Thankfully, they found a squirrel to interview.

I found this via the oddly bearable Erin O'Brien (who, I'm pretty sure does things in the woods that would make a bear call 911), and it just freakin' killed me.

It's hard to say what the best part is, really... You may even need to watch it twice. However, it is nice to see that the local Fox affiliate in Milwaukee isn't the only one out there with scat for brains and pretty much zero information to pass along.

This is why we need zoos, I think. Not so much for a place in which to put the bear, but to educate these friggin' ninnies who crap their trousers every time they see an animal larger than their Labradoodle bumbling around their yard.

-DP

Waiting...

    Waiting...

    Still waiting...

    C'mon Vicodin.  Do your whacky magics.

    Mornings are the worst.  During the course of the night, when all is snoozy, dreamy and wonderful, my cocktail of pain medication tends to trickle from my system, and like a thundering herd of sweaty, frothy beasts, the aches return in an unstoppable stampede across the landscape of my bones and joints and points in between.  It makes for a rather grumpy morning, usually.  Some days are worse than others, but all days are freakin' annoying. 

    For example, this morning, I was sleeping peacefully and dreaming happy dreams of playing a concert at The Gorge Amphitheater in George, Washington.  It was all going swimmingly until I tried to pick up my guitar.  For some reason, a security guard was using my Stratocaster to smash insects, and as I tried to take it away from him, my hands wound up on the floor to be smashed along with the ants by this over zealous guard.  When I woke up, and the idyllic concert-scape began to fade, the aches of smashed knuckles didn't, and I knew that it was going to be a long, long day. 

    Don't worry though.  I've got some reasonably effective pain medication, and my Humira is hiding in a corner of Emily's fridge waiting to be stabbed into my leg at some point today.  So, if nothing else, today's road to travel should be paved with the new, smooth, black asphalt of opiates and mystery juice.

    Aside from that extended whine, how the hell is everyone?  I know it's been unusually silent here lately, and I wish I had an explanation for my absence.  The thing is, most days, I'm not hurting too badly here, and that opens the door for me to either get things done or just simply relax and enjoy this whole mostly-painless existence.  Still...  Every now and then, like today, things will be screamin' nasty.  I don't get it. 

    Let's see... 

    Oh!  Apparently, I've been signed up to receive Fred Thompson email.  So, thank you to whomever it was who did that little trollish antic.  I know that rather than argue your case, it can sometimes be easier to just fill my spam folder with irrelevancies.  The funny thing is, I've noticed that little slice of brain-fail seems to be the sole-domain of America's under-educated political right.  It's interesting, I suppose.

    Anyway, I've got to get to scribbling.  Have a great day, everyone.  I'll try to be less of an enigma and post more.  But, then again, it's freakin' summer, and this cat needs the sun!

-DP

Celebrity Sunday!

For today's Celebrity Sunday, I have no idea what to write; so, here's a picture of Betty White --everybody's grandma-- eating a hot dog.

And, if that doesn't work for you, here's a picture of Betty with a gun:

As you can see, you give Betty a hot dog, or she'll bust a cap in your ass.

-DP

Celebrity Sunday!

Shout Out!

For this week's Celebrity Sunday, I'm giving you all reason to hope. Not too long ago, I was watching an episode of Stargate: SG1, and the voice of one of the creepy, mucus-coated alien beasts was done by none-other than today's special guest, Mister James Earl Jones!

Take hope people. For when the aliens come to suck your faces and eat your brains, smile with the knowledge that if they spoke our language, they would speak with a sweet, sweet baritone of Darth Vader, and, for a moment, you would feel famous. Unless, of course, you're actually James Earl Jones. In which case, things might be a little weird.

-DP

The Cake For a New Age!

     My 41^st birthday was a rousing, smashing success, and thanks to everyone for passing along the well-wishes and whatnots.  You made a great day that much better.  Seriously.  It was a fantastic day with fun, food and, most-importantly, cake! 

    So...  Let's talk about the cake.  It was so incredibly yummy that it certainly deserves not only its own entry here, but, I'm not altogether sure that it doesn't deserve it's own blog.  A cake like this needs its own identity.  Indeed, if it wasn't for the disturbing act of lopping off a wedge and sitting down to eat weighty chunks of its chocolatey goodness, there's a pretty good chance this cake and I would be life-long friends with evenings out, random text messages, and drunk dialing one another in the wee hours.  This is the kind of cake that one would like to keep in contact with for the rest of one's life. 

    Honestly, I have no idea what I did to deserve either the cake or the woman who made this delightful creation of chocolate and beer.  And yes.  There was beer in this cake.  It was yet another testament to the versatility of the delightful stout that is Guinness.  When Guinness is paired with chocolate, something amazing and, naturally, magical happens: the chocolate is prevented from being too sweet.  The beer brings a sour note that keeps the chocolate in perspective.

    To understand this, you have to look at it in terms of Gilligan's Island where, had it not been for the lovable, bumbling, titular imbecile, Gilligan, Jonas "The Skipper" Grumby would have ruled over that island with the bloody, iron first of a tyrant. 

    Sadly, the only thing missing was bacon.  Emily did mention that the cake needs bacon, but she stopped short of putting any in so as to complete the trifecta and round out a perfect meal.  Next time, it's getting bacon on top. 

    Nonetheless, I had a tremendously happy birthday.  In fact, it was such a fun time, I may have to do it again in a month, or so. 

-DP          

D-Day!

Today is my birthday. It's also the 65th anniversary of D-Day. So, please celebrate accordingly. To help, here's the Dave Matthews Band playing #41 (since, you know, that number now has significance to me).

Party on, people! And, I will be back later to discuss the amazing cake Emily put together just... for... me! As a preview, however, it's got chocolate and Guinness Stout.

-DP

Introducing...

    All three eggs on Emily's deck have hatched; so, say a hearty howdy to Oliver, Atticus and (I think Emily ran out of names) Daniel Finch.

    Oliver was born first two (or three) days ago, and the other two hungry beaks to feed made their appearance this morning with, what I am sure, was a lot of shell-cracking, peeping little chaos. 

    It's not easy to tell who is who, but Oliver is the slightly larger one that you see front and center.  As for the other two, well...  They're twins, it seems, and, speaking as a twin, I can tell you that the mommy finch is most likely in for some rather long and trying nights.  Still, these little dudes sure are cute as they seem to be settling into their lives out on Emily's deck.  They're about the size of my thumb, and I love how the spiky, little feathers on their heads make them look like punk rockers. And, I really like how their eyes are just these blank little orbs that have yet to open and see the world for the first time.  I imagine that, even for a bird, that's still got to be kind of an exciting thing.

    Aside from that, before you get to thinking they are too cute, keep in mind that in this picture, they are eagerly waiting for their mom to show up and puke on them.

-DP

I'm not Cranky! Yet!

We've had some storms here in Indy.

The thing is, what with the creepy clouds, crazy weather and the fact that I can't buy beer on Sundays anywhere in Indiana, I'm beginning to empathize with poor, burdened Frodo as he and Sam stumbled barefoot and thirsty into the heart of Mordor. Somewhere on Main St. in Kokomo, sits the "all-seeing eye" of ultimate evil. You can feel it gazing down upon you and casting its judgment across the vast plains of death and corn as you hit Chick-fil-A and go about your daily errands.

To make matters worse, this "god" thing that people tell you about that supposedly doesn't want you drinking on Sundays will chuck out a storm that dumps not only rain but a ton of ice as well, and these little nuggets would be a perfectly natural and organic way of keeping your scotch at a comfortable operating temperature.

But, noooo... God gives you ice to keep your drinks cold, but he doesn't want you buying scotch on Sundays. And people worship this lunatic?

It's a strange world, this Indiana. Where I come from, Sunday drinking is not only perfectly legal, it's also readily available and whole-heartily encouraged. And, it's usually accompanied by piles of charred meat, games of badminton, family, friends, and FUN. Getting on your knees and begging forgiveness only comes when you piss off your girlfriend because, well, you're drunk and there's probably a good chance something you said came out entirely the wrong way.

Of course, I still love it here.

-DP

P.S. You can't buy beer until after 6 p.m. on Election Day either.

Dan's in Indianapolis right now. Has been for a while, actually. And he's too busy watching "The Tick" on Hulu to write anything for you. He asked me if I wanted to do a guest post on his blog. So I said what the heck, and here I am. My name is Emily, by the way, and I used to have a blog that some of you used to read. But I canceled my service with Typepad recently, and I haven't set up a free account elsewhere yet. (I'm not in the mood. That's why.)

Anyway, Dan is having a little trouble fitting in here in Indiana. The other day I let him venture out to the grocery store on his own. Big mistake. He tried to buy beer on Sunday. He came back looking like someone tried to dress him in a Peyton Manning jersey.

"Guess I'll have to cook those brats on Monday. I didn't know you couldn't buy beer in Indiana on Sunday."

"Oh, yeah."

"Well, I told that cashier I wasn't taking the beer back," he said. The indignation was forming a pretty serious crease in his brow. "She got grumpy, because I made her work. Made her put the beer back."

"Grumpy? Really?"

"Yeah."

I noted his remark and smirked. "You seem a little worked up yourself."

"I am not," he insisted. And that's when CrankFest '09 started at my house.

I blame myself. I mean, if I was there I could have played the diplomat. To the cashier, I'd have said, "Sorry he's from Wisconsin. Milwaukee, actually. Not selling beer is like a sin there." And to Dan, I'd have said, "Yeah, it's a pretty Puritanically absurd law. But she didn't write it."

Then I'd have distracted everyone by dropping a four-pound bag of Swedish fish, some Milk Duds, a case of Mountain Dew, and a toothbrush on the conveyor.