Mother. There is no other.

Mother. She takes my temperature when I don't feel right.

I miss Clark Madsen.

Kevin Spacey as Christopher Walken auditioning to be Han Solo.

Don't call me Cobra. Just don't do it.

I was verbally and emotionally accosted today by a foreign woman (she wouldn't tell me from where), who told me her life was ruined because someone, twenty-two years ago, used her first name (Cobra) fraudulently. Because of this scandal, her immediate family was all killed, the area above her business' drop ceiling was full of drugs, and she was being unfairly singled out for likely terrorist activity by Mayor Bill Clinton. In addition, the waist-high water accident in her shop was a conspiracy by the people next door who want her out so they can store even more drugs.

Yikes.

Please don't call me Cobra. Just don't do it.

What's Wrong With America

Well, this is just part of it, but it merits attention. Woman buys house for $1.2 million in 2005. Woman now feels the house is worth less because other houses in the neighborhood sold for $100k less. Woman sues her agent on the grounds he didn't disclose every sale price in the area.

I was brought up taking responsibility for my actions or inactions. Watching this pathetic woman makes me sick.

You didn't do your homework and may have paid too much. Suck it up, lady.

The coolest thing I never heard.

I was just looking over our wedding DJ's website, and really looked at our song list. We had a bitchin' play list, even though I can't remember a darn one. Here are my ten faves...

















1. Judas Priest; Metal Gods (Do NOT get married without this song.)
2. Dokken; Burning Like A Flame
3. Roxy Music; Love Is The Drug
4. Mighty Mighty Bosstones; Royal Oil
5. Kraftwerk; The Model
6. Lynard Skynard; Freebird (extended version)
7. The Toasters; Sweet Cherie
8. Bim Skala Bim; Hey Girl
9. 38 Special; Hold On Loosely
10. Pixies; Here Comes Your Man


If there's a tighter wedding playlist, well, sir...you're full of it. Let it go down in the annals of history that wedding song playlist perfection was attained on September 2, 2006.

Whoop! Whoop!

On growing old...

Oh, and while I'm reminiscing about Sir Edmund climbing the face of God at age 33, might I also throw in the fact that Julia Child started cooking with any real intent at age 37?

These people, and many more like them, continually inspire me to reach higher in my life, to accept that age is no excuse for complacency.

Thanks, for the pep rally, guys. Now in your honor I shall make a 29,028-foot souffle.

We finally knocked the bastard off...

"Well, George, we finally knocked the bastard off."

-Sir Edmund Hillary's first words (to friend George Lowe) upon returning from the summit of Mount Everest.









Sadly, one of my personal heroes from my childhood died of heart failure Friday. He was eighty-eight.

I always admired Sir Hillary for a number of reasons, not the least of which for his having stood as far off the surface of the earth as anyone can possibly do, and he did it first. What stuck with me most was that his conquest took place when he was 33 years old. How amazing is that?

We will miss you, Sir Edmund. Thank you for knocking the bastard off.

Legend of Midget Tree.

Last night, over drinks n' nibbles at a local restaurant, the Fox and I touched on an obscure but critical component of midget lore...the Midget Tree.

If you're not familiar, a Midget Tree is where a midget goes to die. At the end of their life cycle (which is longer than ours, by the way. One midget year equals almost three-and-a-half earth years,) they choose a tree to their liking, and become one with their new host. The tree then 'gives birth' to new midgets, like bearing fruit.

It sounds wonderful, I know. The beauty of nature doesn't overlook the midget one bit.

But there's a catch. There's always a catch. And I share this with you because you are my friends and I trust you not to abuse this powerful information.

If you stab the Midget Tree, any midgets born of that tree die.

Instead, why not nourish a Midget Tree? be kind to it, and feed it. To feed a midget tree is simple; it will eat anything that begins with the first letter "m" and the second letter a vowel. Like Mallow Bars, or (as a good friend pointed out) malt liquor.

So, be kind to a Midget Tree; you never know which tree could be one. And pass the legend on.

"Where have all the midgets gone?
Have they gone away for good?
Bring here some malt liquor,
And feed such tree,
As to bear more midget tree fruit for me."

-Attributed to Ricardo Montelbon

Ora guardi...questo prontissimo!

For reasons I can't exactly explain at the moment, this is the most brilliant f*cking thing I have ever seen. I think I've found my calling...

Romanza!

Actione!

Goblin!

Cock of the walk, baby.

The Fox and I like to play a game from time to time. We try to figure out who the actor we'd most like to see turn up unexpectedly at a major function (i.e. wedding) would be. We've bantered a spell on this topic, and some great names (Buscemi, Duvall, Farrell), and some odd choices (Winona?).

But time and time again, I come back to the tried and true.

Christopher Walken.

For me, I would have most liked to see him randomly at one of the bars at my wedding. Sipping a cocktail, perhaps eating some shrimp. We'd look at each other, nod slightly, and go about our ways.

For those that question why, try this on for size.

Or, this.

Or this.

Or...this, if you like CW but are in a Kevin Pollack mood.

My God! That's the most horrible thing I've ever heard! What do you call that?

All Hail, Orion the Hunter!

So there I was, standing the the Hall of Flags at the State House Thursday night, shooting the breeze with the Senator for Weymouth, when he mentions he's gotta run to the Hard Rock Cafe. He invites me, Carmen, and our two friends to come on over, there's a shindig going on for Barry Goudreau.

And I go, "no shit!"

And he goes, "no shit!"

See, the last time I ran into Barry was while waiting for the bathroom line to die down at the local. It was the last time I saw Brad Delp alive.

So I says, "hey, thanks, but we're getting sushi. Please tell him I said happy birthday."

And he says, "will do. Rock on."

Small world, huh?

I Vant To Suck Your Blood. (no, veally, I do!)

Happy Halloween, all. What would it be without a list?










5 Horror Movies Ya Just Gotta See

Ain't we got fun...

"I bet if you put bits of bacon on a strip of bacon, you could travel back in time."

-Jim Gaffigan

One of the good ones.

Someday, when DC is safely in the rear-view mirror, I will think back to this tree that lives in front of our condo and smile. I admit, the first year I saw this thing I thought the world was coming to an end, and this was the start of it all. It's actually kinda creepy how the flowers explode out of the branches. This year, though, it's all good, mang. The tree turned into a riot of purple as it always does, the bark is black from recent rains, and the contrast is wonderful. When all is said and done, I will miss this tree.

Michigan Bob, d.b.a. ...

While poor Heather is suffering in preggers-town, I'm gleefully drinking a Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale, thinking of nifty alternatives to Michigan Bob's moniker, should the need for alternatives arise. Here we go.


1. Remington Bronson Shannon: Brings the best of two worlds together, Remington firearms and Charles Bronson.

2. Fuego "Diamond" Shannon: A nod to the Jazz Singer with a latino flair.

3. Angus Blackjack Shannon: With a name like this, he'd probably require an eye patch. One with a Sox logo on it. He can tell people he once killed a Yanks fan just to watch him die. Plus, with the initials "A.B.S.", chicks will subconsciously think of the braking system in vehicles and feel safer with him around.

4. Macky "Guns" Shannon: No comment needed, other than to say if anyone made the mistake of singing "Mack The Knife" to this kid, he could go home, get daddy's gun, use it, and then use daddy's black passport for travel to a non-extradition country. It would just add to the legend of Guns Shannon.

5. Delicious Shannon Ice: Q-Town has been without a bona-fide pimp for too long.

6. Mr. Chips: Let 'em figure THAT one out.

7. Steven Perry Shannon: Ode to a great. (OK, I admit. I might have outdone myself with that one.)

8. Judas "Ratt" Shannon: Might as well get 'em all in there in one name.


And if it's a girl...

1. Cherries "Poppin'" Shannon: Her somewhat less-cool entourage could occasionally evoke her catch-phrase by saying, "Hey, Cherries...what's poppin'?" To which she would casually reply, "chillin' like a villan while I'm illin' with the willin'." The proper response..."word up, sucka."

2. Dopetastic Shannon Rock: Girls can be pimps too...

3. "All Skate" Shannon: She could perpetually get around on roller skates sipping a smoothie of some sort. Guys would chase after her, but she wouldn't know because she'd have her Walkman on listening to some innocent music, grooving in her own innocent way, sipping on an innocent smoothie of some sort. Of course, most guys would dig that, and that's when they may or may not notice Diplomat Security Dad in an non-descript sedan behind them with a high-powered, silenced firearm trained on the center of their back. Yep. They'd all say, "Old man Shannon, he'll shoot your fucking spine out."

No need to thank, Heather. We can hoist up a shot or two when this is all over and toast to Judas' good health.

Sh*tstain, DC strikes again.

To maintain a dog park in Sh*tstain, DC, the following conditions must be met;

1. There can be no evidence of rats within a six-block radius.
2. Every single tenant within visual range of the space must agree in writing to having a dog park. Every single one.

Sure. We can have a dog park. Simply meet these two main requirements.

Oh, by the way, this requirement is only for dog parks. Restaurants, schools, and day-care centers do not have to meet these requirements.

Get me the hell out of dodge. This place stinks.

Last seen with Michigan Bob.

Well. The Carmenator and I returned from Beantown, and our St. Paddy's sojurn. As you might expect, it was wacky fun. Although, there were a couple of changes this year; inevitable signs of aging. We ended the night eating Lynwood's Cafe pizza instead of yakking in someone's garbage can. The Carmenator spent the majority of the day in Cambridge visiting a grad school chum and her sick baby. And...Heather was with child. Which, of course, meant very little to no boozy-booze for Heather. Even Chuck was cutting back a bit. Not entirely, but a bit.

No such actions by the Fox or me. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. As you might expect, thirteen hours of drinking can have an effect on a fella. And it did us. For those that know us, it meant insight and commentary beyond belief or reproach. And so, in our hours of madness, Fox and I came up with names for Heather and Chuck's youngin-to-be.

Ready?

For a boy, Michigan Bob, The Q-town Dandy.
For a girl, Beauty Shop Shannon.

I know. Genius. Kirk got a little antsy-in-the-pantsy about it, but he'll come around. He'll see the genius in our ways. So will Chuck. And Heather. They'll see.

They'll all see...

WTF.

Ok. Check out the diagram above. It's of an average Washingtonian. See anything missing? Yep! That's right! Reason. It's missing damn reason.

Why am I especially bitter today? Simple. Today was the day Washingtonians decided to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. Parade and everything. Not the seventeenth, when it actually occurs. Nope. Today. I could see if St' Paddy's fell on a weekday. Then it might make sense. But this year it's on a Saturday. What gives, idiot land?

F*cking idiots. Yikes.

Mee so happy.

Four reasons.

1. I saw a Cardinal, an Oriole, AND a Blue Jay recently. It wont be long now. (April 4th, to be exact. 4pm. You want some more, you maniacs?)

2. As I grow older, I am getting more in touch with understanding my love of Foxy Boxing.

3. Two weeks until I'm back at my local with my friends drinking incessantly, and putting my filthy man-paws all over my wife under the guise of "caring."

4. I'm off to celebrate number 4; half-price Belgian beers at L'Enfant. Whoop whoop!

A common mistake.

A very common mistake is made around these parts almost every day.

Virginia is not for lovers.

Virginia is for idiots.


I am stunned, almost on a daily basis, at how inept the population of that state is. They can't add. They can't spell. They sure as all f*ck-get-out can't drive or park.

Case in point; Carmencita and I went to the Apple store in Bethesda to get some support for the fancy new Mac, and we were sitting at a red light at a main intersection. The cross-street was two lanes; one to turn left only, and one for turning right or going straight. A smallish SUV approached the light, stopped completely (during the green light, mind you), and the driver got out of the car to talk to a friend waiting to cross the street against the light. Unbelievable. Can you guess where the idiot was from? Yep. Virginia!

More evidence; a woman came into the bank asking to withdraw some money. I said, sure, just go to the window and withdraw some money, but make sure you present ID to do so. She said, "well, that's going to be a problem. It's my husband's account." When I replied that, if she wasn't listed on the account, she would be unable to withdraw money, she became hostile and told me, "sir, when you have been married as long as I have, you can tell me what I can't do with my husband's money." She was NOT on the account, and wound up complaining to the corporate office of my unwillingness to take her at her word that her husband authorized the withdrawl (even though she would not let me call him.)

And, if these weren't enough, I have one more that is indisputable. Period. End of story...

I had someone from Richmond bet me $50 that Plymouth Rock was located in Pennsylvania. Honest to God.

"You sure about this? You know where I'm from, right?"

"Yep. Fifty bucks. Plymouth Rock is in Pennsylvania."

"Just out of curiosity, how did it wind up there?"

"The Pilgrims carried it with them after they landed."

"So, let me get this straight. The Pilgrims landed on the rock, and then transported it to Pennsylvania? Have I got it right? Upon landing, they decided to travel inland, and took the rock with them?"

"That's correct."

"So...what about all the Pilgrims that stayed in Massachusetts? And what about the rock everyone "pretends" is Plymouth Rock?"

"They probably put a fake rock there so people wouldn't go looking for the real one in Pennsylvania."

"Uh...you might want to look that one up."

"Nope. I'm certain."

"Tony, last shot, man. I mean it. I'm from there. As school kids, we would go visit it. Are you SURE Plymouth Rock is in Pennsylvania?"

"Yep."

Yikes.

Five minutes later I was $50 richer.


Get me the hell out of here...