You know, I was talking to an old friend (referred to here as “Captain Ron”) on the phone today that I hadn’t spoken to in years. The captain is the only guy I know that can hold his own with me on obscure pop culture references. And so many good natured arguments about music that I know too much about broke out, it was a gas. Afterward, we fired off emails to jot down what we could remember of the conversation so you all can enjoy the madness. His idea, not mine.
You’re a fly on the wall. Hold tight with your little antennae-esque feets!
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There it is, the damn birds are back. Despite my best efforts at a peaceful resolution, including:
-Placing a taxidermie’d panther in the garage to scare them off
-Hanging a rubber snake from the wall right in front of their favorite spot
-Flying in Jimmy Carter and Jesse Jackson to negotiate their peaceful retreat
they returned last night. I was not thinking and left the garage door open after returning from a shopping trip to Kohl’s, and like clockwork, when I went outside moments later to shut the door, they were sitting there. Yes, THEY. There’s two of them.
I destroyed their nest last weekend (when I went out in my Batman suit to scare them off), so presumably they have returned to build another. For a moment I admired their stubbornness. Salut’d them, I did. Then…

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You know what’s pissing me off right now? People’s stupid blindness in referring to Buffalo Wild Wings as “BW3′s”. There is only two W’s, people. Tuesday night after v0lleyball I got into a deep discussion of this with some of my teammates. They always call it that, because they know it makes me nuts. Like Homestar is this cartoon, it does. Too many college English classes, maybe, but I’m telling you, it really bothers me. There’s only two w’s. Not three. Stop it already, you.
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Over the past four nights, the Twins played a series of nailbiters against Cleveland. The past three nights were all extra-inning games, which is hell to watch. I guess this kind of drama in May is just getting us ready for October.
Last night when Shannon Stewart hit his game winning homer in the 11th, it was a good thing I own a house, because if I was still in an apartment, that would have been noise complaint city, baby!
My neighbors across the street are from Cleveland, and they’re big Tribe fans. Got a big Chief Wahoo sticker on their front door. So it always gives me great happiness to give them grief after the Twins beat them again.

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So I’m on my afternoon off, sitting shirtless out on my deck showing off my sexy abs of aluminum, listening to the iPod and enjoying the sunshine, when one of the greatest songs ever written by mankind came on. Of course the song of which I speak is “Smuggler’s Blues” by Glenn Frey. From Miami Vice. Its just so freaking great. I mean, every time I hear it I just have to sing along. Even when I’m on my deck, with headphones in.
So there I am, sitting on my deck, margarita in hand, singing “The sailors and the pilots, the soldiers and the law, the payoffs and the ripoffs and the things nobody saw. Don’t matter if it’s heroin, cocaine or hash, you’ve got to carry weapons ’cause you always carry cash. There’s lots of shady characters and lots of dirty deals, every name’s an alias in case somebody squeals. It’s the lure of easy money, it’s got a very strong appeal, you’d understand it better standing in my shoes. It’s the ultimate enticement, it’s the smugglers’ blues” and for some odd reason, the old retired lady that lives in the house behind me gave me this look of bewilderment. Like Voyager II had crossed so far across the universe that it came back to earth from behind and crashed on her deck or something.

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Boxers hanging below the outerwear, as modeled by me. Left pant leg pulled up slightly to properly illustrate the issue in so small a photograph. Yes. I am Awesome.
Its the end of the laundry cycle, and when that happens, boxer shorts always run out first. (Man, this is totally not the way I wanted to answer the boxer/brief question. Dammit! There goes the post scheduled for October 19. Shoot.) Well, yesterday it was the long-ass gangsta pair of Tommy Hilfiger boxers that hang down to the knee. They’re longer than most pairs of shorts, unless you wear the really long hip-hop shorts. No doubt they were designed with that particular type of outerwear in mind. They are the emergency pair, the ones that sit in the bottom of the drawer and only get busted out in the case of no clean alternatives, the ones that were a gift from an ex-girlfriend that I really don’t like to wear because they bring back bad memories…
Ordinarily its no big deal. But yesterday being Tuesday, its volleyball night, and when I put on my shorts to play, it became apparent that, at the right angle and with the right movements, they would hang down below the outerwear. Like I care. I have no shame, as you well know if you read this site regularly.

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