some dear friends of mine, Greg Amer and Valerie Nguyen. Now Valerie Amer. Stay with me... Luckily, Alicia "The Girl Can Dance, Yo" was able to go with me. We ate grilled salmon, filet mignon, and then Salty's tried to get by with sliding German Chocolate cake to us for dessert. Hey Salty's, save it, okay? I had a hot fudge baby not less than 24 hours prior, you think this coconut chunder's going to pass for yum-yums? Then YOU eat it.
It was a great reception. I've known the Amers since 1982, and got to see all of Greg's family, including his younger brother Russ who has been my best friend since '82, except for that year he was on the road with the Charlie Daniels Band. The road changes a Russ. So true. I also had a quaint time with some friends from High School who are parents now, both of them younger than I am. Their son was really a cute kid, though, and was having a great time. It always cracks me up to see kids dancing, because they just put movement to music, no pretense to look cool. Just a bouncing around the dance floor and a big "EAT ME" to the world. Okay, maybe that last part's a little much, but, uh... Congrats Greg And Valerie! Just under 8 years, sweet!
So I'm tired and just want to post this thing. More another time when there's more...
MORE
Hunter S. Thompson committed suicide last night. WTF? Great job by the Denver Post of gently breaking the news. It softens the shock to use the words "Shoot" and "In the head" right in the headline. Apparently the Denver-ites don't have time for details, just the Who and How. Enjoy the Penney's White Sale!
And you thought it sucked going to Sunday School?
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Today is President's Day. People all over the nation are celebrating the majesty of the highest political office in the land by sleeping off a hangover, implanting a GPS chip to their 14 year-old daughter's hymen, and/or a JC Penney 23.5-hour sale! See how much our President's mean to us these days? It's been decades since a President put forth the effort and integrity that would deem him worthy of so much as an adult bookstore's wanking closet let alone a public library. But we're erecting... heh heh heh... them like these libraries are serving overpriced coffee. Yay President! More on that group later.
==========
I'll back up a little bit, because I had a pretty great weekend that I want to blog/brag (brog? blag?) about. Friday night took soon-to-be Birthday Girl Killoo Run-Run O'Neill, The Magnificent and Warning-Hot! Alicia, Some other guy, and all 3 of Killorn's parents out to a fine dinner of sweet-assed Americana. Yes, she has 3 parents. Dad, Mom, And Wicked Step-Mom. All three are pretty wicked, in a decent way. We sat and ate and drank wine for three hours. Quite decadent, really. Appetizers were crab-stuffed lobster tails. Maincourse was veal-stuffed lamb-shanks. For dessert? Hot Fudge baby! DE-LISH! I talked real estate investing and market leverage for quite some time with Killorn's dad, who is as jocular and warm a man you'd ever want to buy you dinner. Great food, great people, even if Some Other Guy was there. Frick.
Saturday night was the reception dinner for some dear friends of mine, Greg Amer and Valerie Nguyen. Now Valerie Amer. Stay with me... Luckily, Alicia "The Girl Can Dance, Yo" was able to go with me. We ate grilled salmon, filet mignon, and then Salty's tried to get by with sliding German Chocolate cake to us for dessert. Hey Salty's, save it, okay? I had a hot fudge baby not less than 24 hours prior, you think this coconut chunder's going to pass for yum-yums? Then YOU eat it.
It was a great reception. I've known the Amers since 1982, and got to see all of Greg's family, including his younger brother Russ who has been my best friend since '82, except for that year he was on the road with the Charlie Daniels Band. The road changes a Russ. So true. I also had a quaint time with some friends from High School who are parents now, both of them younger than I am. Their son was really a cute kid, though, and was having a great time. It always cracks me up to see kids dancing, because they just put movement to music, no pretense to look cool. Just a bouncing around the dance floor and a big "EAT ME" to the world. Okay, maybe that last part's a little much, but, uh... Congrats Greg And Valerie! Just under 8 years, sweet!
So I'm tired and just want to post this thing. More another time when there's more...
MORE
Hunter S. Thompson committed suicide last night. WTF? Great job by the Denver Post of gently breaking the news. It softens the shock to use the words "Shoot" and "In the head" right in the headline. Apparently the Denver-ites don't have time for details, just the Who and How. Enjoy the Penney's White Sale!
And you thought it sucked going to Sunday School?
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
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