Fixing some holes

"Armed with a can of washable spray paint, an artist in Greater Manchester, England, has embarked on a worthy crusade: to rid the region of potholes… by drawing penises on them." - Huffington Post

Makes perfect sense to me. What do the authorities think about it?

"not only stupid but incredibly insulting to local residents"

Perfect! I'm sold!

Listen live tonight: The Goat Cheese Challenge!

Last week on the Spike On The Mic Show, Spike revealed that he did not like goat cheese. Shortly thereafter, he also revealed that he has never had goat cheese. The response to this was the invocation of the most un-arguable mom logic of all time: How do you know if you've never tried it?

So this week on the Spike On The Mic Show, we will be doing The Goat Cheese Challenge. Spike is very excited about it...

Oh, yes we are, Spike. Yes. We. Are.

So tune in tonight, if for no other reason than to listen to a man eat something he's decided that he already doesn't like.

The Spike On The Mic Show

Tonight - Monday, April 27 - 7PM

Listen Live here

or join us in person at Pin Chasers Midtown

4847 N. Armenia Ave

For The Goat Cheese Challenge! 

(ala "Jukebox Hero" by Foreigner)

Goat cheese is good, but Spike disapproves

He likes cow cheese, the animal that moos

He's never tried, cheese from a goat

Be open-minded, swallow goat cheese down your throat

So we're gonna get some Triscuits

Ain't never gonna stop

Maybe even some biscuits

Gonna put some goat cheese on the top

And have a Goat Cheese Challenge, put cheese in his mouth

Do the Goat Cheese Challenge

He'll taste one cracker, Goat Cheese Challenge, cheese way down south

Goat Cheese Challenge, he'll come alive tonight

Busy today, here's a re-run... err, encore performance

Sorry, my hands are full and I'm unable to post new content for today. But here's a comic strip I ran back on December 2, 2009. It ran under the title "Me, some day...". It might be suitable to re-title it "Me, now". Please enjoy!

The hero takes a stand

About a week or so ago, I was leaving work and it was very late, around midnight. As I made my way to the parking garage, I could hear someone yelling very loudly. As I got closer, I realized it was a man (a large man) yelling at a homeless guy. The man was berating him at the top of his lungs and the considerably-smaller and relatively-frail homeless guy was literally cowering. Meanwhile, the big guy's wife or girlfriend is trying to restrain him, stepping in front of him and pleading, "can we just go please?" Apparently the big dude had given the homeless guy a dollar and he had either asked for more or not shown what the big guy expected in the form of gratitude, based on me hearing him say "you should take the dollar I gave you and say thank you, you worthless piece of shit!" Granted, I can certainly see where somebody might take umbrage to someone ignoring the commonly accepted theorem that 'Beggars can't be choosers' but I'm not sure it should make someone that angry. Maybe the homeless guy was truly in a desperate situation and really needed another dollar. Then again, maybe he spit on the big guy's wife's shoes. I don't know, I didn't see the whole thing. But I have a feeling that it was a case of the big guy going off on an out-of-proportion tirade to satisfy his ego or release frustration over other stuff in his life or to impress his lady (and if that was the idea, it was obviously a failure). At any rate, the poor homeless guy was clearly terrified, in genuine fear for his safety. As I mentioned Monday, I tend to avoid these unpleasant situations, but I'm actually not a complete coward.
When I got off the elevator on the rooftop level where I was parked, I could hear the big guy still yelling. Enough was enough already. I went over to the edge to yell at him and the fun began...

"Hey, shut up and leave that guy alone."
"What did you say?!?"
"You heard me, jagoff. I said shut up. Nobody wants to hear it."
"Mind your own business, asshole!"

Suddenly, I was amused. Like the way a monkey up in a tree messing with a lion on the ground is amused.

"Come up here and make me!"
"Come down here and I'll kick your ass!!"
"I will pee on your head, you big dummy."
"I'm coming up there!!"
"I already told you to shut up, you idiot. You suck and you're ugly."

We went back and forth on that level a few times, me giggling like a 10-year-old, before he broke away from the woman who had successfully restrained him up to that point and ran to the elevator. That's when I started to laugh really hard.

Because I don't know if he was so stupid that he didn't know how elevators work or if he was so mad that he simply forgot, but you can be as angry as you want and run as fast as you can to to an elevator but you are going to end up standing there while the elevator sl-o-o-o-wly gets to your floor, where the doors sl-o-o-o-wly open, you jump inside and furiously mash the button while waiting for the doors to sl-o-o-o-wly close and then wait for it to sl-o-o-o-wly get to the desired floor while being serenaded by a cheesy instrumental version of "The Girl From Ipanema". It doesn't matter how angry you are, you can't rage-run an elevator.

Still, he would make his way up eventually and would almost certainly be in a very foul mood when he arrived. So I went to my vehicle, got inside and waited. I didn't want him to see me take off and I figured with it being dark, unless he went car-to-car and peered inside each one, he wouldn't see me and would just get back in the elevator and go downstairs, which would free me up to resume chirping at him. Plus, I was having a lot of fun. I felt like a 10-year-old, in a good way!
The elevator doors opened and he came storming out which made me squeal like a little girl ("Eeeeeee! Here he comes!"). Of course, he didn't see anyone and instead of getting back in the elevator and going downstairs, he started going car to car and peering inside! Oh shit! I was still laughing but now I knew I'd have to make a break for it. I had to be strategic though. I didn't want him to be close enough where he might think he could catch me on foot. What if he tripped and cracked his skull and seriously hurt himself or some other stupid, tragic outcome that could get me in actual trouble?
Eventually, he was about equal distance from me and the down ramp so I made my move, windows down, screaming with hysterical laughter as I drove off.
I thought I had gotten away cleanly until I got to the ground floor, and waiting at the exit gate was the woman he had been with! Uh-oh! I pulled up and she said, "Did you see anybody up there, walking around and looking for someone?" I replied, "Yeah, he's up there chasing some crazy person around. You should go up there and get him before someone gets hurt." She muttered, "Oh ferchrissakes..." and stormed off to the elevator as I headed home.

Does this count as helping the homeless?

Mea culpa

Last week, ESPN reporter Britt McHenry got herself in a whole lot of trouble by getting caught on video berating a woman and insulting her personal appearance. In case you missed it somehow, here's a link to the video. As you might imagine, response from the internet was swift, vicious and overwhelming. I jumped in with a series of sarcastic Tweets last Friday. I didn't resort to B-words, C-words, W-words or near-death threats (not my style) but I was pretty nasty about it, in my own way.
And I deeply regret it.
Not because I think Britt McHenry is being unfairly judged. I don't buy a word of her obviously-written-by-some-PR-flack "apology"; having watched the video, she's angry but clearly in control of her emotions and it's also apparent that she believes her being born with good looks entitles her to look down on certain other people. Screw her, she's a piece of crap.

Plus, this will always be funny.

Also, for what it's worth, I have a pretty low opinion of these towing companies too, an opinion based on my own personal experiences. Sure, there are some companies that go out and do road-ranger service and help people in need, but there are lots of them that sit back and operate as predators. I have a feeling that's the kind of scumbag company McHenry is dealing with in this scenario (the video is heavily edited and contains almost none of what was said to McHenry), so screw them too.
No, what I feel bad about is weighing in on this particular, high-profile issue (it's yet another "news" story that only exists because there's video) when I've witnessed several similar incidents in person and haven't said a word. I don't even know how many times I've seen people be shitty to waiters, store clerks, fast-food workers, stadium and theater ushers etc. Hundreds? Maybe. I do know that every single time, I've stared at my feet, waited for the unpleasantness to pass and been somewhat annoyed that I had to be witness to something that made me uncomfortable.

"How dare something like this happen when I'm nearby enough to have to know about it?!?"

But seeing the McHenry story cross my screen while I'm sitting at my keyboard and all of a sudden I, along with apparently everybody else, am imbued with righteous indignation to the point that I just can't accept such horrible treatment of our poor, downtrodden hourly wage slaves and that I simply must spew forth wordage in their defense.

"Look at me. I'm helping!"

That's hypocritical chickenshit and I'm sorry I allowed myself to being drawn into participating. It's a classic case of Internet Muscles and I would have liked to have believed I was above such nonsense. I mean, at least I didn't go this route...

Jesus, man!

...but I'm capable of doing better and I should do better, especially when I'm sure I'll have plenty of opportunities to get involved in a situation like this on a personal, face-to-face basis. And if I fail at that level, then it's double shame on me.

Sizzler '91

Back in 1991, folks didn't have the internet to generate bullshit, nor could they use it to call out some corporation on said bullshit. Back then, you could get away with a four-and-a-half minute mini-infomercial to tout something like Sizzler and what they considered a dynamic new dining concept that they felt was exactly what not-completely-out-of-control-fat-assed-yet America needed.
 With slogans like "Sizzler is the choice every day" (which sort of implies a lack of choices, doesn't it?), a "We Are The World"-esque soundtrack (good luck not singing it in your head when it's over), images of food such as "fresh fish" that appears to be stuffed with the insides of old golf balls and populated by people who look like they sprung to life after a folder full of stock photos had chemicals spilled on it and then was struck by lightning, this is truly an epic achievement in the field of complete and utter failure. Because the one we had in Tampa has looked like this for well over ten years now:

"It's unique! It's bold!" It's closed and has long since been turned into a Chinese buffet!

See, the idea of "It's a restaurant within a restaurant" is only appealing if that restaurant within isn't a Sizzler too.
Here are some screencaps with even more snarky commentary...

Among the many standard all-American archetypes making an appearance early on is this gnarled old sea captain leering creepily at a small child. Yep, that old trope.

Lots of girls play baseball now. In 1991, I guess it must have been harder to find one who actually knew how to grip a bat.

Why do I have a feeling that this jog finishes up here?

Sadly, this tender moment came to a sudden and tragic end when real sailors (the ones with Navy regulation haircuts) came over from that ship and beat the living daylights out of this guy.

The only thing that lesbians in hard hats enjoy more than reviewing blueprints is eating at Sizzler! ("Sizzler" may be a euphemism, if that helps you enjoy this joke more). 

The phone! Look at the phone! Look at it!

Oh hi, black people! Huh? No, we didn't almost forget to include you.

The last of the hot, big-haired girls of the '80s were rounded up and put in storage by Sizzler for the purpose of making this commercial.

Some of the last of the hot, big haired girls of the '80s were a little psychotic by then.

I was going to make a comment about 1991 Sizzler excluding gay men but they got one. Way to go. Very progressive of you, 1991 Sizzler. Of course he's a waiter.

Jesus, last of the hot, big haired girls of the '80s! Get a room within a room!

Go, go, go with a smile!

If you weren't hungry before, this image of an old lady shaking off sweat in slow motion like a freshly-bathed Golden Retriever should do it for you.

"See those trees over there? Yeah, we'll just chop those right the fuck down and we'll have enough room to build forty or fifty Sizzlers easy."

An explanation (if not apology) for anticipated unavailability

Hi there.
Chances are that things are about to become more sporadic in terms of my availability, here and in real life. Why? Because this starts happening tonight for the Tampa Bay Lightning and will rule my life for as long as it lasts...

Hopefully, that all pays off with something that looks kind of like this...

If that happens, it will have all been worth it. I know. Because it was totally worth everything last time.
At any rate, I'm not making any specific plans but less of me here will mean more of me here, so there's that.
Soooo, see ya around, unless I don't, in which case you have a pretty good idea why, or why not, depending on which is more grammatically correcter.

Steak and Taxes Day

Hi. I'm Clark Brooks. Writer, comedian and apathy enthusiast.
I'm a busy man and I don't like to waste time.
I love it!

That's why when it's time to do my taxes, it's April 14th or so, like yesterday, and that means it's time for me to ask Rachel to do my taxes.
Rachel is a CPA (that stands for Clark's Personal Accountant) who works for a big company that does a lot of people's taxes and she understands why I do things the way I do... well, maybe she doesn't understand, but she tolerates it which is just as good, as far as I'm concerned. So when I head over to her house with a handful of what looks like garbage but is actually my pertinent tax info with about 24 hours before the deadline during what is already an insanely busy time at work for her, I know that not only will I be getting the maximum refund to which I am entitled, but I'll also be getting a home-cooked steak dinner as well. That's right, a steak dinner. With potatoes, salad and pie for dessert! Hot damn, that's some good taxation!

Thanks, Obama. No, seriously. Thank you!

My friend Rachel: Because people like me don't get away with pulling half the stunts we do without someone putting up with it, if not actively enabling us.

Thanks, Rachel!

NOTE: This is not an advertisement for services available. Get your own home-cooked meal-making CPA, freeloaders.

Selective OCD

I almost never put my car keys in the same place twice when I come home, which often results is unnecessarily adventurous mornings the next day (that reminds me, I should probably start tracking down my tax stuff).

But eating these without organizing them by color first? What am I, a mad man??

I don't always have a cubicle neighbor, but when I do, this happens

Capping a week where the discussion here has focused heavily on baked goods, today we're going to talk about sandwiches. Kind of. Most sandwiches aren't baked and they're actually incidental to the story below so it's all right if we stray from the theme because we don't really do themes around here. You should know that by now.

Where I work (my real "job", the one which actually furnishes me with money to pay my bills and buy food and stuff), I have a cubicle. It's got glass windows and it's located all the way at the far end of the office where I work, so I have privacy and yet I'm not subject to claustrophobia. It's pretty sweet, as far as cubicles go.
Another nice feature is that the cubicle directly next to mine is usually vacant. Except for a few times a week when Amanda has work to do. That's her in the picture. It wasn't my intent to take and post a picture her back; it was my intention to trick her into turning around so I could take and post an off-guard picture of her face. The fact that she caught on and refused to cooperate says a lot about our relationship.
She works in another department in another part of the building and spends most of her time there at her regular desk, but on the occasions when she has to work over here, I take the opportunity to entertain myself, as is my wont. Often, this takes the form of nonsensical question and answer sessions like this, which could go on for hours if not days, if it were up to me:

"Hey Amanda."
"Hi Clark."
"What's up?"
"Nothing. What's up with you?"
"What's your food situation?"
"My food situation?"
"Yeah. What you got?"
"I don't have any food."
"Come on. You got some sandwiches on you or something? What's up?"
"Sandwiches? Like, more than one sandwich? Why would I be carrying a bunch of sandwiches around with me? Have I ever done that? Does anybody do that?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
"No, I do not have any sandwiches on me."
"This is how people learn. No such thing as a dumb question, you know."
"That's pretty close though."
"Now, you've been very particular in saying you don't have any sandwiches. What do you have?"
"I don't have any food."
"Come on, man."
"I don't!"
"I'm supposed to believe that of all the millions of kinds of food there are in the world, you don't have any?"
"Seriously. I have no food on me!"
"Okay, okay. You don't have to get angry."
"You're so insistent about it though. It's frustrating."
"What's frustrating is wanting a sandwich and not even being able to have one."
"Let me ask you, what's your food situation? What kind of food do you have?"
"I think it's apparent that I don't have any food. Otherwise, why would I be asking you for some? Duh."
"You made it sound like I'm just expected to have food on me all the time and..."
"Way to mock me for not having any food. Wow, real nice. You're America and I'm the Sudan. I get it. Your resources are abundant and we have nothing but blight and death. Ha ha ha. Very funny."
"I'm not mocking you for not having food. I don't have any food either, remember?"
"Think about it like if a goat or a dog came up to you. God's innocent creatures, right? They would ask the same question, and if anything, they'd be even more insistent about it. Would you get frustrated with them? I doubt it."
"Do you want to be treated like a goat or a dog? Is that what this is all about?"
"That's a ridiculous question."
"Okay, well... okay."
"So, just to be clear, you are saying that you have no sandwiches with you at this time, correct?
"Oh my God! Do you want me to go get you a sandwich?? What kind of sandwich do you want??"
"Not necessary. Just one of whatever you happen to have on you already is fine."
"..."
"Egg salad would be good. Or ham. Or turkey. Ooh, a club! You got any club sandwiches?"
"I do not have any sandwiches. None, okay? I have no sandwiches. No egg salad. No ham. No turkey."
"(slightly under my breath) So no clubs, I guess."
"Nothing! No food of any kind."
"Well, why didn't you just say so?" 

And so it goes. Unfortunately, it's not up to me and Amanda ends the delightful repartee by leaving mid-confabulation. That's okay. She always comes back a day or two later.

"For expert geopolitical analysis, we'll now turn to the comments under an Australian radio station's rainbow-cake recipe" or "For God's sake, never read the comments!"

Baked Goods Week continues, apparently, here at the Ridiculously Inconsistent purple blog, with the following delight, turned up by my good friend Clare, who is the mastermind behind Puckology, in response to Monday's post.

Rainbow-Cake Recipe Inspires Comment Apocalypse - by Albert Burneko, originally posted at The Concourse @ Deadspin.com, June 18, 2014

In which, we discover...

• That everything can be turned into a debate between conservatives and liberals.
• That you should never, ever read the comments posted to any article ever.
• Further proof that we as a species are utterly incapable of keeping our shit together when it comes to lovin' from the oven.
• And that this, and not our lack of regard for how we manage the dwindling resources we need for basic survival, will probably be the reason for our species' eventual extinction.

Again, with the cake

I wrote this a few months ago, wondering why cake is what seems to be the thing that gets people all worked up about same sex marriage.
Recently. we went through the deal with the pizzeria in Indiana, the one who thinks they may be put in a position of being asked to cater a gay wedding reception with their pizza, which isn't even a thing that would ever happen!

Maybe they've confused "gay wedding reception" with "gay Little League banquet"?

Then today, I saw this story out of Orlando, where the proprietors of a bakery are receiving death threats because they refused to make a cake with an anti-gay message on it that some minor league. online, agent provocateur (that's French for "shit stirrer") pretended to order.

Again, why is so much of the really heated basically all of the debate around same sex marriage about baked goods? You don't hear about churches or banquet halls refusing service or being boycotted or threatened one way or the other. Same with formal wear rental and honeymoon destinations. For that matter, nobody really seems to even have a problem with where these newlywed couples are going to live after the wedding.
But bring cake (or pizza) into it and everybody flips the hell out.
Seriously, can somebody explain this to me? I'm about as passionate about cake (and pizza) as I can be, and I literally can't imagine any circumstances involving fresh-from-the-oven tasty treats that would inspire me to make death threats, or do something stupid that inspires others to make death threats, nor be a part of a crowd-sourcing effort that raises nearly a million dollars for the purveyor of said tasty treats.
I think we all need to sit down over donuts or cookies and have a really frank discussion about what it really is that's got us all so worked up.
I'm betting we discover it's the donuts and cookies.

And now, a gentle, comforting, chuckle-inducing joke in 53 parts from Mr. Patton Oswalt

Patton Oswalt is an actor and stand-up comedian of some renown. The following joke appeared on Mr. Oswalt's "Twitter" feed on Wednesday, over the course of 53 individual "Tweets".

(1/53) Q: Why did the man* throw* butter* out of the window*? A: He wanted to see* butter fly*!
(2/53) "Man" in my previous Tweet should not be construed as privileged, misogynist or anti-trans.
(3/53) Nor should there be ANY assumption of said man's race or religion. It could be an African American man, Asian, or any one
(4/53) of the vast multi-cultural mosaic which make up the world we live in today. "Man" was simply an archaic placeholder for the
(5/53) "subject" of the joke, and thus should not denote privilege nor exclude any sexuality, religion, nationality or offend any
(6/53) feelings the joke listener may or may not have or have ever experienced in the past. Furthermore, the action of "throwing" is
(7/53) NOT meant in any way to imply an exclusion of the differently abled, or even someone who@may have ever felt excluded from
(8/53) And the choice of "butter" as the object being thrown was in NO WAY an insult to those with a strict lacto-vegan diet or
(9/53) ANYONE who may be lactose intolerant, might KNOW someone who is lactose-intolerant (or knows someone who is ka to-vegan) or
(10/53) may meet someone of those two persuasions anytime in the future. Also, "butter" does not mean the joke-teller is unaware of
(11/53) or insensitive to the abuses in our current factory-farming dairy industry, including neglect of animals or additions of
(12/53) hormones, pesticides or other contaminants. Also, PLEASE accept this pre-emptive apology if the word "butter" was a trigger
(13/53) for any time in the past the joke recipient may have been called a "butter face" or knows someone who was insulted in such a
(14/53) fashion. Aesthetic shaming is real and bullying hurts us all.
(15/53) Also, again, privilege. What else? Oh yes...
(16/53) "Out the window" was NOT meant as any sort of insult to the homeless population, in that the phrase "out the window"
(17/53) could EASILY be construed as placing the butter-thrower in a house which
(18/53) the butter thrower owns.
(19/53) The triggering potential for "out the window" is not to be underestimated.
(20/53) Nor should the act of THROWING AWAY food, which can be read as a violent, corporate-centric status maneuver.
(21/53) Privilege.
(22/53) Privilege.
(23/53) Privilege?
(24/53) PRIVILEGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'nnn
(25/53) The pronoun "he" in the 2nd part of the joke should, again, NOT be taken
(26/53) as a patriarchal assumption.
(27/53) Parts 28 through 36 will simply be the word "problematic" for your use in any other interpretation of the pronoun "he"
(28/53) Problematic.
(29/53) Problematic.
(30/53) Problematic.
(31/53) Problematic.
(32/53) Problematic.
(33/53) Problematic.
(34/53) Problematic
(35/53) Problematic
(36/53) Problematic
(37/53) "See" is, we all know, VERY POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING to any seeing impaired or blind people hearing the joke
(38/53) And, again, a pre-emotive apology is meekly offered.
(39/53) And the fact that Twitter does NOT offer a Braille version of its website is part of a larger problem
(40/53) which the joke was IN ABSOLUTELY NO WAY making light of.
(41/53) Finally, the fact the man wanted to see butter "fly"
(42/53) implies a flippant attitude towards mental illness or the subjects lack of abstract or
(43/53) or symbolic/empathetic thought which was NOT the aim of the joke
(44/53) or the joke teller. But context, as we know, does not matter. Only individual words and feelings do, so
(45/53) as always, and from now on, no matter what the intent, aim, or satirical content
(46/53) the deepest apology is offered to ANYONE
(47/53) ANYWHERE
(48/53) for ANY REASON WHATSOEVER
(49/53) who found any offense in the previous joke.
(50/53) Jokes should always entertain. EVERY SINGLE PERSON WHO HEARS THEM.
(51/53) A simple series of clarifying post-joke Tweets like the ones I just sent out will insure EVERYONE a gentle, comforting chuckle.
(52/53) Welcome to comedy in 2015, @Trevornoah!
(53/53) Also, the "come" part of "welcome" shouldn't be construed in a "faggy" way.

TBT one day early and one day late

I live a long way away from Benton Harbor (recently named fourth most dangerous city in the nation) where I grew up, about 1200 miles, and I've lived here in Florida almost twice as long as I ever lived there. Still, the place has a hold on me, at least in terms of some pretty strong memories. Sometimes, I like to go back and visit. Not by taking an actual trip where I physically travel from here to there, but via the magic of Google Maps, which allows you to look at still photos of virtually anywhere on Earth. It's pretty amazing but when it comes to old memories, it can be kind of jarring. The sizes of things, their appearance and their proximity to each other can become skewed, due to the passage of time, either as it pertains to your memory or the actual physical effects time has on objects. It's like asking someone to draw a picture based on what you tell them to draw and it doesn't look right when they're done, even though, of course it's totally, almost up-to-the-minute accurate.
Anyway, I took one of these virtual nostalgia trips recently and I screen-capped some places...

This is the house we lived in when I was born, on Smith Court in Benton Harbor. We lived there long enough for me to remember it and playing outside there but we had moved by the time my sister was born, so that means before I was four years old. It still looks basically the same, at least as far as the color of the house.

That building on the left is an old funeral home. To the immediate right of that used to be a multi-car garage where they parked the hearses and above that were two apartments, one of which my grandparents lived in. This was where my parents would dump us on weekends so they could have lives. It's also where I first learned about racism...

  I was spending a weekend being babysat by my grandparents. I went out to play and met two black kids, Petey and Andre, on the block behind my grandparents' apartment. We tore through Andre's house for hours like the maniacs that we were until Andre's mom understandably reached her breaking point and kicked all three of us out of her home. No problem, I thought, and invited the boys back to my grandparents' apartment to play. My grandmother was less than accommodating. She wouldn't let us in and at one point screeched, "They would never let me in their house, why should I let them in mine?". I remember thinking, "Well, no, not now..."

One of these two white houses (I don't remember which one) is Andre's house. The red brick on the right is the back of the funeral home.

This is the Baptist church right across the street from the grandparents' apartment. The building in the back is where they held the Sunday School where I was dropped off every Sunday and yet, failed to attend a stunning amount of times. I don't know about statutes of limitations so I may or may not have direct knowledge of a big box of donuts that disappeared from a banquet room one Sunday and was re-distributed among homeless people at a nearby soup kitchen.

We lived here for a while. I spent a lot of time playing in the huge willow tree in the back yard.

Oh look. It's the house where I was babysat after school for a couple of years and where I was sexually molested several times by an old man in a wheelchair during that time. That garage is "new" but that's definitely the place. I don't know if the same family lives there (I don't recognize the fella headed from the garage to the house) but that ramp at the front door makes me wonder. Wow, that warpo piece of shit would be in his 90's if he is still alive. An online real estate site says I could buy it for $50 grand, and set it on fire, which is kind of tempting. A pretty pointless gesture if the family, specifically the gnarled old pervert himself, isn't inside at the time, though.

We lived in these shitty apartments for a few years. The complex was called Napier Manor at the time. Now I guess it's called the Fairplain Village. I'm guessing it's as much a village now as it was a manor then. Suzie Wooster's mom, whom we called "The Bald Eagle" because of her short, white hair, called late one night when my parents weren't home and accused me of stealing Suzie's bike, me and my "nigger friend" Stefan, who lived next door. We didn't do it and I gave it right back to her on the phone, defending myself loudly and profanely. We never stole bikes. When dad got home, I told him the whole story and he called her back and gave her another earful. Stupid Bald Eagle.

Then we moved here, for some reason. I don't remember much about it. We didn't stay there very long.

The house where I lived throughout high school used to be here. You can't even tell there was ever anything here at all, can you? The house and the one that was right next door are just gone. I would guess that the community college next door bought the property but it's kind of weird that they just tore down the houses and didn't build anything.

I got pulled over on that little side road to the right by multiple police cars, after having been stopped on the drawbridge where we took the opportunity to blast the car next to us...with a squirtgun. Yep. As soon as the bridge went down, we (me and my friend Scott)  took off and veered off to the right and saw flashing lights behind us. We pulled over, a cop approached, told us to get out of our car and that's when we saw the seven police cars. Incredible! They frisked us and everything. I knew that we weren't in real trouble, that they were trying to scare us and that in Scott's case, it was working. He was freaking out. They told us to go sit back in the car and I decided to mess with him. "Man, let's just go." "What?!? No!" "Screw those guys. What are they gonna do? Chase us? Good luck!", I said, and I bumped the key a little, just enough to make the starter make a noise. We were eventually released with a lecture but Scott got busted because neighbors heard the whole thing on a police scanner and called his parents.

Here's the North Pier which extends out into Lake Michigan I don't even know how far. This is where we would go during stormy weather, with waves breaking across the pier, turning every surface into a slimy, slippery mess. The object was to go from stanchion to stanchion of the catwalk you see here, trying to get all the way to the lighthouse at the end and back, at the same time, trying to keep your friend from getting there first, or at all, by tripping him or hitting his hands as he held on for dear life, I guess with the hope that he would get swept right off and drown. Oh, ha ha ha! The folly of youth. I should probably be dead.

Hey, this post kind of took a little out of me so I'm taking Friday off, okay? Cool. Thanks.