After much debate and soul-searching, I believe the Rolling Stones to be the greatest rock-n-roll band of all time. To those who don't enjoy or at least respect the Stones, I simply don't understand you, and you don't understand me, and that's okay.
I'll eat most anything and everything - ask the wife. And my proportions are akin to that of a lumberjack. How I've stayed at essentially the same weight for 20 years is a secret between me and my tapeworm.
But just as I find it impossible to dislike Tom Hanks, I find it similarly unfathomable to ever develop a taste for lima beans. I believe our Lord to be mostly kind and compassionate, but He screwed up that one.
Looking forward to our annual pilgrammage to TX/OU, which should shape up as an epic battle between two great teams. McCoy versus Bradford, Brown against Stoops, the cute chicks against the hillbillies.
Also anticipating the important stuff, such as:
(1) My annual Cornie Dog. As I wait in line, under the din of a recorded carny's voice trying to lure me in to see "The Great Alligator Man!" I'll make a mental note to pace myself, to let the my Fletcher Dog stop smoldering. I'll then grab it by the tail, dive in and tongue juggle my debut bite for three minutes.
(2) The annual Gay T-Shirtathon. Every year, a few buddies and I take a group photo in one of those T-Shirt kiosks and place it on a T-shirt that says something like 'Friends Forever," "Boyz in Da Hood," or something suitably cheezy. We then have the carny pick a number between one and 100 and each jot down our own number. The sucker farthest from the carny's has to wear the shirt, ideally a couple of sizes too small, for the day's duration. Good, clean fun.
(3) The fact that I can drink at 9a and not feel bad about it. Besides, if my vodka is floating in orange juice, it's a breakfast drink. Right?
(Speaking of football, toted McCoy to the Stony Point/Leander game last week. The kid trips more in one quarter than Timothy Leary did in 1968. I've seen seven plays...in four games.)
In the misery loves company department, I have to admit that I took some joy out of the Chicago Cubs' hasty three-game exit from the baseball playoffs. Why? See, I'm a diehard Cleveland Indians fan. And while the Indians haven't endured a 100-year World Series drought such as the Cubs, my Tribe last won it all in 1948 - or two decades pre-me. That, well, that doesn't do much for me.
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A couple of thoughts from last night's "Dancing with the Stars:"
Julianna Hough's saucy solo atop the judge's table struck me as odd in two ways: (1) I've never before seen (and frankly thought it illegal) such gyrations without accompaniment by Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me." And (2) even the female judge popped wood.
If Cloris Leachman survives another round, I'm auditioning for the Radio City Rockettes.
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I don't know much about much, and that certainly includes politics. But here are my current thoughts on our two candidates and their running mates:
Barrack - If this politics thing doesn't pan out - and that seems more and more unlikely- then I have no doubt that he, inside of five minutes, could put me in a brand-new Buick LeBaron. Man, the guy is slick.
McCain - I have great respect for the man. Five years a prisoner of war, two of them in COMPLETE ISOLATION. (Sounds like high school for me.) But McCain, like myself, is a southpaw. And in watching him scribble his notes during the debate, I couldn't help but notice - no, wince - at the posture he assumed in writing them. John, we lefties have enough working against us - don't embarrass us with that tucked, upside-down, palsy-like chicken scratch.
Palin - Likeable. Cute. Makes me blush when she winks at me. Not ready.
Biden - Experienced. Well-spoken. Crafty. At least 73 teeth.
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