All:
Crazy is a pretty strong term. I know, I know, it is akin to *retarded* or *retard* in that people throw it around loosely. I get it. And maybe my behavior in recent years hasn't been doing me any favors in the image department but, seriously, when did I become the poster child for mental illness?
I mean, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting someone who is saying that so-and-so "is crazier than a shithouse rat." You know, I shouldn't have to defend myself but sometimes -- I don't know, man -- it just hits at the wrong spot at the right time. Does that make sense?
First off, I'm not crazy. I have tested off the fucking charts through supervised programs at both the Rodential Behavior Institute, as well as the Shithouse Owners University Program at Towson State, also known as SOUP. I know, I know, my behavior of late could be called erratic. I'll own that. That's fair. But it's far from crazy. I don't know. I just feel like I've been conflicted lately, man. You know? Sometimes life gets up in your ass or you get bunched up because of those little cliques that form on the fringe of the shithouse. You hear the gossip and you know, you just know, it's best to let it roll off and ignore it. I will admit that sometimes it gets the best of me. But who doesn't, from time to time? Oh, you're saying YOU don't? Really?
Secondly, I do spend pretty much all of my time in and around a shithouse, which, as you can surmise, isn't the healthiest or most charming environment. Yeah, yeah, I get into town now and then for those free Thai Chi workshops and the occasional Dumpster dive behind the Quizno's there, but really, that's about it. I would like to see you spend all of your time subsisting on excrement, and collapsing your spine to the size of a penny so you can get in and out of those pesky crevices. You'd be touch and go too, bitch. I'm losing my tail, my eyes aren't as beady as they were when I was younger. It's just--it can be a lot somedays.
And just so you know, I'm not going running to the AdCouncil or the Seventh Day Adventists to lobby for a new advertising campaign to alter the usage of "crazier than a shithouse rat." I know some dudes who actually embrace it and, quite honestly, live up to it rather consistently, if you know what I'm saying. But, we're not ALL crazy.
You know, maybe I can get NBC to do one of those "And that's one to grow on" PSAs or something. Either way, a little understanding and tolerance might help both of us.
Warmest regards,
The Shithouse Rat
Annually, we are graciously invited to spend a weekend on Torch Lake, courtesy of Cousin Matt and his monolithic-sized displays of hospitality. It is a divine lakefront property and the weekend is pretty much a food- and booze-centered pursuit of hedonism. I have been fortunate enough to conduct such research that has resulted in dispatches on Torch Lake seen here, here, here, and here. It's a hell of a great time and this summer was no exception. Or was it?
Well, it wasn't, but I was trying to be coy. This weekend was near the calendar where my 40th birthday fell. And while we enjoyed some fine company, and a full Saturday in the sun, by the dock, drinking and goofing off, the night was full of quite a rich surprise.
Friday night was a good bbq dinner and much consumption. It would end late, with a few of us in the lower level bar.
Someone had the right idea -- not to mention perfect timing -- and dropped off a plate of freshly baked monkey bread at about 1 in the morning. It's basically a giant glazed doughnut on a plate.
Spent some booze-saturated quality time with the wily and elusive Mr. Farmer,
as well as with our generous and thoughtful host and hostess, the newly engaged themselves.
Saturday would showcase quite a weekend's pinnacle. We drank all day down by the dock, in the water, on the boat, and then napped for a little before a fine meal of Matt's lamb tenderloin, expertly prepared as usual. Following that, Mrs. Chicken broke out what is arguably one of the best birthday surprises I've received since a bicycle when I was 10.
She coordinated with our dear friend Nicki Q., herself a first-rate graphic designer. The birthday theme? 40's for the 40th. Mrs. Chicken procured a case of quarts after Nicki had created 3 separate custom labels on which to affix to each bottle. Each label requires a brief description, but I admire firstly Nicki's attention to detail, from the barcode to the collateral language on the label, the entire production was just perfect.
This photo doesn't do much justice and the pdfs I have of the labels aren't loading, so I will scan the originals and reload later.
The first label is a play on a picture of me with the dog's tail draped across my forehead, presenting the appearance that I am the owner of a horribly produced rug.
For one of the other labels, Nicki went deep into the hole of design themes. It is a play on the photograph in this post, where I highlight the painful antics of falling flat on my ass on a stationary rock after having one too many mixies. The background on this label is patterned after the actual bruise itself. I love the detail on the warnings. Sad, but true.
And the last label kind of says it all ...
It appears they enjoyed a certain type of popularity, as they sat empty Sunday morning, keeping a watchful eye on the lake.
Mrs. Chicken crafted a perfect little birthday cake, which we thought we would enjoy Sunday morning with breakfast. Looks like one of the seven, four-legged guests had a different idea in the middle of the night.
Epic weekend. Everyone should turn 40 amid this much fun.
which is why we rarely use it.
The Plaxico Burress interview coming up on ESPN should be quite a display in flagrant falsehoods, just like every other soundbite to come from an NFL player or coach. Ask a coach about his team's fan base and he will say, on cue, "We have the greatest fans in the world." Just once, I'd like to hear someone say "We have some really good fans, some very loyal, very intelligent people paying good, hard-earned money to watch this team play live on Sundays. But, you know, those guys who sit in the front row of Sec. D, right by the 30-yard-line? Those guys with the jerseys who do the chant? Those guys are just assholes. I mean, seriously, someone needs to punch those guys in their little marble bags or some shit because they're just obnoxious."
But, such words will never be uttered for they are rooted in the truth. And so it is with the Plaxico interview. The whole thing will be peppered with lies and inaccuracies because a guy like him, with the ego he has, would never put himself in a state of vulnerability, the type that comes with being truthful and humble. He shot himself -- or, as I've heard it pronounced in some neighborhoods, as "he shot his self" -- in the leg with a concealed weapon he brought to a NYC nightclub, a sidearm that was unregistered. He will now do 2 years in the joint (actually about 14 months with good behavior). This interview with Jeremy Schaap should be interesting. Some excerpts:
When asked by Schaap when he first realized he had shot himself, Burress said he looked down and saw the top of his shoe was red, covered in blood. Really? That loud pop and excruciating pain didn't give it away? Are you sure about that?
Burress also said the gun slid down his leg, inside of his pants, and when he slapped his hand on it over his pants to stop it from hitting the ground, it went off. "What are the odds?" Plax asks Schaap. Well, if you're you, Plaxico, I say those odds turn out to be, well, 1:1.
But the signature smell of bullshit, the lie to end all lies in this stupid fucking story comes with the interviewer asking the felon why he simply didn't have a holster, if he planned on carrying his handgun to the nightclub. "Bad judgment" is Burress' reply. Bad judgment. No, Plax, willingly having sex with someone you know has herpes is bad judgment. Eating a pack of Oreos before going into the dentist is bad judgment. Not securing your loaded weapon as you walk into a small arena full of the intoxicated and coked up? Now, that's the work of the empty-headed.
And not only a stupid answer, but a transparent one at that. You didn't use a holster because it was a bad call in judgment?
No, you didn't use a holster because you don't see West Coast rapper The Game using a holster in his videos. Or, because you never once heard your boy Lil Wayne rapping about how he removed his gun from the holster and disengaged the safety before spraying fools, sucker MCs, and anyone else he sees unfit to hold his cup of Patron. Because, with a holster, the handle of the Glock won't protrude from the waistband of your trousers like it does in the gangsta visuals that come courtesy of videos and poorly produced feature films.You didn't use a holster for the same reason I don't wear a helmet when I ride a bicycle: Because you feel like a dork with one on, and because you don't think you need it.
Jocks lie. Owners lie. They are all full of shit. Nick Saban says he would never coach at Alabama. George Steinbrenner says Joe Torre isn't going anywhere. Rafael Palmeiro says he never took a steroid. Mike Vick says he didn't mean to kill those dogs and that he feels remorse about it. And Tuesday night on ESPN, Burress is going to do more of the same, on the counsel of his attorney and agent, not giving a rodent's rear end that we can all see right through him with the same cut-through-warm-butter ease of the bullet that went through his leg.
Shame it didn't careen up and go through his fucking head.
There is speculation that the driver of the red minivan pulled a vigilante-style commando move on the stolen truck. Either way, the footage is spectacular. The driver of the stolen car is dead. Fuck car thieves.
We spent a couple of days in Chicago recently and, as usual, came away refreshed and inspired. The visit was a couple-fold. First, to rectify a long-overdue visit with my nephew, who is entering his senior year at Northwestern. The other was to see friends of ours during the Sheffield Garden Walk, and to take in a performance of my wife's favortite band, Chicago's Poi Dog Pondering.
On the heels of Mrs. Chicken's 20-year class reunion the night before, we broke for Chicago early Sunday morning, checking in to what had to be the most pleasantly surprising and charming accommodations we have encountered in years, the Belden-Stratford Hotel in the city's Lincoln Park neighborhood.
This hotel room was more like a one-bedroom apartment, replete with a kitchenette and living room. Not bad for a hundred bucks a night. And the location was ideal. We were within walking distance of Sunday night's outdoor live music, as well as dinner with the Parkers on Monday.
We took advantage of the location and headed a few blocks away to the infamous Weiners Circle.
This was my inaugural visit and most assuredly will have to be my last. The chow did not agree with me, but damn if it wasn't tasty going down.
And that wasn't the only dog we came to admire in the neighborhood.
It was an exercise in pure glee to be able to hang out Sunday with not only my nephew Sam, but with Janet, Nancy and Chris (who, by the way, just kept the beers coming; very generous and much appreciated, sir). Before the event, we had a quiet dinner with Sam amid a good hour or so of conversation and the practice of catching up. We love and admire that young man. He is, simply put, one of the good guys.
We got up Monday morning while seemingly the rest of the world was at work, save, of course for hairdressers and educators, and rented some bikes near North Avenue Beach for a ride along the lake. It was a blissful 75 and sunny. I stopped at the Shakespeare statue to pay homage.
We cruised casually along the lake, stopping once to give our asses a break from the seats and to admire the environs.
This guy in the middle was getting ready to take a mid-day dip in Lake Michigan.
When I say "this guy," I really mean to say "this crazy motherfucker," because he dropped in that lake, into some seriously choppy waters and swam like a fucking shark until we could not longer see him.[oh, and I cropped that photo on purpose, so as to retain the chick's ass on the left].
Another delightful vista on our respite was arguably one of the cutest old ladies I've seen in a long time, just hanging out in the park, creating. Talk about your golden years. "Honey! I'll be back in a few hours. I'm going down to the park to paint."
We rode for approximately15 miles and got some sun, before lunching superbly at Mity Nice Grill and returning to the room to ready for dinner with Chris, Tracy, and their adorable little girl, Merrick. Always good to see those guys. Always come away with a certain amount of guilt that Kerry and I don't work harder to spend more time with them. Still, it was a lovely evening. We capped a delicious meal with some fine confections at Molly's Cupcakes. Admittedly, we were whipped from our bike ride and the day's activities, and decided to call it a somewhat early night.
Our last day was the next day, Tuesday, so we got up early, checked out, and drove to Evanston to see Sam for breakfast and a quickie tour of the north part of Northwestern's lush and beautiful campus.
Sam took us in and out of some of the historic buildings on campus,
as well as the painfully modern library.
We had only 2 days in this great city, and packed in as much time with quality people as you can imagine. I personally fell short in the quality company department when plans for happy hour drinks with Tony B. fell, as a result of my inaction, away from the bone. I promise I'll catch him on the next visit, which will definitely occur before year's end. We'll be back. We'll always be back.
You can't deny Chicago.
Toast.
Thanks, Steve.
