Our Monday Night Showdown with Orland's Finest

Okay . . . Day one of an already hellish week done. It's dark, cold and rainy outside. The wifey (my chauffer) picks me up at the office and we head toward the homestead. Admitting I am not going to feel like cooking, (big surprise) we decide to pick up chicken gyro sandwiches (don't knock it till you try it, they are the bomb!) at a local eatery in Orland Park. We do the deal and are headed home. P notices a copper in the rear view mirror tailing us. . . She signals and turns right, then so does he . . . She signals again and makes another right . . . he follows . . . She tells me we are being tailed and I start running over in my head what we could possibly be wanted for . . . The lights come on and the cop car is on us, with spotlight shining through our rear glass. Like the common criminals we watch regulary on television (both of us Cops fans) we ponder what our transaction with the patrolman will consist of . . . I debate taking my shirt off in case there is video, because all the good criminals have no shirt on when they are nabbed by the man . . . To our surprise, the cop knocks on MY (passenger) window, startling us both . . .

I put the window down, and a little guy that looks about 16 asks for license and insurance . . . Then we realize our crime . . . We have an expired license plate sticker. P, God bless her, had the sticker in her wallet as we had bought it but forgotten to put it on. We showed the copper, and he called in her digits and found out that not only does she have no priors, but she has no record of deviance whatsoever. (My little angel) He was nice about it, and asked that we put it on when we got home. (To myself, I'm thinking, "hey kid, help an old guy out and go stick the little bastard on for me, will ya?") Of course I kept quiet.

So we were let off, and when we got home I stooped over in the dark and rain and hope I put the sticker where it is supposed to go. Whereever it is, it is stuck there now, right? MAN,what an exciting life we lead . . .

I can still be lifted up by AC/DC...

Oh yes . . . I was sitting on the end of the bed the other night, having just gotten home from another fucking exhausting day of my life, and I was fighting off my work duds and struggling into my home "comfy" clothes before dinner. I am drudging along and have the bedroom TV on watching some losers get shot down on American Idol on the bedroom TV. (We get about 3.5 English speaking channels in the bedroom currently, with FOX being the only network). I am sitting there, trying to remain positive, because Paula has had such a hard time of late battling her leg wound and the pain involved with it. The show goes to commercial, and I look down, putting on my shoes. Then I hear the first eight notes of "Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution," and my head jerks up and I lock onto the TV screen . . . The commercial was the latest from Nike, and was a minute or 90 seconds long, and very very uplifting, using the intro to one of my favorite AC/DC songs to get the viewer hooked into the building emotion of the ad. It was excellent! I have since seen a short version (30 seconds) of the same ad which is good, but not as completely riveting as the long form ad.

Anyway, it really hit me. I can only hope it hits lots of people the same way. I really think that Nike was intending to hit a home run with viewers in exactly the way they did with me. All I know is, jut hearing the intro to that song, out of the blue, at an unexpected point, was like getting hit by a firehouse of good feelings. If I could find a way to bottle that emotion, I could be rich! Loof for it, I have a feeling it will be around a while. It ends with JUST DO IT.

In the circus that is life, there is still shit to shovel...

Man, I am posting here only because I haven't posted in a while, and since I like reading my own words (I suspect nobody else does, those fuckers!) I am here today. Things in my life are still rough, with my collection of physical ailments and Paula's ongoing troubles with her leg wound and dealing with Workman's Comp issues and the lack of attention from her rep at the insurance company. The only good things I have to report are I've started working more hours which in time will translate into better bill paying ability. Not this week though :o)

I got a copy of an obit for a coworker I am certain I don't remember this week, had several dear friends experience personal and financial difficulties, and got called "the resident chick magnet" by a older coworker yesterday. All things added up to interesting brain fodder. Yes, a twenty-something salesman was talking to a fifty-something salesman who sits near me about girl troubles, and the older man laughed and said he had no idea what to do to help the kid. He said "every lady in this area loves Jim, he must know something about talking to them, he is the resident chick magnet." ... I about shot Diet Coke out both nostrils ... So the kid asked me what was my secret ... I said there is no secret, but maybe start by not treating girls the way YOU want to be treated (like you are wanting to be stripped, tied down and ravaged sexually) but treating them the way you WISH your friends would act around your mother or grandmother. He didn't know what to make of that, and I told him he was an idiot.

The thing that got me was how anybody could call me a chick magnet. The funniest part was the guy was dead serious! He said he has never seen so many women be so attached to one guy in his life! Then, to make it more incredible, he stopped the next gal walking by, and asked, "what do you think of VanHorn, here?" and without even breaking stride she said, "I love him" and smiled and kept walking! I felt nice and oddly out of place all at the same time. I mean, I like being liked, but the negative realist inside me sees all kinds of drawbacks to that kind of attention. . . Why can't I just enjoy being popular? I see it as a weakness, as being treated special out of pity . . . As in even if I am the star of the circus, I still see myself as the shit shoveler . . . Let the counseling begin . . .