The French have a saying, “mi casa es su casa.”
This means “Let the Buyer Beware.” These are words I take to heart everyday.
I say, “Heart, have we been a buyer today?”
And, in answer, my heart usually says, “thump, thump.”
If you’ve ever dealt with trick horses at the State Fair or in old westerns, you know that one thump means yes, and two thumps mean no. So, since I am a man who always listens to his heart, I know that I am not the one to beware.
Let all those buying chumps beware of me, man.
Check out my scary picture! I’m a bad man! Beware what I’m selling! I own cats, I stole and ate a Snickers candy-bar from my sleeping wife this morning, and I love NiGHTS.
That makes me dangerous; Rawr!
Check out my eBay offerings, if you dare. Mi casa es su casa, bitch!
Well, that’s it.
As the Spanish say, “je ne sais quoi!“
(which means, essentially, “see you tomorrow.”)

Super-size my New World Order, and YES! I want fries with that!

Dear auditors:
I have counted them twice, and I continue to record a steady feline population in my house of no more than 2. For purposes of justification, here is the summary of my data collection methodology:

1. Genetic testing of feline dander taken from samples in the home were found to originate from only two distinct individual animals
2. Feces volume estimation for two cats found to be roughly equivalent to current cat box contents.
3. The numbers of cats seen wandering throughout the household amounted to no more than 2 in any one location at any one time.
4. Final data collected involved tranquilizing and tagging specimins as they approached the waterhole to feed.

Jump to the Review of “Gil’s All Fright Diner”.

• No single element of consumer electronics has ever left my possession in a state even remotely describable as “usable.” The best one can hope for is “recyclable.”
• I can never leave food unfinished, even if it means making myself sick on a half-pound of Swedish fish. Mmmmm….Swedish.
• I can’t chill. No, really, I can’t. Within five seconds of sitting down I’m already looking for something to consume, be it the aforementioned foodstuffs, magazines, books, playdough, game boy, whatever. And if I can’t find anything to distract me, you can bet I’ll be masturbating, provided I’m at least 80% alone and undisturbed. (Sorry to all you %20 percenters out there. You know who you are. Mom.*)
• I get obsessed with unfinished problems in my life and work, which causes me undue stress and hardship. I can never leave well enough alone. When I know there is something broken, even if it is a relationship, I just want to get back in there swinging until I knock it out.**
• I can’t leave a book unfinished if I have even a few seconds open to shoe-horn some reading into. Many people read while they are defecating. Its expected. But, as far as I know, I am the only one who regularly reads over a urinal. I have, on more than a few occasions, read a book in the shower. (ask me about my technique)

Man, that was a crap-load of exposition. Unwarranted as well, considering it was just a warm up to the following statement:I read a book yesterday.
I bought it around 3:30pm, started reading it around 7:45pm, and completed it by 1am. This is partially because the book was really fun, and partially because it was a light and fast read. But, since I enjoyed it so much I figured I would post a wee little review right here!

This Book is by A. Lee Martinez, of whom I know nothing. I had never heard of this person, never read anything else by her/him. I could have made he/she up, like some of my best friends and worst enemies, but I have evidence to the contrary in the form of the actual physical existance of this book. ‘Gil’s All Fright Diner’ currently only comes in the form of an oversized paperback, as it is in its first printing as of this month. I usually hate oversized paperbacks. By combining the convenience of a hard-cover’s unwieldy size with the durability of a paperback’s flimsy construction you get something you can’t stuff in your pocket, but which will likely fall apart. But, since we were getting a replacement for a bunny-eaten Curious George book for my little daughter anyway, I figured I could get myself a book too. The cover art caught my eye as I browsed the SF and Fantasy section; all eyeball and tentacles. Independant, peer-reviewed research indicates that all the best fiction involves at least one eyeball and 3.5 tentacles.
At 266 pages, the book might seem average size, but considering the huge font, 1.5 line spacing and generous 1″ margins, it could easily have been in the low 100′s if the publisher were feeling a little more conservative. A light read, lengthwise. I will NOT use the word wacky or zany, the retarded conjoined twins of comedic adjectives, to describe this book. But I will say that “Gil’ s All Fright Diner” is a nicely enjoyable pile of bizarre. Take a gander at this sampling of characters: Duke, an overweight truckdriver who has been a werewolf since he accidentally ran one over in his big rig years earlier, Earl, a vampire with an overbite, a comb-over, and middle age written all over him, Tammy, a high-school vixen who is trying to invite the ‘old gods’ to bring on the apocalypse, a sheriff named Kopp (enough said), a resentful ghost trapped in a magic 8-ball, and Loretta, the overweight, oversexed, and lonely woman who runs the diner and has been defending it from a nightly zombie assaults for weeks. Zombie attacks? Ah, yes, this brings us to the setting for this novel. It takes place in the isolated southwest community of Rockwood County, where the paranormal has become increasingly commonplace, to the point where local papers frequently have editorials debating the constitutional rights of the undead. The climax is satisfying, and suitably filled with action as well as chuckles, though in order to avoid spoilers no more will be said on that subject.
The writing style is loose, a bit course, and generally PG 13. Lots of swearing, a touch of sex (non-graphic) and a lot of silly gore. Structured in a manner very easy to follow, I would definitely classify it as a light read. OK. I’m done now.

• *This was a bit of fiction. While my mom was a social worker, and therefore is completely aware that I must be at least an occasional masturbater, and by virtue of the existence of my daughter and some trips I took in the early nineties to visit a not-quite-divorcee in California, she must also know I have, or have had, sex. But she has never, to my knowledge, seen me in any act of carnal sexuality; this is a fact which I estimate is currently saving me several thousand dollars a year in psychological counseling.Take me back to the asterisk!
• **Not the relationship. I practice noun-violence. Take me back to the asterisk!

Heather Whited, my wife, is 29 today! Happy birthday!

Sappy alert:Continuing on will expose you to sappiness.
Heather has been a mother for almost four years. My wife for over five years. My lover for ten years. And has been a part of my life for 16 years. She puts up with me, and can kick my ass. So here’s to the Chief Probation Officer of MIchigan’s 38th district court! Happy birthday! I love you.
(here is Heather with my Daughter, Sam, on Mother’s day.)

(warning, all statements represent opinions, even if stated as facts. Even this one)
I know you don’t usually get to make a second first impression because second and first are contradictory adjectives.
I , however, don’t believe in limitations when language is in question, so I now plow ahead with my apparent oxymoron.
Anyway, I don’t actually believe in blogs. For the average person like myself, a blog is merely a unwarranted piece of self promotion which is completely out of proportion with our place in this world.
I may be important to my wife, daughter, and my mother, but I’m fairly dispensable to the rest of my acquaintances, let alone the public at large for whom I am merely yet another soft-in-the-middle 30-ish white dude with a slightly menacing face.
I found, however, that blogs have become the choice de’rigour or soup du Jour or something else superfluously French for the expression of self and for giving relatives and friends a peek into your current life. Has it replaced some elements of personal correspondence?
No. A blog is like the menu a restaurant posts in the window by the street. It tells the public passing by a little bit about what you can expect inside the restaurant, but it does not represent any kind of personalized treatment. You can see from the card that I serve coke products, but only by coming in and ordering it will you ever find out that I serve you coke in a cardboard cup with a hastily scrawled doodle of my genitals on the side.
Well, if it were a house specialty, I guess I might add that to the menu after all. It might read,

• Coke in a Cock Glass – This is our world famous penis-doodle Coke-a-Cola, served in a frosty cardboard cup complete with genital sketch in fluorescent highlighter. Guests may keep cup as a souvenir and token of our esteem.

If I ever choose to open a half-star restaurant, I’ll offer Coke in a Cock Glass with every meal to men and women over the age of 18. I might make a version for kids, a Kids Cock in a Coke Glass, and change the doodle to omit pubic hair, I suppose. This has been, on the whole, a worthless tangent, hasn’t it? That last sentance had as many as three commas in it! Crap, I’m in good form this morning.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. I don’t believe in blogs. Blogs are becoming acceptable. To continue:

My friend, Tomas, has a blog. He also said he doesn’t believe in blogs. But he’s merely too lazy to produce a full website. I have that same exccuse, but I don’t think that excuses it. Me or the excuse. Neither is excused. Perhaps I will link to his blog. Hoorway fur da bogggggggosphere!

Alright, so Tomas has a blog. But now my mom has a blog. My mom. And the other day I spotted a blog put out by my four year old. She can’t even read! She put her site together using nothing but pantomime and anagrams (which are, as most parents know, the de’rigour method of communication for the toddler set). I said, “Samantha, what’s up with the blog?” She said, point at daddy, point at floor, present bottom, spread one eye open, sounds-like:2 words, point up, scratch chin. I asked her how she learned charades, but the response seemed to indicate she wanted a fruit snack. Thats where our conversations usually end. I sometimes think she uses fruit snacks as an excuse to avoid a confrontation. Head games, all head games!

So, with my friend, my mom and my daughter all possessing their very own shiney new blogs with content and stuff, I felt obligated to begin one. But here, having spent time expounding upon dirty minded paper cups and improbable preschool communications methodology, I think it wasn’t really worth it, now, was it.