Survive Divorces

I was so depressed after my third divorce, I had to see a shrink. He gave me drugs, but they didn't work because she's still alive.

Jerry's Books - on sale!

I've been married four times. I know! I think David Schwimmer's character on "Friends", Ross Geller, was patterned after me. He was married four times too.

People wonder how it happens. I have no idea. I'm pretty bull headed, when it comes to compromise. The old line, "I wanted a dog and she wanted a cat, so we compromised and got a cat.", was certainly not my blueprint. If you're not willing to bend in the marriage, better look for a good attorney.

As much as all divorced people like to blame their former spouse for the problems leading to the disaster, it really does take two to make enough mistakes to terminate the marriage. Sometimes it is behavior oriented, while other times it was a relationship that was not to be, but we ignore the warning signs.

My third wife turned out to be a meth head. I saw nothing in her behavior that would lead me there. Perhaps I wasn't looking hard enough, because I wanted to marry her. Who knows? I missed something along the way, for certain, because she wasn't smart enough to fool everyone, just her idiot fiance.

I invited my friend, Keith Stubbs to my second wedding. His response? "Na, I'll catch the next one. You can always count on Jerry for a wedding every couple of years". True story, and right on the money.

I finally had to stop myself. I stopped dating for a long time. I was running out of best men. I kept an attorney on retainer so if I even proposed to a woman, I could sue myself.

I think it's way too easy to get married. In some states, the couple getting divorced must complete marriage counseling for six months before a divorce decree is approved. I think the same should be required prior to marriage.

I'm still married to my fourth wife. It's been 15 years, shattering the previous record of 9. It's been rocky at times. We've hurdled many obstacles that would have ended most marriages, and yet we keep going and are still in love!

I think I've mellowed, and she has, as well. I'm still very stubborn, but I now choose the battles with more wisdom.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go apologize before it's too late.

See you tomorrow.

Jerry's Books - on sale!

Dreams

Sometimes a woman will have a dream that her husband cheated on her. Even though she knows it's a dream, she'll stay angry for days.

Any man who has been married for an extended period of time knows what I'm talking about. And she doesn't stay mad for a short period of time, but for days.

And we're such knuckleheads, we go around like a sad puppy trying to get back in her favor. Flowers won't work. That would mean admitting guilt to your behavior in her DREAM.

My advice, which I wouldn't even consider, since I'm on my fourth marriage, is to give her the silent treatment. You may need to spend a few nights on the couch and some fast food, but it will be worth it.

Reinforcement of insane behavior is just not a good idea. It will only encourage more of the same. The penalty depends on your behavior in her DREAM. For example, she may be mad, but can't remember why. That will only be about a day.

If, however, you had an affair, that would be a couple of days. If the affair was with her sister, forget it. Plan on a week. Get a hotel. Stay with a friend; anything. Just don't go home. It isn't safe.

If you don't heed my advice, your honeydo list will be exponentially increased. You'll be doing LAUNDRY! Doing all of the chores you've successfully put off for years. In short, years of work and careful planning will go straight out the window.

If you pack and leave for a few days of r & r, from insanity, the next time it happens, you immediately get your bag, start packing, and see what happens. She may let you go, or she may choose to cave in and apologize, knowing it's just a dream.

The key is, if you allow yourself to be sanctioned, in any capacity, you lose and it will happen again and again and again. It will never end until you take some responsible steps to end the insanity. No violence, just head smarts.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm tired, so I'm going to get back on the couch.

See you tomorrow.

Road Warrior

I learned the hard way that there are certain things not to say to law enforcement, in any country, when they pull you over. "Aren't you the guy from the village people?"

I used to travel like a mad man. Seriously. I once traveled from western Canada to Quebec, then to France and the UK, then across the USA,  five times in a year and a half. No kidding. Insane.
I loved meeting all of the people; the customs, the food and I made some very good friends along the way.

I must say, however, one of the most interesting places, was Montreal. What a beautiful, historic city. In fact, I was there the night they celebrated their. 350th year as a city. It was crazy. There were two MILLION of us in the streets that night. I couldn't move an inch for four hours. Nuts, but I'm glad I was there.

There were some events I could have done without, however. First off, their not happy to be Canadian. They want to secede from the country and become their own. They speak mostly French, albeit not exactly the same language you find in France.

They are not particularly fond of westerners. If they don't like Canadian westerners, imagine how they feel about United States westerners..

My first trip there, I stopped at a pizza joint. While waiting in line, I knew I was in trouble because no one was speaking English. Now I'm not the typical American tourist who becomes angry because the entire world doesn't speak their language. You'd be amazed by the number of times I witnessed it.

When it was my turn to order, I pointed to the pizza I wanted. There, I thought, I've successfully ordered food, with no language barrier issue. Then the server said," Voulez-vous des frites françaises sur elle?" Uh, I muttered intelligently, then "Oui", which was the only French word I knew.

I watched him, then, smother my pizza in french fries. I smiled, paid and threw the pizza away. Lesson learned, or so I thought.

I had some wonderful experiences there, as well. I stayed at a beautiful resort north of Montreal, off of Lake Esterelle, who's name I most likely just butchered. It was a stunningly gorgeous landscape.

While at the resort, I met some great people, or so I was led to believe. We all gathered for dinner one night, and as I looked at the menu, I was proud. No longer a rookie. A road warrior, who had conquered the language. I proudly said " Une omelette au fromage, s'il vous plaît."; a cheese omelet, please.

The waitress brought the omelet and said " Voulez-vous le sirop sur elle?"  Uh oh. Now what? "Oui", I said, and she poured syrup all over it. I didn't eat it. I just wanted black coffee at that point, but didn't know how to ask for it. One of my table mates told me what to say. I repeated "Excuse me miss, votre grand-mère est très laid, mais j'ai couché avec elle de toute façon." She threw a glass of water in my face. As I walked away, my so called friends were still laughing hysterically.

I would later learn that I told the waitress, Excuse me miss, your grandmother is very ugly, but I slept with her anyway. Very nice.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must order a cheese omelet, at Dennys, across the street.

See you tomorrow.

Gum Control

I think the argument about guns is ridiculous. We ought to be focused on a larger problem; Gum control. The scene from "Elf" should serve as a warning to us all.

Gum is dangerous. Very dangerous. Cleverly disguised as a tasty, chewy treat, it is placed like C4 explosives all over the world.

There are many flavors, colors, shapes and sizes. From flavorful breath fresheners, bubble gum, sugar free to other mouth bombs loaded with sugar. They even make gum with aspirin in it and gum with disgusting nicotine.

There are flavors that should never touch the delicate taste buds of any human being. We've all experienced it. A different flavor you've never seen before. You think, "That looks like a good idea. I'll try it." You spend the rest of the day trying to get the taste out of your mouth. Nothing works. Nothing. The gum terrorists,led by Bazooka Joe, have won.

Then there's the real problem. Kids will eat anything, including gum they find - anywhere. It makes no difference where they find it, or what condition it might be in, they find it, and chew it. Gross.

Chewing gum over long periods of time can also cause temporary mandibular joint issues, as we call it in the biz, or in layman's terms, TMJ. It is a serious problem that sometimes requires surgery to repair.

All I'm trying to do, is warn mankind about this dreaded disease. Gum disease. We simply must control it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a delightful piece of Juicy Fruit, with my name all over it.

See you tomorrow.

Ahhh, baloney!

If I owned a sandwich shop, I would name a sandwich after all politicians. I'd call it: Mostly Baloney.

When I was a kid, we ate a great deal of baloney sandwiches. Not bologna, baloney. So, what's the difference? Nothing!

Balogna is really the correct name, but in the 1930s, Alfred Smith, Governor of New York, used the slang term, baloney, in reference to government bureaucracy in Washington.

Balogna is a sausage, made from the odd pieces of chicken, turkey, beef and pork. originated in Italy, in a town named - you guessed it, Balogna. It's cheap, and I love it! It's sort of like catsup and ketchup. No difference whatsoever.

Maybe it reminds me of good childhood days, or maybe I just like the odd pieces of chicken, turkey beef and pork. In any case, I don't care what they call it, I eat it.

I have a very good friend from the south, who loves fried balogna. His mother used to cook it, and he loves it. I suspect you might, as well. Why not? Its inexpensive, I like the taste and it makes it very easy to slap a sandwich together. A slice of balogna, cheese, a condiment and some bread. I like it plain.

Before you start thinking that I'm even more crazy than you may have gleaned previously, there are worse luncheon meats available. Head cheese. Gross.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the balogna is not going to fry itself.

See you tomorrow.

Ahhh, baloney!

If I owned a sandwich shop, I would name a sandwich after all positions. I'd call it: Mostly Baloney.

When I was a kid, we ate a great deal of baloney sandwiches. Not bologna, baloney. So, what's the difference? Nothing!

Balogna is really the correct name, but in the 1930s, Alfred Smith, Governor of New York, used the slang term, baloney, in reference to government bureaucracy in Washington.

Balogna is a sausage, made from the odd pieces of chicken, turkey, beef and pork. originated in Italy, in a town named - you guessed it, Balogna. It's cheap, and I love it! It's sort of like catsup and ketchup. No difference whatsoever.

Maybe it reminds me of good childhood days, or maybe I just like the odd pieces of chicken, turkey beef and pork. In any case, I don't care what they call it, I eat it.

I have a very good friend from the south, who loves fried balogna. His mother used to cook it, and he loves it. I suspect you might, as well. Why not? Its inexpensive, I like the taste and it makes it very easy to slap a sandwich together. A slice of balogna, cheese, a condiment and some bread. I like it plain.

Before you start thinking that I'm even more crazy than you may have gleaned previously, there are worse luncheon meats available. Head cheese. Gross.

Now, if you'll excuse me, the balogna is not going to fry itself.

See you tomorrow.

Lincoln Logs

Somehow, I think the term, "Lincoln Logs", would not be acceptable while he was President.

Let me begin by telling you that, without question, my brothers and I were insane. Certifiably. We did so many crazy things, many of which we knew would get us in big trouble. Lincoln Logs played a significant role.

Most children built log cabins with them, which was the intended purpose, Hence, the name. Not my brothers and I. If we were unable to inflict pain on one another, it was simply not a good toy.

The game was simple and painful. We would go in one of our bedrooms and we would each have one of the smaller pieces in hand. Everyone would find protection somewhere, except for the poor guy who had to turn off the light.

The goal of the game was to be the only one not beaned by a 100 mile per hour toy projectile. It wasn't like other games, where you would always claim the other guy missed. If you got hit, you instinctively made some sort of horrible sound.

Imagine the poor guy who had to turn off the light. It was usually me. I was the obvious target. So I learned to turn off the light and dive out of harms way.

If you saw or heard anything, you fired your toy as hard as you could toward the unsuspecting target. If you hit him, you knew it, but you were then out of ammo. So you'd find the guy you just made "Mr. Eye Patch", and look quietly for your weapon and his.

Sometimes, more than one of us fired at the same target, so the guy who found this wounded brother might end up with all of them. A distinct advantage, no doubt, but the winner was the last kid with both eyes still functional.

If you had no Lincoln Logs, you had to be clever enough to create a diversion to draw fire, then quickly, and quietly try to find it. Once you did, you at least had a sporting chance.

Looking back, my older brother must have had night vision goggles. He was amazing, and won most of the time. After several games, we would reenter the normal world, covered with welts. Mom would ask what we were doing in the room and we gave the standard "nothing" answer.

I remember the last time we played. My parents were having a party. All of our Aunts and Uncles were there. We were right in the middle of a game when one of my Uncles made a grave error by opening the door. The ice pack helped the poor guy, but it was the end of our game. Bye bye Lincoln Logs.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go get some and teach my wife how to play.

See you tomorrow.

Lance Armstrong

I can tell this is going to be a better year. I already have as many tour de France victories as Lance Armstrong.

I think it's good that he was stripped of his victories. He is not only a cheater, but a bully, as well. He's only apologizing because he was caught, and there was nothing left for him to do.
If there's one thing I've learned through all of this, it's to never trust anyone who does lots of charity work. I'm kidding, of course, but I wonder if it just made it easier to sleep at night.

Other than being tied for the most victories, I have something else in common with Armstrong. One of my twins decided to leave home unexpectedly. Ouch. That doesn't even begin to describe the pain, as you might imagine.

Yeah, I was juicing. Orange. Every day. I awoke on a Saturday morning about 4, in excruciating pain. I thought it was just a urinary tract infections, so I waited until noon to see my doctor, who, fortunately works Saturdays.

He also thought it was a UTI, as we call it in the biz,  but just to be on the safe side, he sent me to the hospital for a sonogram. It was a female technician, so no eye contact was made. The next thing I knew, I was being wheeled into the OR, with my wife yelling in the background, "Don't worry, Honey, I'll still love you, even if you're half of a man."  It was actually quite funny.

They did everything they could, but weren't able to save the guy. Nuts! Looking back, however, I ended up having a ball. At least I didn't do it to myself, like Armstrong did. I took no steroids, especially not the anaBALLic kind. Ironic, isn't it?

Before anyone gets mad, I raise hundreds of dollars every year to the Huntsman Cancer Foundation. I'm a twisted comedian, and this is how I vent.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must make more juice.

Weird Hair

I offered my wife a sincere compliment on her mustache and suddenly she's mad.

There is certainly a double standard, but that we've known for years. Wives tell their husbands "time for a hair cut. You look ridiculous." That's accepted. Let a man do that, and he'll hide out longer than Ted Kaczynski.

We get hair growing out of our ears, nose and other places. There should be ear, nose and throat barbers. Believe it or not, ladies, nose hair trimmers hurt! That's why I trim mine with my trusty swiss army knife. Let's see you do that on your legs. Just kidding. Don't do it. You're likely to end up in the hospital.

What about the ears? Fortunately, I don't have that dilemma, but I know guys that do. Can you get them trimmed at the doctors office? Will insurance cover excessive hair growth? Doubtful. We just have to do our best with what ever is available. Nair? No thanks. Box cutter? Possible.

Women, as they grow older too, have problems with mustaches. You wax them. If only it were easy to do that with our ears. Can you imagine? Fill the ear cavity with wax, let it set, yank it off and voila! No more annoying hair or pesky ear drums. All gone.

They say our nose and ears continue to grow as we get older. Great. I'm going to have hair everywhere! I'll have to put it all together in a giant comb over. I'll no doubt be shot by some moron who mistakes me for Bigfoot.

Now, if you'll excuse me, this nose hair isn't going to cut itself.

See you tomorrow.

Put your nose to the grindstone

My Dad used to tell me that. Well, I finally did it. I'll be out of the hospital in about a week, looking like Kenny Rogers.

Working hard at something, is all I've ever known. In high school, I didn't care about my grades. I cared about being the best actor and funniest guy around.

I caught the drama director cheating on the awards distribution. I won the best actor award my first year, as voted by my peers. He gave it to a senior. When confronted, he said he did it because the guy was a senior, and it was his last shot. That was enough for me. I couldn't trust him.

I then moved on to radio, my passion. I knew there was a radio station at our rival high school, and we had Regional Occupation Programs (ROP) in place, to give us the chance to get work experience prior to graduation.

I went to the principal, a great man named Mr. Colivas, and hit him up with the idea of sending students from other schools there to get broadcast experience. He thought it was a good idea, but he thought it best that I talk with the teacher at the other school first.

When I approached the teacher with my idea, he became angry, and said - excuse me - yelled, no. He said it took him years to get approval from the school district to fund the endeavor.

I reported back to Mr. Colivas that the teacher loved the idea. Mr. Colivas took the idea to the school board and they also loved it. A new program was born and since I initiated it, I was the first selected from my school. There were others, as well. Denny Francis and Dan Smith. Great guys. There were also students selected from the other school in our town, too.

As you might imagine, the funny looking little teacher, who sounded just like Richard Dreyfus, hated me. Never the less, I set my sites on being tho first of our group to get a show. I was.

Through the class, I heard that a station in town was looking for a copy writer. I didn't even know what a copy writer was. The next day, after school, I walked into the station and announced that I was the copy writer they sought. After I figured out what a copy writer was, I wrote a couple of commercials for Dick Bailey, and walked out with the job.

My point is, I had to be the best. Failure was never an option. I carried that philosophy with me my entire life, and now I'm paying for it. It's one of the reasons why I am sick. There are more factors, of course, but complete burn out is one of them.

The moral of the story is that it wasn't worth it. I've done more than most, but didn't really enjoy it, because of the drive within. It was never enough.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must check my blog stats and see if I am climbing the popularity ladder.

See you tomorrow.

The life of a comedian

Two comedians are talking. One is feeling down. The other says "What's up?" "I did a show last night, and the guy didn't pay me." "That's horrible" , says the other comedian. Then he says, "So, uh, who books it?"

Unfortunately, it really sort of works like that. All comedians reading this know exactly what I'm talking about. Stage time is stage time, and when you're new, it's more valuable than money.

There are good things about it, and bad, just like like anything we might do. You have a great show, and you're on top of the world. Have a bad one, and you want to quit and hide like Sadam Hussein.

If you're doing one-nighters, there's nothing worse than the drive of shame to the next gig that night. Then, voila! You have a killer show and you're right back on top of the world.

I can only equate it to commission selling. The elation of making a big sale is instantly gone when you draw blanks the rest of the day.

As a comedian, we all have our horror stories. Here's a good one. Some people who book comedy in their business, couldn't care less about the comedians. In Elko Nevada, there used to be shows at a hotel, where the rooms had been condemned. The club owner wanted the comedians to stay in the rooms. No, I'm not kidding.

The hallways were dark, although the rats were friendly. The sheets on the bed were duct taped together. It was gross, to say the least. In Corvallis, Oregon, the accommodations were so horrible, I refused to stay. I called my brother, Jim, who lives in the Portland area, and asked if I could stay at his house. It was the the best 150 mile drive. Ever.

There are good stories, as well. Sometimes, if you're playing a club, they'll have a condo you can stay in. Nothing elaborate, mind you, but at least there were no duct taped sheets. Those were good times.

The best was performing near home. You slept in your own bed. Ahhh, your own bed! Never has a bed felt better. As your career progresses, so do accommodations and pay, but you never forget the humble beginnings.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get ready for a gig at a Senior Center.

See you tomorrow.

Golden Globes

Kim Kardashian didn't win any Golden Globes last year. She already has some.

Hollywood insiders say that the Golden Globes have become a joke. Duh. As I understand it, they represent the media's opinion of the best of the best. It used to be the Globe winners would also win Academy Awards. This begs the question of why they ever existed.

If they were going to be a prognosticator of awards to come, what was the point? Just give the Oscars and call it a day.

Now, they don't even come close to predicting accurately anymore. Now it's just another ridiculous award show. We need more award shows, like Roseanne Barr needs singing lessons. They are worthless.

Let's see,  The Academy Awards,
The American Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science, The Grammy Awards, The Golden Globe Awards, The Emmy Awards, The S.A.G. Awards, which my wife says should be for aging women, The Peoples's Choice Awards, Kid's Choice Awards (no joke), The American Music Awards... The list goes on and on. Ridiculous.

If you're known in show biz, and you don't win something, it's time to be put out to pasture. Hang it up. Wait, that won't work either. You're likely to get a lifetime achievement award.

Why so many? Idiots watch them. The shows make a lot of money. Here's how it breaks down algebraicaly. Huge tv audience = big $ advertising - very low production costs = huge profits. That's what Hollywood understands. Money.

I don't watch any of the shows. It's my way of protesting the exploitation of people who are so star struck, they just can't help themselves.

Anyone who has worked with some of these folks, realize they are just like you and me. Human beings, with all of the same foibles we all have. Money stress, the fear of getting older, losing their performance skills, etc.

Maybe we can do a blog award show! Red carpet, poperatzi, the whole shebang! I'll get started on it.

See you tomorrow.

Deep Freeze

It's so cold, I chipped a tooth on my soup.

It's like a deep freeze here. It's like Alaska, without the wildlife. Like Russia, without the vodka. Like my wife when she's really ticked off at me, you know, like when she reads what I just wrote.

Alaska is a beautiful place, if you don't die there. I nearly did. I was in Wasilla for a gig. It was near the end of November, and they just had an incredible storm, and the phones were down in the rooms at the resort at which I stayed.

I talked to the owner the night before, and he said the payphone in the lobby worked. I used to call my kids every morning when I was on the road, and this day was no exception. So, I put on my fairly thin jacket, jeans and tennis shoes and headed to the lobby. It was locked. Of course it was. I have about as much luck as a turkey in November.

The guy said he would leave the lobby open for me. Sure. Ok, think! Most likely the last time I've ever done that. When I think, it's always a disaster. I would hire a "thinker" for me, but I have my wife, and she does it for free.

I remembered passing a McDonald's not far the night before. I didn't have use of a car, and I didn't "think" I needed a cab. I would just walk. What could possibly go wrong?  At this point, I should tell you that I have the worst sense of direction of any human being on earth.

I walked the wrong way. It was pitch black, and in the middle of nowhere. Sure that I would see the inviting glow of the golden arches any minute, I moved on. I was getting very cold, but no worries, I'll be warm in no time, talking to my kids.

I know what some of you are thinking. No cell phone? Nope. Didn't Have one. On I tracked. I began to realize that I could no longer feel my feet and legs. I kept going. Soon, I could feel nothing. I became dillusional, something that has never left me, by the way.

Off in the distance, I saw a light, which was good,, because I was getting very sleepy. I kept waking toward this landmark. The Oasis. The Promised Land. When I finally arrived, and walked in, the owner said "Oh my God! Come here and sit down. He made me slowly sip a cup of warm water, then more, increasing the temperature each time.

Once I had come to my senses, I realized I had walked for miles to Wasilla. Then the nice man became Satan-like. He told me how stupid I was, and that most of the time, people don't survive what I had done. Following a trip to the hospital, I called a cab, and went to the resort, where I eagerly told the owner of my near-death experience, all the while resisting the urge to throttle him.

I'm such an idiot. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm hungry, and there's a McDonald's not far away...

See you tomorrow.

Old friends.

I ran into an old friend this week. She's pressing charges. I tried to brake in time, but I was texting another friend at the time. Rude.

It's always fun to encounter a friend from long ago. It is most always a wonderful experience. There are exceptions, of course. What if the person has become as angry and bitter as lieutenant Dan, but doesn't have the opportunity to climb the mast and curse the almighty?

I met a man once, at a show, who relayed a bone chilling story. He ran into an old friend from the bay area in California. They went to dinner, met several times for drinks, had a blast. The friend's name? Richard Allen Davis. Davis, within a few weeks, would kill Polly Klaus.

In my case, my friend is not a criminal, but a good person, who was and is a delight. Her name is Lisa.

I knew her parents well. In fact, we were close friends. Lisa was only ten, at the time, but was a very bright kid. And funny, as was her mother.

I was recently friended on Facebook, by Lisa, which made me very happy. The last time I had talked to her and her mom, was 24 years ago, as I was performing at a place which I don't recall. It was great to see them again.

Suddenly, lisa finds me on Facebook. This is why I like this medium. You can chat with friends, old and new, and if you've had enough of someone, you can block them for a while.

The stress of remaining friends with someone, when they cause you grief, is definitely not worth it. You know how it goes. You get a message and your first reaction makes you dry heave. That one, I would leave alone. Not the kind of person who you want in your life. Ever.

I had too many of those people in my life, and when I became ill, I cut them out faster than a junkie cutting coke. It was so freeing. I felt guilt for exactly one quarter of a second, and have felt better about the decision since.

Cut em' out like a custom taylor. Don't think of them. Focus on what's good in your life. My friend, Lisa has a great philosophy. God will judge her. Everyone else, stay out of her business.
Words to live by. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some people to unfriend.

See you tomorrow.

Magic Bacon

If I have to eat anything I hate, I put bacon on it and it becomes delicious!

I don't know what it is with bacon, but somehow it's magical. People say that God's greatest creation is man. I disagree. It's bacon.

Why bacon? I love ham, but nowhere near bacon. It comes from the same animal, so why the difference?

Bacon makes everything taste better. Everything except bacon. There would be no point to add bacon to bacon. You're likely to get locked up for that.

I don't know why all cheese burgers don't include bacon. Those who don't want it, can ask for it to be removed. Even pastrami burgers should include bacon. Sure, it may clog your arteries, but they can fix that now, and you can continue the bacon fest.

Chicken, pizza, steak, salad, spinach, casseroles... The list goes on and on. Even liver! Yuk, unless there's bacon on it. I forgot about eggs, other sandwiches, and wraps. And what about bacon wrapped hot dogs?

It's no wonder that my wife doesn't buy it. She knows what would happen, and she (gasp) doesn't like bacon! Who doesn't like bacon? Insane people, except for my Jewish and vegetarian friends. Insane.

Some just don't know what they're missing. Let's address turkey bacon and fake bacon. Are you kidding me? What part of a turkey tastes like bacon? None! Just get the real thing. Really.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go to see a man about becoming a pig farmer.

See you tomorrow.

Working out - Ugh

I'm not into working out. My philosophy: No pain. No pain.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I decided to get in shape. The latest craze was "Body for Life". It turned out to be body for 12 weeks.

Some people enjoy the workout. They live for it. I know a wonderful couple who work out - hard - every day. The gyms are packed with people, especially this time of year. "This year, I'm going to get into shape! Been there, done that.

I'm just going to say it. I hate working out. I'm a couch potato. I have no idea why people call those of us who choose not to work out potatoes; I prefer spud. Sounds better, doesn't it? Sort of like a cool nickname." Hey, Spud!". Ok, that will be my nickname from now on.

People who enjoy working out also enjoy the pain that comes with it. They say "No pain, no gain". I say, "No pain, no pain". Sounds better, doesn't it? I think so. What's the point? To find a mate? I'm happily married, and we didn't meet at a gym. It was a comedy club. No pain there, unless one of the comics eats it like a plow horse.

Just because I'm a Spud (oh yeah, liking the nickname better every minute) doesn't mean I'm obese. I'm not a candidate for "The Biggest Loser". My heart is healthy, lungs are in good shape, liver is fine... I'm good.

I love most everyone. Those who know me well understand that, so I will never put anyone down who loves to work out. To each his own. Even Spud. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to take a nap.
See you tomorrow.

World Champions

Once, as I was playing baseball, I threw out the potential winning run at home plate. Then I awoke and discovered I had completely shattered the mirror above my dresser.

That's how much I I love the game. I used to sleep with with a baseball near my pillow. Until that incident, however. It ended there.

It took place, my dream, during the World Series. Wow! Even in my dream, I could smell the newly fresh cut grass. The smell of hot dogs, peanuts and beer. The sound of the crowd, as some cheered, while others bood.

When I think about the dream, the term "World Series' or "World Champions" seems a bit arrogant, doesn't it? There's only one other country that sports a MLB team, and that's Canada. North American Champions? Okay. MLB champs? Yeah. World Camps? Nope.

It's the same with the NFL and professional hockey. Let's get the CFL (Canadian Football League) involved. I'm not sure that any other countries play the American version of football. It's mostly soccer matches elsewhere.

Now that we have soccer teams as well, if a team wins it all, they can legitimacy be called "World Champions". I love our country. I just think that we, as a people, can sometimes be a bit arrogant.

Let's see if Japan would like to integrate their fine league with ours. How about the Dominican Republic? Any country that sports either professional American football, baseball or hockey. Just a thought.

See you tomorrow.

NFL Football

I am so ashamed of what I've done. It's worse than you think. I became a fan of the Miami Dolphins.

This time of year is bittersweet for many, including me. It's playoff time! Yabba Dabba Do!! But, that also means that we're heading like a bullet train to the end of the season. Horrible.

I love NFL Football. I'm a junkie, hooked, jonesing, thirsty - whatever you want to call it, there am I. Some people enjoy the Super bowl for the commercials. Others, the food and party. I'm in it for the game.

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy the commercials, so I watch them, and I do enjoy the food. What I don't enjoy is all of the chatter that goes on during the game. People get offended. Sorry. To me, it's like going to the theater to catch a live performance, and people having conversations. It's not done.

We tolerate it because we must. The ladies are there, and most couldn't care less about the game. Luckily, my wife is a football fan. Shannon, a dear friend of ours, is a die hard fan. They are the only ladies close to me that really enjoy the game.

I even hate the half time show. I don't care who's performing. The intermission is far too long. I don't like all of the pregame hype either. I record the game and wait for about 45 minutes to start watching. Why? So I can fast forward through the half time marathon. Get back to the game, already.

Some would say that is fanaticism, and they would be right. That's why it's bittersweet. Tomorrow, it's over. No more Sunday, Monday or Thursday games. It's over until the fall.

Baseball isn't quite the same, even though I'm a San Francisco Giants fan, and they are awesome. 162 games? Let's fast forward to September. The season is winding down to the "World Series" (another blog coming on that topic), and when it's over, it's right into NFL action. Yabba Dabba Do!!

See you tomorrow.

Peace and Quiet

Peace and Quiet. I can have one, but never both. I'm married.

I love my wife. Hopefully, most people love their spouses. Based on the numbers, only half of us do.

I think it might be that we get too busy to care. You know; soccer, dance recitals, music, plays, homework, homework, homework... There is little time left for each other.

Quality time in this day and age is finding the least expensive divorce attorney. Everyone needs to talk and be heard. Or, at least feel that way. If we get too busy, so the children, activities and pets take complete priority, your spouse will find someone else to talk with.

So, quite the conundrum, isn't it? I'm currently reading "The Five Love Languages". It's a great book for any couple, married or not. I think it's safe to say that we all have certain expectations, based upon our childhood experience, of how we want to be sure we are loved. We rarely get that.

So, how do we know we're loved? Look for it. Maybe your significant other grew up with a family that never expressed their love verbally, and that's what you are looking for. That can be a recipe for disaster, the book says. I agree. Unfortunately, my wife grew up in a home where the greatest symbol of love involved the middle finger.

We all have certain ways we tell each other  "I love you". You will miss them if you're looking for something else. That would be a shame, because that is what we're looking for.

Now, if you'll excuse me, my wife is "telling" me she loves me. Oy...

See you tomorrow.

Pretending

Yesterday, I pretended I was the King of Lithium. Yes, Lithium. It's pretend, right?

Pretending is an artform lost at adolescence, I've been told. I don't believe it. How about the adult who feels such a tie to a sports team, they pretend they are somehow legally connected to the team? You can tell, because they'll use terms, such as "We" or "My" in reference to the team. "Wow, that was a tough [game, match, etc.], but we won!

It's not just sports, either. Soap Operas would never have become so popular, had it not been for playing pretend." My Stories" is a reference we've all heard. They're losing popularity now, due to the onslaught of reality shows, which are not really reality, it's pretend. Let's all head out to a secluded island, get rained on, physically tortured and socially bullied for 39 days and see if someone gives us a million dollars.

There are books and films in which we get lost, even vacations. We daydream about sitting at an outdoor cobblestone cafe in Paris or Tuscany. Climbing Mt. Everest, skydiving - it seems as though we all pretend something. Thank God.

Imagine a world without imagination. How mundane would that be? I remember an episode of "Wonder Years", when Kevin and his Dad were camping. The father talked of the log cabin he would build as a retirement home. He had talked about it many times, always with a smile. This time, however, Kevin reminded his Dad that he would never build that cabin; that it was merely a pipe dream never to be fulfilled. Kevin's Dad's smile disappeared, never to return.

Let's be careful with what others pretend. If it's not harmful to others, let it be. Dashing hopes and dreams is dangerous and mean.

As for me? I love being King of Lithium. I'll never run out of medicine or batteries.

See you tomorrow.