"I Got Something for Your Ass in the Parking Lot."

Ok my pretties, in recognition of closing ceremonies of the most recent Olympiad and the fact our American snowboarding men and women took home more than one quarter of Team "U"SA's medals, I will now be referring to all men and women as dudes and dudettes for the remainder of the winter.

OK, before getting on to the real business of today's blogging effort, I thought some of you may or may not like to hear about recent developments in my budding career within the adult entertainment industry. You see, much has happened in the previous fortnight.

I have twice in the last two weeks sold dildoes measuring more than two feet in length. That would be 24 inches for those less than quick with their conversion tables and...really big for you metric fuckers. And these weren't any slender, tickle-your-tonsils type dildoes either.

By the way, should the plural of dildo read dildoes or dildos? My spell-checker claims neither is correct. This just can't be. Surely someone over at the Webster's considered the possibility one rubber penis just isn't enough for some people. Penises? Penii?

Anyway, it's worth noting each of the ladies purchasing these monsters ran on the petite side. Many thoughts ran through my head during the transactions, but the predominant firing of the synapses created a repetition of Tobin Bell's voice as he spoke "Oh, yes. There will be blood."

You'll be pleased to hear one can also purchase a do-it-yourself vibrator kit. That's right gents, you can now give your special lady a vibrating model of your penis. The box describes the process as being fairly simple. Unless, of course, you have a 2-foot horse cock. Then you'll need to buy at least two packages of the molding material.

Favorite movie titles? There were two titles to come across the desk (literally, but not dirty literally) that stuck out, Sierra Has a Negro Problem and...you're gonna love this...Hungry? Eat Cum.

My favorite quote came from a woman I presumed to be a bachelorette. She and her friends wandered into the store and one of the other ladies suggested to said bachelorette the purchase of a sexy thong "for her man." Now the bachelorette, who is now one of my best friends despite our never officially "meeting", is apparently a very literal person. Her response to the suggestion was "his nuts will never fit in that." Oh my....life is too damn good to make up.

Hey, remember me telling you about the new apartment and the cable television included therein? Well, the other night I'm flippin' channels and I encounter a movie starring both Glenn Close and Meryl Streep. I was, of course, taken aback by this development as I had long operated under the assumption the two ladies were in fact the same person, acting under two different names.

You know, it might be worth mentioning this blog is going to be of some length. And by some length, I mean it will be long. You see kids, unlike the late, great Barney Fife I have more than one bullet to fire. That said, should you stick with me on this one, I can absolutely, almost positively give you my reasonably firm belief this might be of some value to some number of you.

So you may not have heard, but last week/last weekend/today there is this holiday going on. Actually, holiday may be too strong a term, but Mardi Gras is upon us once again and here in these "United" States we will use any and every foreign culture as an excuse to drink excessively. In fact, the literal translation of Mardi Gras is "we may be gun droppers, but you American swine are pant droppers." Something to that effect anyway. Which, upon reflection doesn't really have anything to do with drinking. You know the French though...cherchez la femme. It's all about the bang, bang, bang.

Oh, speaking of pacifism. Guess who I met last night. Noam Chomsky! Yup, he stayed in the hotel. Nice man. I wanted to discuss the I's movement with him, but was sadly not afforded the opportunity.

So you may or may not be aware, but St. Louis claims to have the 2nd largest Mardi Gras celebration in the country. Of course that would be like Neville claiming to be the second best Chamberlain when it comes to shagging the ladies. I mean come on St. Louis! New Orleans got blown off the map because the w. hates black people and you still couldn't sack up and give the Big Easy another smack down.

[Editor's Note: The author, in the paragraph prior, stated an opinion as if it were fact....New Orleans wasn't actually blown off the map.]

So the lovely Brook and I were in St. Louis over the weekend, but not to take part in the Mardi Gras celebration. We were in town for the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club concert at Mississippi Nights on the landing.

This was the longest car ride for Brook and I to date, and we escaped unscathed. Actually, the lovely Brook slept for a goodly portion of the car trip, but we would have gotten along famously even if she were awake all the while. Sysco T. Dogg made the road trip as well, and I am pleasantly surprised to say he behaved quite well.

We went to the concert with baby brother Josey. See the tickets were a birthday present for him. His birthday was back in January though. Brook's birthday was just a few days prior so it became this concert/birthday thing with a little bit of Mardi Gras thrown in for seasoning.

So parking was a bitch. It took quite literally, forever to find a space. [Editor's Note: About 35 minutes.] To find a spot I had to convince Josey to sack up and be the bad guy. Oooh, we were also able to violate a one-way sign.

There was one fun little bit to what I like to call the parking odyssey. One of the cars in front of us, encountering its own parking dilemma, had been decorated for the quasi holiday. Painted on the back windshield were the following words...and like I said before, life is too good to make up:

"It's Marti Gras. Shom Me Your Tities."

My God! That's just seven words dudes and dudettes, and three....three!...are spelled incorrectly. Now, I might give him a pass on Marti, figuring he might just be a fan of the Cuban writer/orator/activist Jose Marti, but Shom? Tities? Spell checker would have caught those. Maybe not titties, but still....

[Editor's Note: He gets no pass on Marti either, as the chances of his having heard of Jose Marti and slim and actually none.]

Standing in line was interesting. Two frat guys had apparently taken time off from quarters and date-raping to take in the show. They actually had a prolonged argument over whether one of them had shot a 58 in golf. I'm guessing whomever was arguing on the "no" side was more likely to be correct as I'm thinking, and I could be wrong here, no player on the PGA has ever posted a 58 over 18 holes. These guys probably couldn't even spell PGA. Now a 58 in video games, with really low difficulty settings, maybe. Oh, you know they might have been talking about miniature golf. But then a 58, while good, is nothing to fight over. Maybe if your club was a 2-foot dildo, but honestly who would play with one of those? Mini golf I mean, who would play mini golf with one of those?

Concert was pretty good. If you haven't listened to BRMC you should start today. Their first two albums were all loud, fuzzy guitars and feedback. They remind you of the Jesus and Mary Chain or even....the Velvet Underground. Their most recent album, "Howl" made a complete 180 and went the way of blues, country and even....gospel. I swear half the new songs talk about god and/or the devil, you'd think Jonathan Edwards did their songwriting.

Don't know who Jonathan Edwards was? Why he was the Greek god of why-don't-you-read-a-fucking-book-sometime.

That said, the album is great, and the concert had a nice blend of the two sounds. Good times were had by most. One guy slept through most of the show. Not sure what that was about. I'm sad to say Mississippi Nights didn't adhere to the strict patting down policy I remembered from my youth. In other words....no early Christmas goose this year.

Oooh, the opening act was called Elefant. We only caught a couple of tunes, but they reminded me of Psychedelic Furs crossed with Joy Division. I bought a cd, so I'll give you a review once I've digested it.

Oh, and speaking of Joy Division, Anton Corbijn is directing the bio-pic of late frontman Ian Curtis. Now Corbijn has promised the soundtrack will be of the double-disc variety. One disc will be all Joy Division originals. The other will be all covers. Now Corbijn goes way back with my beloved Depeche Mode, so I am giddy at the prospect of a DM take on "Dead Souls" or "Transmission" or maybe even "Isolation."

The lovely Brook and I introduced baby brother Josey to Boulevard Unfiltered Wheat. Now Boulevard can call themselves the second largest brewery in Missouri and not sound foolish. I actually find said descriptive kind of funny.

Getting out of the parking area was a mess. Some good samaritan in from Christian County allowed one person in and that one person morphed into a line of cars that reminded of the last scene on Field of Dreams. So I did what any impatient passenger might do. I left the vehicle I was in and stood in the middle of traffic so as to run interference for me and mine. I am now both hero and villain to a litany of people I'll never have occasion to meet.

Following the show the lovely Brook and I met up with our old pal Andrew Hicks. Mr. Hicks has invited me to become a guest reviewer at his eMpTyV blog, dedicated to the critique of music videos. You can find the blog at the following link:

http://videoreviews.blogspot.com/

I'll be sure to let you know when I send my own little bit of wonderfulness to said site.

We had drinks at the Ameristar Casino in St. Charles. Brook and I sampled something called a Scooby Snack. I like it, but sadly was not influenced to fight crime on behalf of those meddlesome kids...and that dog.

Good times were again had by most, if not all. Brook and I were required to catch a cab back to the hotel as we had been dropped by the Josey and were too far away for any member of Mr. Hicks' posse to take us back. Now I'd had some drinks at this point, but I think the cab fare was $40, which is, of course, slightly to quite ridiculous. I could have bought the cab for that much. That said it was more cost efficient than a D.W.I. Thanks Mr. Cabdriver!

The plan for the next morning was for Brook and I to get up early to meet my parents for breakfast before heading back to Columbia so that Brook might meet her parents by 1 p.m.

Let me tell you something about Brook and I. We are incapable, and I mean in a physiological sense, of getting up early unless we absolutely must. So by the time we got to the restaurant, located in the aforementioned Ameristar Casino for the champagne brunch buffet, we already knew we weren't making the 1 p.m. thing. Once we saw the late 70's gas lines-esque queue, we knew we weren't gonna make the 1 pooh deadline by a goodly margin.

Brunch was damned good though. I had eggs benedict, crab and asparagus soup, Mongolian noodles and even curried mussels, which allowed me the double pleasure of good food and grossing out my table companions.

So we finally rolled into Columbia about a quarter after 2. Brook's folks were less than pleased. I've been assured by Brook, however, they mellowed on the way home.

So it was a successful weekend all around. Good tunes, good friends and good times...ain't we lucky we got 'em. "Dy-no-mite!"

Until next time I urge you all to rock out with your cock out. Except for the women of course...who have no cocks. But if you're looking to buy one.....

JeffRey

"Our So-Called Leaders Speak. With Words They Try To Jail You."

Well folks, another day has passed without Dick Cheney shooting anyone. Of course, as Jack Palance would say, "day ain't over yet."

Interesting item came out of my alma mater today. The University of Missouri-Columbia, after presumably an exhaustive study, concluded socks made entirely of cotton are the most likely to cause blisters. Get if folks? 100% cotton=greater chance of blisters.

How does one write a grant proposal for that? Must have been hitting up podiatrists for the money.

So I'm not sure if any of you caught this, but an interesting court decision came down across the pond a couple of days back. In Vienna, Austria, (famed for its nauseating sausages) a Mr. David Irving was sentenced to three years in prison. His crime? For claiming the Holocaust never happened. Back in 1989 Mr. Irving made two different speeches in Vienna denying the Holocaust and the existence of gas chambers at the Auschwitz concentration camp. This is a direct violation of an Austrian law that proscribes against the marginalization of the Holocaust.

Now let's overlook what is was Mr. Irving actually said in his speeches on the grounds of his claims being completely and totally ridiculous. First off, it's one thing to claim the Holocaust never happened, but to claim there are no gas chambers at Auschwitz? I'm sorry, but it doesn't take a architect to tell you what the closed rooms with the vents are.

The real issue here is what I would call...well, one of the more egregious violations of free speech I have heard of in all my years. When did it become illegal to be wrong? It might make you a dipshit, but should it really make you a peg-boy for the shower room? I think not.

Okay, I'm not gonna blog on anything distasteful today as I'm still pissy about the raccoon thing. Instead, it's time to re-locate.

So I began the arduous process of moving from Columbia's worst apartment to mine and the lovely Brook's new place. The apartment is pretty nice, but I have already noticed a peculiarity or two.

Actually all the peculiarities spring from one fact. The apartment is haunted. I have a couple bits of evidence. First, the living room lights seem to flicker on and off at random times. It's not the bulbs, I replaced them all. At first I thought maybe someone had just put motion lights in the living room...you know, as a joke. I thought this because the first time they went out they stayed out. Then as I waved my hand in front of the fixture they came back on. However, subsequent dousings of the lights have not righted themselves through waving, so I'm thinking the first time came about as some sort of cosmic coincidence. Or maybe....there's a spirit. You know, he/she/it could be watching me and it's like the old trick with the dollar bill tied to the string. Instead of leading the poor dollar-seeking fool around with said string, the spirit is instead waiting for me to wave at the lights...like a fool.

Also, there is a huge amount of kinetic energy flowing throughout the apartment. I can't even think of the word static without something in the apartment shocking me. I've taken to actually moving about the apartment in the dark. I'm pleased to say my night vision is now almost Navy Seal-esque in its acuity. This helps me to avoid both the mild shocks to my digits and the, at times, maddening flickering of the living room lights.

That said I really like the new place. There's free expanded basic cable, something I've not enjoyed in a couple of years. What I love about cable is the ability to watch things you would otherwise never consider viewing. Just last night I had my choice of either It Takes Two starring the Olsen twins and Steve Guttenberg or Three Men and a Little Lady, starring the National Rifle Association's own Tom Selleck and...Steve Guttenberg. If Police Academy had been on I would have hit the Guttenberg trifecta.

Oh incidentally, there are plans in place for an 8th installment of the Police Academy saga. And yes children, Mr. Guttenberg will be back. Hey, quick debate, what's the better Guttenberg (or Gutenberg)? Steve or the Bible?

So any big plans for the Mardi Gras weekend? The lovely Brook and I will be in St. Louis on Saturday for the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club concert. We hope to meet up with old friend Andrew Hicks and I guess the possibility is open for a trip to Soulard for the bead-tossing, breast-showing, bodily functions in the streets fun that is Mardi Gras. Brook and I will also be celebrating her birthday. Coincidentally, Mr. Hicks will also be celebrating his birthday this weekend, and I secured a pair of tickets to the BRMC show my baby brother the Outlaw Josey as a present for his birthday, which was in January.

Just to re-cap, everyone will be celebrating a birthday but me. Which, in my mind, makes me the star. You know..."one of these things is not like the others." Of course, I still belong, but I will be celebrating one of my 364 un-birthdays.

By the way, let me know if you get the double meaning of today's title. I mean it ain't the Da Vinci code or anything when it comes to difficulty, but I do love double meanings. Oh, and the placement of this paragraph is in no way an indication of the either meaning expressed by said blog title.

You know what else I saw on cable? The Three Musketeers, starring among others, Charlie Sheen and Kiefer Sutherland. Do you think they look back on those days and sort of grimace? Or do we watch 24 and Two and a Half Men and wonder "how the fuck did this happen?" I do like Julie Delpy though. She's pretty and doesn't toss away her accent for films....ahhh.

Okay, that's all for now kids. Check back for a weekend update and until then remember....

"We ain't afraid of no ghosts."

JeffRey

Hangin' Tough

With the writers, editors and producers of today's mainstream media collectively wrapping themselves in the banner of info-tainment and rocking in place whilst chanting the mantra of "if it bleeds, it leads" over and over again, I am rarely shocked by those things I hear and see on the various programs which have proclaimed themselves to be...."news."

That said, unfortunately, every now and then I see something that leaves me taken aback and causes me to not only write incredibly long sentences filled with various clauses and punctuation, but to also wonder where exactly is this world going and how did we get in this handbasket.

Help me out here. Should that last sentence be punctuated with a period or a question mark? It's an interrogative placed within a declarative. Where's my Warriner's when I need it?

You know, I generally use this blog for silliness and will throw in a bit of screed as something of a garnish, and I gotta tell you I have some stories I'd love to share. However, this has been sitting with me for a couple of days and I just gotta get this out.

Earlier this week as crewmen reported to work at a construction site on the Illinois side of St. Louis, they passed by a raccoon who had been hung from a tree with some wire. Seems there's been some disagreement between laborers and a minority contractor on the site as to the number of minorities employed relative to the number of racist, sociopathic white motherfuckers employed. So said racists decided to send a message that dumpster-diving rodents would not be given jobs over hard-working, god-fearing Klansmen.

You know, I try to joke to lighten the mood, but it doesn't feel right. This was an outright threat against men who are doing nothing more than trying to earn a living and provide for their families, ideally on a level playing field.

My only hope is this case will be investigated and prosecuted as a hate crime, because that is exactly what it is. It would be my guess that the inbred, shit on his shoes, dickless prick who committed this atrocity is not a criminal mastermind and will prove easy to find. I can almost imagine him regaling the rest of the Hitler Youth over a case of Busch with his tales of big-game raccoon hunting.

I would cut this fuckin' guy's head off. I'm basically a non-violent person, but I haven't been this pissed since....well, since the last time I read the news, oh boy.

I'm really not sure what's wrong with people these days. You'd think our national mindset would be fixated on our collective hatred of non-Americans, specifically the French, Chinese, North Koreans, South Koreans (just to be safe), Palestinians, Iraqis, Pakistanis, Afghanis and Oregonians (a.k.a Southern Canada until recently, however the newly elected Canadian regime has resulted in a name change to Berkeley North). Oh, and bomb Planet Hollywood! (Bonus points to the first one to correctly identify the movie from whence that quote came.)

Seriously, what had to have been running through the heads of the people responsible for this? I don't understand the lack of humanity in so many individuals. This wasn't mob mentality, which could at least on some level be more easily understood without being condoned. No, this was some small group or even just one person so consumed with anger they threaten people who have done nothing to them and kill an animal I have to assume had done nothing wrong either.

Here it is...a chance to quote Depeche Mode

"What makes a man hate another man? Help me understand."

JeffRey

"They're the musical fruit."

Not sure if any of you caught this, but recently a woman in Chicago found what appears to be a severed bird's head in a can of beans.

Seems the woman was making breakfast for her kids when she ran across the avian surprise. Now, the first question that popped into my head was, obviously, who eats beans for breakfast?

The Food and Drug Administration has launched an investigation into the matter and the company supplying the beans has engaged in a voluntary recall. Meanwhile the woman says she and hers won't be eating beans anytime soon she makes them herself. I'm not sure if she means she'll grow, harvest and can them herself or if maybe the can of beans in question was of the ready-to-serve variety.

So I'm sure you're all interested in what's been going on with me at the House O' Smut. You'll be pleased to hear that just yesterday I sold a man something called "The Perfect Date." It's a blow-up doll who stands three feet tall, has no teeth and a cupholder on the top of her head. I really wanted to send the man off with a "You stay classy sir," but I thought better of it.

I also sold a woman and her man a strap-on dildo. Now we all know there are allegedly straight men out there who like to take it portside, but this guy didn't look the part. He had one of those crazy, stringy, Charles Manson like goatees and a shaved head. The man had arms like tree trunks. He's the type who could have broken my back just be scowling at it. But much like a unlucky haircut caused the mighty Samson to lose his strength, this man has no power over me now that I know he lets his wife put a rubber cock in his ass, probably aided by tangerine scented lubricant.

Well I'd like to stay kids, but I've got a thing.

JeffRey

"What would Brian Boitano do?"

So I's watching men's figure skating last night. (Don't ask.) Help me out here. I kept hearing the analysts refer to a move....I swear they called it the triple sow cow. I's with my parents and they didn't have close-captioning on, so I couldn't confirm what exactly the name of the maneuver was, but it sounded like triple sow cow.

Now if I heard correctly, I have two questions. One....why? And two....wouldn't the correct term be, agriculturally speaking, triple heifer?

In other Olympic news, I saw some skeleton highlights. Damn that shit looks bananas. I ain't no broken back girl. No, I ain't no broken back girl.

Have you seen this shit? Let me set the scene. The skeleton is for people who feel those who do the luge are giant pussies. You know those paper cutters we used to have at school? The type where you basically use a machete to cut a stack of paper? Well, take two of those paper machetes and then glue them to a stiffened portion of a Slip N' Slide. Then lie down on this thing and, face first, fling yourself down a mountain of ice at speeds averaging about 70 miles per hour. Then afterwards, if you're lucky, you only have the inside of your head examined.

My other bright spot from the Olympiad is the commercial where the guy eats a giant hamburger. Then another guy runs up a tree Matrix-style and flips over. The lovely Brook has advised me against trying to attempt said feat. But...I have to ask.

Do you believe in miracles?

JeffRey

"I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round." I really hate to watch them blow.

Oh kids....you're gonna enjoy this one.

But first, have ya'll seen this movie The Wedding Crashers? Well, let me tell you, there's this scene in which Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson go hunting for quail, and Owen Wilson says, and I quote, "I don't even know what the fuck a quail is." Then....Bang! Vince Vaughn gets shot in the ass with birdshot.

Bet Dick Cheney's pal wishes he had only got it in the ass....ah, life does imitate art.

So, back to our story, as yet not in progress. On Sunday last, yours truly embarked on a trip to visit the lovely Brook in the quaint hamlet of Springfield, Missouri. The visit was to last two days, during which she and I would celebrate our first Valentine's Day together.

[Editor's Note: Everyone together now....Awwww.]

So I get off work at the Inn and load Sysco T. Dogg into the trusty Honda Civic and make my way toward the southwestern portion of the Show-Me State.

At first all is well. I mean, it's nipple hardening cold out. Almost to the point of glass cutting capability if you know what I mean, but I'm making great time. Brook is due to get off work at 10 p.m. and I's expecting to be there when she did. Then....trouble.

In a little spot I like to call the middle of fucking nowhere, the car started to get a little bit of a shake to it. It was the unmistakable sound/feeling of....a tire problem. In this case, a blown out tire problem.

Now it wasn't blown out to the point of say, tossing rubber all over the highway and causing the (to this point anyway) trusty Honda Civic to defy gravity as it flips NASCAR style through the air. But it was blown out to the point I could drive it nowhere but the side of road.

So at this point, I'm really pissed. But, the Jeff abides and I get out of the car to begin the process of tire changing.

Now, at first, all is going swimmingly. I get the jack into position and lift the car into the air. I remove the lugnuts, placing them for safekeeping in the upturned hubcap. Now comes the removal of the tire itself and its being replaced with the spare.

*Huffing and puffing ensue*

As I was saying, now is the time for tire removal and replacement.

*Huffing and puffing continue*

Well....shit. I can't get the motherfuckin' tire off.

Now, I had not before changed a tire on this car, so I search all around the tire and rim in the hope I am just missing something that needs loosening or removing. No such luck. I kick the wheel a few times to see if it's just really fused to the hub. The result is little more than anxiety over the thought of my car falling off the jack and crashing to the ground.

Did I mention how cold it was. I could cut and shape diamonds at this point.

So I do what any middle-class, suburban boy would do. I call AAA. They get on the line and attempt to determine my location. I tell them I can see a sign for a golf course just off the highway and behind me by about a mile. The golf course, I'm told is in Eugene, Missouri (don't ask). The AAA dispatcher, after keeping me on hold for about 15 minutes, determines I'm just outside Osage Beach.

Now in the this vast land of ours I like to call the "United" States of America, I realize distance can be a relative thing. So it's possible the approximate 25 mile gap I later learned existed between where I was and Osage Beach might be properly described as "just outside." However, the roadside serviceman AAA called to help me didn't seem to think so. He called me personally and informed me he would have to call the dispatcher back and have them send someone else as I was outside his area of service. Okay....starting to lose feeling in extremities here.

So AAA calls me back about 5 minutes later to tell me help is on the way. I ask them if they found someone closer as the first man they called told me he wasn't coming. "He told you what?" Oh...boy....Jeff feels a fuckin' comin' on. Do you follow me here? AAA and the service guy were fighting over whether or not he had to come help me. To top this off, my cell phone was near death, in a battery power sense, and every call to AAA came with a complimentary (or is it continental?) hold time of, approximately....too fucking long.

So the serviceman calls me again in a few minutes and informs me that yes I would receive said fucking if AAA were left to its own devices. See if he didn't perform this service, they weren't going to call anyone else. So he tried to talk me through the process. I told him the wheel was stuck. He said it has probably just fused itself to the hub a bit due to pressure from being driven on and I should just kick it a few times. (Hah! I knew that. I could be a mechanic.) I informed him I had tried that and was unsuccessful.

A pause on the phone...then a sigh....then, and I'm paraphrasing so interpret this as a quote despite the lack of punctuation, okay, I'll come out cause AAA is giving you a shitty deal.

Oh thank you Yahweh.

So about 45 minutes later he pulls up in his big ol' truck and gets out. The man's nickname, I'm guessing, is the behemoth. The man was large. He took one look at me and I could read his thoughts. I gotta drive all the way the fuck out here cause this pussy can't change a tire. He steps up to the car and, after checking to make sure I had actually removed the lugnuts, kicks the wheel once. Nothing moves. He kicks it a bit harder. Nothing moves. He gives it one last SWAT-Team-breaking-down-a-door type kick and again...nothing moves.

His frustration at this point is matched only be my pleasure at seeing the gigantic man make no more progress that had I.

"That sumbitch is really on there," he grunts. "Didn't figure I'd need a hammer, so I didn't bring one." (Well...fuck.) But my heart is lifted when he says, "I think I know what to do."

So he goes back to his tow truck and fetches the big piece of wood he'd use behind the tires if he were actually gonna tow a car. You know, the kind of stick Buford Pusser carried around.

"Now you watch my back. If any cars look like they ain't going around, you let me know." With that he takes a few steps into the highway and then, aiming the piece of wood like a lance, flings himself at the Honda Civic.

Hypothesis: My car will crash to the ground and/or this man will hurt himself badly.

Result: (Happily) The wheel comes off!

I tell you, all the frustration of this ordeal almost paid off when I saw the look of satisfaction on the man's enormous face. Not entirely, but almost.

So we get the doughnut (or is it donut?) tire put on and he asks me where I'm headed. I tell him Springfield and his faces gets that who-farted look on it. He advises me against driving that far on the little, almost childlike in his hands, tire. He then asked what sort of AAA membership I own. I tell him it's called Star or Diamond or useless....something to that effect. He suggests it might be called Plus. A quick examination of my card finds him to be correct. He tells me I'm allowed a 100-mile tow, free of charge with said membership.

Now I knew this and, weighing how AAA had attempted to figuratively sodomize me this evening, considered driving the 30 miles to Camdenton that would put me within 100 miles of Springfield and then having the Honda Civic placed on a flatbed truck for special delivery. Two things stopped me. First, Sysco T. Dogg would not have been allowed in the tow truck cab, and I couldn't imagine what riding in a driverless ghost car for 100 miles would do to his psyche. Second, I had no idea what the gargantuan serviceman and I would actually converse about for an hour and a half. So, despite the advice of a professional, I attempted the trip which would seriously test the parameters of the "50 at 50" theory of spare tire travel.

Happily, the trip went well. In fact, the spare handled so well I considered having four of them placed on the car. It was at that point I realized fatigue really can cause one to hallucinate. After traveling in the wrong direction of highway 65 for a couple of miles (fatigue again), I righted myself and finally pulled into the driveway on Wing-Ed Foot about 20 minutes past midnight, with a hug, kiss and story for Brook. The story has now been passed on to all of you. The hug and kiss? You wish.

Valentine's Day went quite well. Brook gave me an engraved flask. The engraving....oh yes, it reads....JeffRey. Brook gave me a cool, useful gift and, at the same time, indulged my silliness. How great a girlfriend is she!?!

[Editor's Note: Rhetorical question. She is the best.]

I went the cliche route and gave he candies. They were strawberries, hand dipped in white and dark chocolate. I know. I know. Her birthday is coming up next week. I'll do better.

Well, that is the story. I hope there was something for everyone. Suspense, comedy, probably no tears unless you really laughed your asses off. In that case....uh, screw you.

Because so much is riding on your tires.

JeffRey

With a Rebel Yell, She Cries Mohr, Mohr, Mohr

This, friends, will be the blog equivalent of a drive by shooting.

Don't know if you caught this, but occasionally funnyman Jay Mohr (He of Christopher Walken impersonation and lame-ass Super Bowl commercial fame) is now engaged to more often than not ultrahot Nikki Cox (She of a series of failed television programs before settling into Las Vegas in which she plays a more often than not ultrahot chick fame).

The importance? Tell me a Mohr-Cox wedding doesn't just set your world afire.

I Do

JeffRey

"I talk talk, I talk to you, in the night, in your dream, of love so true."

You need to imagine the song lyric in today's title sung/barked in a very deep and husky voice. Imagine a man who has smoked ten packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day....for 63 years.

You got that? You imagining the voice now? Then you should have no trouble placing it in your own personal little music history. For me, it takes me back to my junior year of high school and dancing the night away at Stages...the hottest dance party in St. Louis, sorta.

The sorta, incidentally, in the sentence prior does not refer to Stages sorta being the hottest dance party, in case you were wondering, as that is clearly not true now and was not true then. The sorta refers to its locale relative to St. Louis, as I am fairly certain Stages was located across the river in Illinois and I am even more fairly certain Stages is now closed. Possibly due to it's being neither in St. Louis nor the hottest dance party around.

You know what's great about being a long-winded sumbitch. I can write paragraphs like the one prior, which have no redeemable features in either an artistic or informative sense. Yet....if I make them just wordy enough, I come off as intellectual and when you, the reader, finds himself or herself or even him/herself lost....you feel it's due to a lack of comprehension on your part.

Oh, by the way, the him/herself is a shout-out to hemaphrodites. Don't know any firsthand, I don't think. But this internet thing is, apparently, available just about everywhere but the front desk of the Holiday Inn Select. And I'll bet hemaphrodites love the internet.

I don't really have anything of any particular importance to tell you kids today. Which makes today very much like every other day. NOT! Ya'll best be writing this shit down, cuz when I's famous this shite will not, I repeat will not....come free of charge.

[Editor's Note: That, friends, is an almost tragic use of the contraction I's, which will soon be sweeping the nation.]

So I have this cell phone, and, for the most part, it has treated me well. I can download cool ringtones including, but not exclusively George Michaels "I Want Your Sex" and the theme song to Super Mario Bros.

I also have a camera for my phone, which came in handy when the lovely Brook and I saw the live bait vending machine at the Lake of the Ozarks.

I can also play great games like Drug Wars, where my high score is just north of $35 million. The heroin and cocaine business was very good to me. But oh, that Ketamine....kids just love the Special K.

Here's my one complaint about my phone as it compares to my old phone...which I hated. It wasn't even a flip phone. It was just this...block of plastic with buttons on it. And the ringtones? Oh, they're fine...if you like the sound of "The Entertainer" as played on a Mattel keyboard. It did have one thing going for it though....

My old phone...you know the voice that guides you through your voice mail? The guide voice sounded much more human on my old phone. It was a lady's voice and well, dammit if she didn't sound pretty sexy. She had this breathy quality to her voice that could get me...you know it's not important. The point is I liked having a normal, human voice.

With my current phone, you can tell the voice is female....but it's a female robot. And I would guess it's not a sexy Fem-Bot type either, but more likely to look like Rosie of Jetsons fame. Would you fuck Rosie of Jetsons fame? Didn't think so.

Don't know if you saw this, but Quin Snyder is now the former head basketball coach at the University of Missouri-Columbia after resigning under fire yesterday. His replacement for the time being is Associate Head Coach Melvin Watkins. I doubt Coach Watkins keeps the job past this season, but he has already earned his place in history. Coach Melvin Watkins is the first African-American head coach of any sport in the 100+ year history of University of Missouri athletics. It takes us crackers a long time to come around.

My early wish-list includes another brother-man in Southern Illinois University-Carbondale Head Coach Chris Lowery and former University of North Carolina head coach Matt Doherty.

You remember how I told you about the internet being banned at the front desk. Well, I throw caution to the wind so to speak and surf anyway. Rules be damned! Well, in the interest of job preservation I do minimize my screen when any higher-ups approach. Well, check this. The wallpaper is this mountain scene that looks a lot like the album cover from The Handsome Family's "Through the Trees." The only thing missing, interestingly enough, would be a nice grove of trees. But the misty mountain scene is perfect. Ah....that's a great album. I want each of you to illegally download it tomorrow. But today, get your attorney on retainer.

To End This Call You May Hang Up Or Press 9

JeffRey

It's 9 o'clock on a...well, Wednesday. The semi-regular crowd shuffles in.

So I know each of you is concerned about Lefty the Pit and his recent disappearance. I wish I could say there is good news to report, but he is still not back at home as yet.

Fear not though for I make daily trips to the Humane Society, have posted an abundance of flyers and have calls out to Columbia Second Chance as well as the mid-Missouri Pit Bull Rescue group. So, hopefully, there will be good news soon.

Now, for those of you who feel it silly for me to take the disappearance of my dog so seriously, I, of course, say Fuck You! That said, here is a stupid little bit of blog anyway.

Opening ceremonies for the Winter Olympics began today in Torino, or Turin if you're exacting in nature and want to actually be correct. Once again I am disappointed to hear the skeleton event has nothing to do with bones, although I keep hear the snowboarders like to have bones after competing. Not sure what that means.

So the other night I went out to Mojo's to see my pal Travis's band. They are called Sneath. Not sure what that means either. Anyway....

You ever been to a concert and seen the one guy who, regardless of indoor or outdoor temperatures, wears a black hoodie, which is bedecked with patches and buttons of punk bands (one of two of which you've never heard of)? Of course you have, he's at every concert.

The guy I saw, actually had two Rancid patches on one sleeve. That's PUNK ROCK! Symmetry be damned! (Imagine devil's horns being, as the kids say, thrown.)

So Travis's band was pretty good. It was my most sincere wish to give them the mad props after every tune. Here, however, was my dilemma. I was standing in the middle of the floor area. No tables were nearby. A drink was in hand. How does one clap in such a situation? I can't sit the drink down, are you nuts? Clapping against the glass 1, creates no tangible sound and 2, sloshes/splashes my booze about. A friend suggested the wild slapping of the leg. Uhh...no.

The only even slightly intriguing option was repeated high-fives with fellow friends of Travis who were also at the show. We declined. So the first two or three songs went with sans clapping, but were given a half-hearted Woo-Hoo.

So there were these girls at the show who, well let's say they were a few cocktails into their collective evening. The ladies started their own little mosh pit in the center of the floor. Now, in my younger days I did venture into the occasional mosh pit. I never engaged in chest bumping/rubbing with fellow mosh pitters.

Yup...you guessed it, the girls, one of whom almost looked a little like Ashlee Simpson were bumping their....well, their boobies.

They also bumped into other people, very nearly starting an all-girl riot in the middle of Mojo's. Sadly, cooler heads prevailed.

Another of the bands playing this night was called Happy Endings. Didn't stay to see them, so I have no report as to their quality. That said, their band name does refer to hand-jobs from, presumably, Asian massage therapists. That's sort of interesting.

Have you ever noticed just how many Asian "Saunas" there happen to be in Columbia. You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a Thai hooker.

[Editor's Note: That should really read "relaxation therapist" or "self-gratification device."]

In case you were curious. The blogs have slowed due, in part, to my depression over the disappearance of Lefty, but also to the official ban of access to the information superhighway at the front desk of the Holiday Inn Select. This blog is being done at the desk in a...well, let's call it a clandestine mode. Exciting. It's like I'm James Blog, Double-O Dork.

Well, that was my night, the other night. Not much to say about last night. Comedy is tonight and the Un is tomorrow. Swinger's, or is it Swingers', Night baby. So I might have more to come soon.

Hey, you know that Beatles muzak I've complained of before? "The Ballad of John and Yoko" just came on. Hadn't heard that one yet. Talk about crucifying....

$5 Cover at the Door. $2 Surcharge for Minors.

JeffRey

"Snow is back everybody. Girls come wind up your body."

Hello my friends...Hello.

So it's snowing here in Mid-Missouri. It's February. Have you ever found the spelling of February unusual? So we had temps (that would be temperatures and not temporary workers) in the 70's in early December. It's snowing. What did the groundhog tell us anyway? More winter? Well, let's make that percentage of correct predictions 37.1. Suck it Randy Wright.

So my fellow pinko, commie fuck Fuller wrote a little resolution for the Kent State University Graduate Student Senate. It called for the immediate implementation of domestic partner benefits for all faculty, staff and students at the University. Happily, it passed unanimously, although Mr. Fuller is less than enthusiastic as to the possibility of the administration giving a tinker's damn about what the Graduate Student Senate has to say. If you'd like to read the resolution, I'm told you may soon do so at the following link:

http://dept.kent.edu/gss/legislative_action/current_issues.htm

I bought some new bath soap the other day. Well, it's not totally new in that is still Old Spice body wash, which does not, incidentally, make me an old man. Anyway, I normally buy some scent called Mountain Rain or Mountain Fresh or Big Mountain or something. This time, however, I bought Pacific Blast...or maybe Pacific Surge. I forget.

Oh, since you brought up the Pacific, have you heard of this thing called the NHL? It's an organization of teams that play something called "hockey." It's apparently a Canadian thing. You know, up there with maple syrup and, until recently, sensible foreign policy. Anyway, I was listening to the radio. I listen to sports talk in the mornings. There is apparently a team from Dallas, I would assume Texas, which occupies first place in the Pacific Division.

I don't know how many of you have been to Dallas. I have been to Dallas. Let me tell you one thing I did not see. J.R. Ewing. Another thing I didn't see happens to be the Pacific Fucking Ocean.

Oh hey, remember the muzak I told you about before? No...okay this might mean less to you. So the latest addition....."Fool on the Hill" from, of course, the Quarrymen. It's not enough they defame Beatles' songs in this fashion, but they have to grab the more obscure album cuts to boot. Oooh!

So I was at Wal-Mart the other day. Shaddup! I needed one-hour photo okay? Off my back! The background music was Guns N' Roses playing "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." Now I really fuckin' hate their version of the song, but come on. The home of the squiggly gets G N' R and I gotta put up with a Muzak version of "I Believe I Can Fly"?

I Believe I Can Fly
Belive R. Kelly Needs an Alibi

Saw the video on TV
Why'd he pee on that nice lady

Oh, I also bought a staple gun at Wally World. You know what I didn't buy there? The actual staples. See they'll sell you the staple gun, but if you buy a brand-name item, as I did, you can't get the brand name staples which fit it. Oh, sure, they'll sell you Wal-Mart brand staples, which, if you were wondering....DON'T FUCKING FIT! So I had to go to Staples, which, as one might presume, had the proper...well, staples.

Let me ask you something. I work in a hotel. That's declarative by the way. Here's the interrogative. Sometimes guests will ask me to mail things for them. Actually, that's not the question either. Anyway, of this mail the guests ask me to send out for them, some of it happens to be postcards. Here's the question. Is it bad form to read the postcards? Oooh, more important, would it be a violation of federal law to read the postcards?

If yes, then no I have never read them. Otherwise...keep reading.

I mean, come on, the writing is right there. It's not like I'm steaming open envelopes. If they want their business kept private, they either need to pony up the extra 19 cents for postage and stick it in an envelope (which I would NOT steam open) or drop the postcard in the mailbox themselves.

Don't know if you caught this, but Betty Friedan passed away the other day. That makes three very important ladies we've lost from equal rights movements in the last few months.

Oh, and if you don't know of whom I speak, it would be Rosa Parks, Coretta Scott King, Ms. Friedan and read some fucking books why don't you.

Here's an update on the I's movement. Four people other than myself have spoken the new contraction aloud. Let's keep up the good work and spread the word further. Or farther? Further? More far? Whatever, not important.

I'm actually a little upset right now, beyond my normal sort of neurotic delusions. I'm sure you've read about Lefty the Pit in some past posts. He got away from me a couple of days ago, and I've not been able to locate him. I went looking through the woods. I check with the Humane Society everyday. I called vet clinics and hospitals, then followed that up by visiting with his picture. I've put up flyers.

I'm sure he's fine, but I can't help but....you know it's not important. I miss him though. If you haven't met him, you're missing out.

Signed the lease for the new place. I start moving in February 15. Okay, that spelling still is strange. Does anyone, I mean other than freaks like me, pronounce the "ru" sound? I mean do you say Feb-ru-ar-y? Four syllables. So Brook moves in near the end of March, following our trip to the District. Each of you is invited to the house/apartment warming party. Unless, obviously, I and/or Brook don't/doesn't like you. Which we would, of course, never say to your face. You just won't hear about the party until like, a few days after it happened. Then I'll be all like, "man you should have been there. What? Damn, yo, I thought I had called you about it."

[Editor's Note: Brook would do none of these things, but the author...he's a bastard.]

Valentine's Day is coming up. Each of you will be happy to hear I no longer view the day as an entirely commercial and completely nonsensical "holiday." It is now a sweet and pleasant...."holiday."

Fetal pain? Thoughts anyone? Fuckin' evangelicals.

See the World...Spinning Around

JeffRey

"I saw this face looking down at me, and it's a woman's face, and she threw a quarter down at me."

Oooh, let's play guess the lyric with that one.

So I'm at the University of Missouri-Columbia library, making use of its wonderfully free internet service. It was busy when I arrived and I feared no computers would be available. Then I see one lonely terminal, seemingly invisible to the pacing masses. I get closer and see it appears to be inoperable. Thus its being avoided like the one kid in high school who wore his backpack on both shoulders.

Wasn't that an interesting phenomenon? It was "un-cool" in high school to use one's backpack in the manner in which it was designed. Two arm straps! Hah! What a dork! Then I'd get kicked and...yeah I don't wanna talk about it.

Then you get to college and find yourself carrying several textbooks, each of which weighs slightly more than Kate Moss the night before a photo shoot, and suddenly you realize that second strap might just come in handy. "Yeah, who's a loser now.....poophead?!?"

Anyway, one computer, out of commission, leaving me out of luck. But you know me, I'm the type when given a piece of paper I turn it sideways and write the other way. [Editor's Note: Hence the length of time it took your author to graduate college] So I sit down to use my limited, bordering on non-existent, computer expertise. [Editor's Note: Not bordering, permanent resident] The problem, as discovered by me? It needed to be turned on. That's why I have a degree, and most of these kids will be pumping gas with me someday, due of course to America's addiction to oil. What was I talking/blogging about? Right....nothing of significance.

So anyway I'm at the laundromat tonight. Now, I only go to my current laundry facility as it is close to my home. I used to go to this place further away called Splashers cause it was cheaper and it had a big-screen TV to help pass the time. Later on I learned Splashers is actually an old Indian word meaning "none of our fucking dryers ever work."

[Editor's Note: That's not a literal translation, but it's implied.]

Seriously folks, they have like 25 washing machines, and four dryers. Every other dryer has an "out of order" sign on it. [Editor's Note: Quotes not ironic.] It's always busy in this place so you have an entire village of people bringing their laundry in from the stream, and then you have Russian fuckin' breadlines at the dryers.

Oh, and the TV? I don't know what satellite package they have, but it is soap operas every time I go in there. No matter what time of day it's soap operas, with the notable exception of one half-hour devoted to Paul Pepper and Uncle James, whom I've met actually.

[Editor's Note: No, not at the Olde Un]

I don't like soaps. I don't care if Brock is shtupping Arianna, or if Heath is going to get custody of his son from Francesca and dammit if John Black exorcising Marlena wasn't the stupidest fucking thing of all times leading up to the 2000 Presidential election.

So now I'm at this place closer to my home, which over the last 9 months has instituted a series of price gougings that would make Dick Cheney blush, if blood still flowed through his veins. When I started going there, one load in the washing machine cost $1.00. Then it went up to $1.25, and it now rests at a comfortable $1.50. Now there has to be a ceiling, cause the little quarter slide thing is only so wide, but come on.

Oh, and the dryers? They all work, but get this. It used to be a quarter would buy you 10 minutes. Then it switched to the first quarter gets you 8 minutes and every quarter after that gets you 10 minutes. (Sorta like cabs and phone sex) Then it became every quarter is "worth" 8 minutes. [Editor's Note: Ironic quotes that time] Now every quarter gives you 7 minutes. Seven minutes! I guess time is money.

Did ya'll see this bill that passed the house today by a 216-214 vote? It totally gutted student loans and Medicare for the elderly and working poor? These are "our" elected representatives right? Congress claims it's to offset the costs of Hurricane Katrina, but they're still planning another Bushie tax cut later this year. Fuckin' A these people have no shame.

The one thing that fascinates me about this laundry is the one industrial machine in the middle of the establishment. The sign says it can hold 75 pounds of laundry, or would it be clothes? Anyway, maybe I just have no concept of how much 75 pounds of laundry is, but it sounds like a shit-pot load if you asked me, and even if you didn't. Plus it's not like you can separate. It's just one machine. So to make this worth your $6.75 (Egad!) you would need 75 pounds of whites and 75 pounds of colors. That's a lot o' dirty drawers.

Was that too drastic a shift in subject matter from paragraph to paragraph? Tough, I'm an English major. I do what I want!

Fear not though my readers, for relief is on the way. I will soon be setting up residence in an apartment which includes washer and dryer hook-ups. Huzzah! No longer will time have to budgeted for doing laundry. No longer will I have to hoard my quarters like a student about to park within shouting distance of campus. No longer will I have to wait until I actually have enough laundry to justify a trip. Just need one shirt and a pair of jeans washed? Great! And no residual guilt over the $2.25 spent almost needlessly.

Ooh, plus I get to live with the lovely Brook, which is clearly the best part. But this washer/dryer thing is pretty damned good too.

Oh, just as an aside, if anyone out there in cyberspace is a licensed (underlined) therapist....I could use analysis.....yeah. There's all these, uh, thoughts whatever. Hey, everyone out there who blogs, we should make like a greatest hits blog. You know it would have all our old stuff, but we'd also make like two new blogs just to sell more copies to the completists out there. Oh, and I really think we should make our stuff available on iTunes, cause the kids just love it.

Did Christian Bale's Batman-voice bother you in the Batman movie? It's almost distracting. It's the kind of voice you would try as a kid whenever you phone-prank someone.

"Uh, yeah is Gloria there?"

"I'm sorry, Gloria who?"

"Gloria Stitz! Hah!"

That shit kills me every time.

Crayons taste like purple.

Okay, enough craziness, it's time for shock therapy and Gerber strained peas.

Fluff and fold friends. Fluff and fold.

JeffRey

"I wanna free fall out into nothin'. Gonna leave this world for awhile."

Just a quick update on the post office killings, because let's face it...we've all been there. True enough few if any of you, my faithful readers, have acted on said impulse....but still, you know?

So five people died, which is not so good, but not so new either. Here's the news: The killer...was a lady. Anyone out there got a laaa-dy problem?

It's said to be the greatest act of workplace violence by a female in American history. (I am assuming the word greatest there is not meant in a Muhammad Ali kind of way, but more like a...well just a big, bad way.)

It's refreshing to see the ladies catching up to men in terms of recognition at the workplace.

So it's Groundhog Day....again. I'm told Phil did see his shadow, which of course means......actually, I'm not sure what it means. I've never lived anywhere that really had a snowball's chance in hell of an early spring, so it really doesn't matter what Phil saw today. He could have seen my shadow and I wouldn't have been impressed.

Some interesting groundhog facts:

--Groundhogs actually hibernate, unlike bears who merely go through daily torpor.

--During said hibernation, groundhogs will take only one breath every four minutes, their heart rate slows to four beats a minute and their body temperature will drop from an average of 99 degrees Fahrenheit to about 36 degrees.

--Groundhog Day actually started in England, using hedgehogs instead as part of some Christian holiday. I swear to god and I do mean Allah.

--Punxsatawney Phil is correct only 37 percent of the time. Anyone looking to a groundhog for the weather is probably an idiot 100 percent of the time, unless you go to the groundhog instead of ABC 17's Randy Wright, in which case you would be correct 100 percent of the time.

Randy Wright was actually born Randy Wrong and has had trouble all his life shaking the moniker, much to the chagrin of mid-Missouri residents.

Speaking of changes, lawyers are challenging a recently-enacted Wisconsin law which officially prohibits the use of taxpayer-dollars for the sexual reassignment of prison inmates. Huh....

Don't know if you saw this, but a New York man jumped from the 66th floor of the Empire State Building in what police are calling an apparent suicide. Thank you Detective Sipowicz. Of course this is the same police force that shoots its own guys when in the course of making arrests, so you never know.

It's the first Empire State Building jumper since 2004, when a man 20-upped our recent Peter Pan by taking off from the 86th observation level.

Re-watched Crash last night in light of all the Oscar nominations. Pretty damned good! Plus Tony Fuckin' Danza is in the movie. By the by, how is it Ryan Phillippe keeps getting cast in great films? Gosford Park, Igby Goes Down and now Crash? The guy is as piss-poor an actor as there is working with any regularity in films right now. Plus he's married to Reese Witherspoon, which means he probably get to have the sex with her too. Oooh!!! I hate Ryan Phillippe! Did you see Anti-Trust? Oooh!!! I hated that movie!

Okay that was your daily dose of misanthropic decadence. This posting had no particular point, so it has no discernible end.

Be sure to bundle up. I hear tales of six more weeks of winter.

JeffRey

"Return to Sender. Address Unknown."

It's good to see the term "going postal" hasn't yet entered into the world of the passe. It may have cost us a few lives, but hey to make an omelet...you have to be hungry?

The world lost another leader in the ongoing fight for civil rights as Coretta Scott King passed away yesterday. Mrs. King carved out her own niche in history for the grace, poise and determination she showed, seemingly at all times, in the days, weeks, years and decades following the assassination of her husband, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

In other news Justice Sam Alito was sworn onto the Supreme Court of the United States, thereby giving Mrs. King an early opportunity to spin in her grave.

The Oscar nods came out yesterday as well. I was pleasantly surprised to see the film Crash recognized with nominations for Best Picture, Best Director and Best Actor for Matt Dillon.

I'll have my Oscar predictions, along with my pick for who should actually win as we get closer to the ceremony.

By the by, I'm currently reading the book "Capote" which is a biography of, appropriately enough, Truman Capote. Capote is my early pick for the big awards, but as I said the full rundown will come later. The real point to this was to tell you I'm reading the book and enjoying it quite a bit. It is far more expansive than the film, which used only a small portion of Capote's life. Do not be intimidated by the book's thickness though, it is, thus far anyway, a very enjoyable read.

Okay, post office murders (check), Mrs. King (check), take another shot at Sammie Alito (check) and Oscars (check).

Well, I'm done for today kids. Just wanted to touch base so that you might know your faithful author has not forsaken you.

Return Receipt Requested

JeffRey