22 Years Later

The radio talk show host said she had a 22 year old cat buried in her back yard. I think we have to do something....The little fellow was probably just sleeping when she buried him.

If both of my cats live 22 years that will mean I have wasted a combined 38 years of my life watching them sleep.

Guess what? They're sleeping now. 1001....1002....1003....1004

Can I borrow a shovel?

Em, Peanuts and the Burning Ring of Fire.

Em, my favorite eight year old, got two big presents for Christmas.
She got a rabbit that she wanted very badly and an mp3 player that was a complete surprise. A month before Christmas she wrote what she wanted on a piece of paper, folded it and handed it to her mother with downcast eyes. She told her mother she didn't want to talk about what she had written down because she didn't want her mother to say no. "Whatever happens happens."

The rabbit's name is Peanuts and I think we should all welcome Em into the complicated and fascinating world of "Genius Female Negotiation". Watch your pocket watch world. She wouldn't take it but you might wind up giving it to her just the same.

The second big gift was an Ipod. Em loves music. All kinds of music. The first musician she wanted on her Ipod was Johnny Cash. This is why I am crazy about Em. Can you imagine an eight year old wanting "Ring of Fire" and "Walk the Line" on her mp3 player? Next she will be asking for Kraftwork and Roxy Music, or maybe John Denver. Are all children completely mysterious and we just pretend they aren't so we wouldn't be afraid for them?

All I know is there are way too many loving eyes on Em for her to ever fall into a burning ring of fire. Rabbit bites are another thing. Peanuts is a nibbler and already out of warranty.

Em I want you to have my watch.

A Christmas Miracle

The weathermen in Pittsburgh were all in agreement last night....clouds and rain for Pittsburgh on the day before Christmas.
I skied all day at 7 Springs, which is about 60 miles from Pittsburgh, and there was not a single smelly cloud in the sky all day.
Thus the Christmas Miracle. It was as if Santa Claus or Jesus or Mr. Intelligent Design were floating around up there blowing all the clouds back to Ohio where there isn't a single decent hill worth sliding down. I think I am going to give the credit to Mr. Intelligent Design (or is it Mrs.)
He has been in the news a lot this year but he doesn't seem to get that much credit.
In fact, I'd really like to meet I.D. sometime. I'd like to ask him why it is ever rainy or snowy during the day. All that Junk could come at night. Thank you very much. And I'd like to ask him about this ridiculous traffic light in East Liberty that only seems to turn green once or twice a year in June.
I just don't know how to get in touch with him. You pray to Jesus. Santa Claus has a mailing address. My guess is I.D. probably has some sort of snazzy Ice Palace up near the North Pole. Maybe I'll leave an extra set of cookies tonight and Santa can drop off a note for me on his way back to the barn.
It is definitely supposed to rain tomorrow. I saw the map. I think it's going to take all three of you working together to keep the sun on the slopes tomorrow. I know. One of you has a Birthday. And another has to work through the night. And if the rumours about I.D. and the Barbie twins are true well...see what you can do. Thanks in advance guys.

Fa-ling-dingee-do

Fa-ling-dingee-do. Fa-ling-dingee-do.
I want to wish you a Merry Christmas.
I want to wish you a Merry Christmas.
I want to wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart.
Fa-ling-dingee-do. Fa-ling-dingee-do.

Wow. Writing songs is harder than I thought.

But well worth it. Once that ASCAP moolah starts rolling in I'll never sell another pint of blood for ski pass money.


Bleed to ski...Ski to bleed. Another tattoo bites the dust.

I am a Loser

I lost 4 games of R-Ball tonight. I think two things are pretty clear.

1. It's a rainy night in Georgia.

2. John Barleycorn must die.

When the rain stops and John is dead I will win again.

Unless it's something else.

First Tracks Fifth Wife

The skiing at Seven Springs Saturday was as good as it gets there. New snow....warm sunshine....no lift lines....no wind and most importantly no East Coast ice.

I fell on Gunner and it wasn't snow all.

Breyers Vanilla...yep it's true.

And I think I met my fifth wife.

Not Again!

I say next time we let the big monkey live happily ever after with the big monkey loving blonde.

I say we give them a little dream house in New Jersey that looks across to the Manhattan skyline. And let's plant a banana tree in the back yard. They'll need a dog...a short-haired dog. You know she will have her hands full when the big monkey starts to shed.

I say we give the big monkey an office in the Empire State Building. Let's make it a nice corner office where the big monkey can sit in front of a huge window and watch the biplanes circle, trying to shoot that other blonde stealing monkey off the antenna.

I say we never make King Kong again until gorillas speak English...Tell me again why I'm dragging this ugly gorilla to the top of this building. I mean what's my motivation here? And did I tell you I like my gorillas just about a thousand times furrier then this one?

The real movie should be the story of the machine gun pilot that goes into a deep depression and starts smoking crack when he realizes that there just aren't anymore giant monkeys to kill.

Peter we get it. Americans kill things they don't understand. Just look around. No Giant Monkey Movie will ever change that.