Woke up this morning to my ringing phone and my L.A. gossip whore telling me that the hub-bub today is going to be all about Rhianna's new tat. I seriously grabbed at the bed-sheets worried that she'd gone and put "Chris Brown" in permanent ink inside a bubble heart on her flesh. I tried to think how fast I could fly to Hell-A with a sandblaster and a camo cat-suit. Sneak up on an unsuspecting pop-diva and blast away at that arm. (I'd have been blasting needlessly...the new one is on her torso, by her ribs). I think I had one bag packed before my informant said, "...and it's a gun...so everyone's gonna flip, you know what I think, blah blah blah blah blah". I sighed that sigh of relief you can only sigh if you've kicked a lawyer in the nads or felt that finally, FINALLY someone has seen the light.
I get all up in a bunch when I hear about domestic violence. Bunchier still when I hear that some dude wailed on a chick roadside and tried shoving her out of a car door. I waited, and waited, and waited for the natural response to manifest in Rhianna as pictures of their weekend hideaway started showing up and video of Chris Brown carelessly carousing on his water-craft. Where was Rhianna to say, "So yeah, he hit me, and now I have a 400 pound Samoan warrior looking for him to uh...to uh...serve papers, yeah, serve papers, and when that happens, I'm sure you'll hear about it..." Any innate victim response would have been nice.

Perhaps this is the sign. Rhianna does indeed have a gun inked on.

I'm a huge gun fan. I was just at the gun store last Tuesday with my buddy. We thought maybe he should get the .38 Super (semi-auto), but after the sales guy told us of the superiority of the .45, we went with that. Man she's a beaut. Some guns are love at first sight (no pun intended, because let's face it, the more features on the sight, the deeper the love). Some make you feel like, "Hmmm, is that all?"
Obviously after weeks of being called, well, weak...Rhianna has finally taken her body back. She's not just half cocked, she's all fired up. (Puns, and bad ones, totally intended). So WHAT if she got her new patch of art? And it's our business because? Well, because it was a spectacle. But for everyone who says it's a dangerous signal, to them I say, "PHOOEY!" and other "PH", phonetically laden words. I say this. I've never been hit. I don't know what I would do first, but I'm pretty sure I'd send a message too, and hers is right on target.

..............

My man is in his ManCave. I just got back. A little out of
breath, so forgive any typos...I thought, you know, that I had it figured out.
I must admit the nice weather made me a little more adventurous than usual. It
started out innocuous enough. "Do you care what's for dinner?" (I
know he cares. I can't cook. I burnt a pan's Kevlar coating clean off boiling
water last Tuesday. True story.) Obviously this is not a real domestic act of
kindness, but a fair warning that if we don't order Chinese, he may have food poisoning.
Forever. So that's why I was in the ManCave.

In the ManCave are tempting things. Two motorcycles in separate versions of
disrepair. Oh sorry...in various degrees
of impending upgrade....and so I can't help but sit on the leathery seat
and "vroom vroom" with my wrists while asking questions about dinner
and if he likes my hair this way or that. I can't tell if he's listening,
because he's bent over a chest of shiny things. He calls it a tool box.
Phbbthhttt! WHATEVER. Treasure Chest of Shiny Things!!! HELLO? I put my glue
gun in there with apparently still glueyness happening, and you'd have thought
I set the world on fire when he came in with his two antique chisels bound
together. (Remind me never to roll my eyes at anything in or around his
"tool box"). It's only some wimpy-ass glue, just a pull and.....they
come apart. One lost a handle, but they were defiantly TWO SEPERATE entities
after. I fixed it and got zero credit. Zero. Maybe I need to start fusing
things together more often so he can appreciate me more!

He didn't answer what I wanted for dinner, but I had forgotten because he has a
few drills in there. I guess some "drill bits" are more SPECIAL than
others, because if you try to drill through a hard hat....well, that's another
no-no. There's no fricken rules on the wall. There needs to be some order in
there if he wants his stuff all perfect. He obviously isn't in to decorating,
what with all the saw dust, so what would a list of "do's and don'ts"
hurt? Don't drill plastic with my bits. Six simple words for those of us that
don't know!

Did you know you could lose a finger on the table saw? I know. Not because I'm
talking to you with nine fingers, but because every time I turn that thing on,
all I hear is, "Such and such lost a finger in '96 doing that"...or
"that's a good way to lose a finger"....or "do you like your
fingers? Because you could lose one doing that". I showed him one that was
perfectly good and still in tact.

I thought the ManCave was where men went to feel good and be happy. Not when
I'm in there! It's like Grumpy McGrump Grump needs a good hump hump because he
is NEVER happy when I touch his bits. I can't believe I typed that. I can touch
his bits ANYwhere else, but in the ManCave. I know because I'm constantly
handing him bits from the washing machine. You'd think he'd be grateful, but
noooooo....clean bits don't make him happy either. I can't check EVERY pocket.
Some things get away from me. Like the cell phone. But he fixed that. At the
kitchen table. I asked if we could go to the ManCave to fix it, but he didn't
say anything then either. That makes me wonder if something happens to his
tongue when I do laundry or sit on his bikes.

You know what? There's a sign up NOW.

It says "Cori" and it's in a circle with a slash through it. Right on
the door. That's it. I'm COOKING tonight.

........................

I haven't confronted anyone. I haven't even sulked. Much.
But it's gotten too much. Some fantastic person recalled, I believe from years
of me talking about this on the radio (don't know if it was The Morning Ritual,
KUPD, Channel 3..which is TV, or my recent show on KTAR OR
wherever....BUT.....) that every year.....EVERY.SINGLE.YEAR, I pleasure myself.
I pleasure myself with awaiting the first person in my family to say the word
"Tryptophan" (yes, that lovely drug in the Turkey that keeps Football
Widows from strangling their temporarily estranged husbands...and the thing
that lets husbands forget that their wives did in fact, almost burn down the
house deep frying that bird.) Tryptophan. The loveliest naturally occurring
fowl drug.
This is how my game goes...at one point or another, just before, during, or most likely, AFTER the
turkey's been doled out. After the cranberry sauce has ceased its jiggle. After
grandpa has had one too many egg nogs....someone blurts the word out. My brain
is all set up like a game-show. The contestants are there. The clock is ticking. The audience is hushed. Someone mentions Tryptophan off the cuff, and the crowd roars in my head. I pin a ribbon like
a tail on the winning donkey, and I smile. Nothing. After years, and years and YEARS of playing all by myself, with GREAT success....

NO SMILE this year!!!!

It's never happened before. It's like the world is off its axis. The stars misaligned.
Will I never know the predictable joy of Tryptophan's mention again???

Can someone please say it here?

We'd gone up North at the cabin. Perhaps the setting threw off my Dad (he's
usually the winner). I walked the back porch and thought.
Conspiricy??? If so, they'd not ever know they'd won. How
could I be defeated at my own game??? Sadly, I wasn't able to go to my Nona's
house for ....Turkey.....
Sometimes she wins my game. Nona's good for Braciole, cookies, hugs and funny
utterances (but never farts...thank the good lord for no farting grandmothers).
I was dismayed! I finished pacing and stalked inside for boots.

"Where ya going?" My father had said. I peered at him to find any
hint of his terrible plan to toss my joy down the tubes. No solid indication.
But his eyes, now that I think back, they were a-twinkling....hmmm.

"Walk." Scanning room for wool cap and scarf.

"By yourself?" He stretches out his legs in front of him, ass planted in his comfy Dad-chair.

"Yep." Shoe laces getting yanked to and fro in my hands. Children looking confused. Boyfriend looking asleep.

"K." I hear as I make my way to the door and suck in that icey air.

I mossied.

I kicked over some pebbles.

I took in the smell of pines and fireplace
chimneys.

Ambling I saw what had to be the last remenants of a  violent end to some animal, because bones were strewn
everywhere, (and I know OJ's locked up, so it was definitely nature)....but no
sign of my favorite Thanksgiving word.

Maybe next year.

*sigh*

I collected those bones, just so you know. I think it was a deer. The spine,
pelvis and a shoulder blade all perfectly picked clean and nearly bleached. So,
to make myself feel like I won SOME sort of prize.... I'm preparing the bones. Or studying how. I've never
actually hauled off any bones, (that I didn’t return later, if that’s how you’re
taking it)…despite a life of looking for one of those cattle heads out in the
wild. The bones were my only comfort, and I'll be damned if anyone in my family
ever knows my sorrow. I'm raising my fist to the heavens. I shake. God is laughing.

And to my mother who reads my blogs. IF YOU'RE BEHIND THIS!!! IT'S NOT OVER!

;)

This is a plea. A plea if you're proud to be an American. (In particular, I'm talking to my fellow Arizonans, but by God, if you're out of state, find YOUR election officials and double check your status) I'll explain.

But first, the initial step....If you wouldn't mind taking a few seconds to Google "The Maricopa County Recorders Office" (if you are in Maricopa County, AZ)(I'd give you the link but Myspace is all, "WATCH OUT YOU ARE GOING TO AN EXTERNAL LINK!!!" Oh, what the heck...here it is... it's how you find out if you're registered...before you stop reading, hear me out...you may NOT be registered, even if you registered. You heard me correctly. Here's that link, copy and paste: https://recorder.maricopa.gov/earlyvoteballotnet/voterreglookup.aspx).

Here's the story. I re-registered in March because I bailed on my former party. I'm over them as an institution, but may all who affiliate with whichever party, go on and celebrate that, I judge not. I'm all stoked to vote. I'm stoked YOU vote. I have this thing about my rights. I like 'em. I like YOUR rights.

I call The Maricopa County Recorders Office in July, "Where's my registration card saying I'm an Independent now??" I squished my toes in my shoes. Politics is my crack, politicians...my other crack, the one on my back-side....save a few good men and women, of course. But I choose not to talk politics here. I do choose to talk about your AMERICAN RIGHTS. Yeah, I'm fired up....where was I? Oh yeah, "Where's my voter ID card?"

Maricopa Recorder's Office tells me, "We will send them out in September". Dutifully, I accept that. September comes and goes, no card. I call again, about October fifth, to allow for late mail, "Please tell me...what's the problem?" I ask.
They refer me to their website. Remember? The link I just gave you. (It SHOULD be the link to "Am I Registered" if not, get there the old fashioned way)....here's what shocked me. I was listed as "De-Activated" when I checked my name and drivers liscense number. I had no idea that could even HAPPEN. What exactly IS that DE-Activated?? Silly me. Trying to be all thourough and stuff. Registering again after an address and party change. So wacky of me to do it EARLY in the year. I'm such a wild, crazy, chick, clearly gambling with my chances...lemme wipe that drip of sarcasm off your screen.

In other words, I did everything correctly. I was raised to vote the way I was raised to eat vegetables. Truth be told, I've left the veggies out for the most part, but voting?? I'm on it.

I fight with the lady on the phone. I fight because back in 2004 at my polling place, they made me fill out a "Provisional Ballot". It took me utterly by surprise, as I had been registered for my entire voting life. Updating as necessary. Following The Establishment's rules. Why the missing name on the roster? I was told they'd make sure to verify I was registered when they got to my ballot (I WAS registered) and with that assurance, I cast my vote. I did, however, call a watchgroup to ask them what I could do. They said, just check back to make sure your vote was counted. They actually called ME later, this group, to say it was counted.

Now.... Maricopa-Recorder's-Office-Chick-On-The-Phone, is telling me that she can't even verify my last vote occurred, but noted I did "participate" in the 2004 election. It's so weird, I remember that day! It's like we were on the same page, except we weren't. They keep records of your vote, she says, for only two months. Wow. Really?? That's odd. Why purge those records? Seems like a lot of extra work for an agency that's pretty busy.  Hey, thanks Lady On The Phone. She told me (this was two weeks ago...about as long as I needed to cool off before this blog) she'd find out what the problem was...I failed to sign something they sent me, is what she claimed the problem was. A little something I never got. And I'd been looking! I was not going to re-live 2004, so believe me...I was looking.

Anyway, she said she'd try to make sure I was "re-activated", but she could not "guarantee" anything.

That's when I checked with seven people. One of the seven was on the phone with me, poor guy, as I went through this process and he clicked away to see if he was registered as he assumed. Surprise! He was "De-activated" too!

After him, I told these six other people my story. One ex-co-worker, three "co-workers", and two other friends at random. They checked to see if THEY were registered. What do you know. SIX out of the SEVEN were also "De-activated". I called around to some important people asking, "How can this be??"

The problem. THE REAL PROBLEM is that people assumed that because they registered, they were ready to roll. They still assume that. No one on the official level is looking out for YOU. Trust me. Had I not called in July. Had I not persisted on Oct. 5th-sih, and researched seven other people, I would have had NO idea that I wasn't alone. I would have been "scrubbed" from the rolls. Again. Relegated to a "Provisional Ballot" (as far as I can tell, they can choose to wipe their asses with those if they like).

What is the potential scope of this??

I'm asking you PLEASE...please check to make sure you are actually registered. It's not race, gender or necessarily party. ESPECIALLY if this is your first election. I want to hear from (and feel free to message me privately if you wish) ANYONE and EVERYONE who finds they are "de-activated". If you'll trust me, I want to know. The excuses I've heard given, through my acquaintances and friends range from: "You moved. Too bad for you." (which is a crock, when you notify them correctly) to "You did not provide proof of citizenship" (that happened to a woman who gave her social security number, address AND her drivers' license info), and by the way, they are supposed to verify that AT THE POLLS. They actually are denying her, her American born God given right to vote! Nevermind that she got her paperwork in on time. (ALL of us got our paperwork in on time). Nevermind that her affairs are in order. They just said, "nope".  I am not naming names of these people I know, nor would I name you if you didn't want me to. I mean, heck, half of us on here go by "Barf-a-Jaeger" anyway!

There is very little time, but this is a huge, huge, HUGE problem. It's your RIGHT. It's your AMERICAN RIGHT to vote. They can't erase you like you do not exist. HOW MANY are in this same boat unwittingly??? Please tell me. It's not race, gender or necessarily party. So far it's all the parties. It does, however, seem, that it affects Independents at a higher ratio, per my seven person study. Which, I admit, isn't science. In fact...it may seem insignificant to you, but, put yourself in my shoes.... imagine you casually tallying seven of your friends and finding out that six of the seven, including yourself, had been "DE-ACTIVATED".
Wow. Just wow.
S.O.S.!!! S.O.S.!!!
We're gonna right this wrong.
I'm hoping and praying you don't find out you've been un-voluntarily robbed of your rights.
JUST BECAUSE YOU REGISTERED DOES NOT MEAN YOU WILL BE ABLE TO VOTE IN 11 days.
Eleven days.
Please, please let me know if you've been de-activated. Call them. Insist. Talk to a "manager". I love my right to vote. I love my right to free speech and I love my right to own a gun. Do you like your rights? You'd better make sure you have 'em all.
Stay in touch.

My boyfriend Brian, is reading aloud from my son's book titled "The Truth About Poop"...it's for kids, and apparently was a best seller. I've been minding my own business on myspace while he announces things like: "In Japan, they compress sewage until it appears to be a brown stone, then they call it "Metro Marble" and use it jewelry" (note to self, check jewelry box for tags, brown hues and well, poop). I kept writing to Laurie, ignoring him slightly. The next fact came in, "Early sailors used frayed rope ends to WIPE their ends, and it was apparently very painful". Ah. Good to know.

Doesn't this fall in to the catagory of things that fill our mind's hard-drive with what is essentially useless cookies that fill up and slow down the inner system of our brains??? You know, like how you can sing along to "Every Rose Has It's Thorn" but asked to recall what year World War I started you have to really fricken THINK?

"Bears do not poop while they're hibernating. They produce a plug from their feces and old cells along with hair and it stops them from defecating during their entire winter sleep." I watch a lot of TV, and I think this would be compelling to add to the FREAKIN' "Activia" commercials I see while tuned in to CNN. A small part of my imagination is thinking of Kendra from "The Girls Next Door" learning about this fact and drawing diagrams for the rest of the girls in the house..."Now this is the plug..." UGH.

Have I mentioned how UTTERLY appalled I am about all things poop, buttholes and, in this instance, bear feces??

I learned that in the high altitude regions of the Andes mountains, women carry their babies in a cloth sling on their back, thus the children LAY in their own poop and pee, and grow faster because of it. The reason? At 12,000 feet above sea level, it's cold and dry and hard to breathe. If a baby is closed in with the waste, they are in a warm, humid space and save energy trying to stay warm, thus GROWING at a faster rate. OMG. That's right. This BRILLIANT blog full of BRILLIANCE merited an "OMG".
 .....and to think I changed diapers so often I thought of putting it on my resume. Hey, it worked for Sarah Palin. (JOKE! JOKE! No freaking out!)

On average, people produce an ounce of poop for every 12 ounces of body weight. Well. I really am full of shit. On that note, I'm grabbing this book and burying it far, far away from my beautiful, wonderful Brian, who knows WAY more about poop (as does my child) than ANY of us ever needed. That being said. I know you enjoyed this, albeit reluctantly.

Poop on fellow Americans!

It's been a long time since I've been able to give love where love is ALWAYS needed and deserved. Our blue collar workers. In particular, the plumbers (do you know what would happen to our country's health if there weren't proper toilets, clean water and the most efficient way to get water in to our homes?? It would cause PLAGUES), the woodworkers (those beautiful archways you pass under in those fantastic buildings dreamed up by a dude with a large roll of blue grided paper had to be hand fashioned by only the most skilled hands. Hours upon hours upon months sometimes of hard, labor-intensive, focused work), electricians (yeah, you're reading this praise manifesto because of them. They also contribute to our nation's standard of health by allowing us the ability to cook our meat to the proper temperature and not poison ourselves. They are the ones that we need IF there was a water problem and we needed to boil water for our baby's bottles, etc. And they keep you safe by making sure your outlets don't let you OUT of your life!) and technicians of all kinds...like mechanics (thanks for keeping my car in one piece and for letting me get the kids' to school every day whole and healthy) landscapers...yeah, they need the love for giving us that little bit of green solitude and advising us which plants help with the water bill, not poisoning our pets and drawing in some beautiful desert wildlife (as in butterflies...hummingbirds, you name it...).

The point there are plenty of people who do wonderful work who don't get the thank yous they deserve. I could hear "what about nurses?" absolutely! But don't think they don't hear it every time they get to a bedside in time to save a life, and God bless 'em for it. "What about painters?" Indeed. Beautification is a necessity for sanity. "What about police and fire fighters?" OF COURSE, that's why they get 21 gun salutes when one is sadly fallen. I just wanted to focus, just for a minute on people who hardly ever hear it. Like the people who haul loads from one end of the country to the other; day and night, so we can have bottled water to take to our children's soccer matches. Thank YOU hard workers everywhere. Thank you bus drivers, teachers, taxi cab drivers, security guards, dishwashers in the kitchen, line chefs, construction workers of all trades...THANK YOU.

LeRoi Moore, sax player in the Dave Matthews Band, died Tuesday afternoon (August 19). He was 46.

I do text. I'm probably more prolific at it than I wish I was. Particularly with people who have the same provider as me. I realized I can literally text pages and pages. Exhilarating. However, I turn in to some sort of old curmudgeon when I get to the third text. It usually starts with a question. It gets asked, I reply. Then a follow up happens. I follow up. Then the next thought that pops in to someone's head beeps me (well, Pantera's me if you must know. "Walk" is my ringtone, "Cemetary Gates" my text tone) and I respond to that. NOW. If something goes further; I dial. I figure if we've just exchanged a total of six texts, and I'm DRIVING, or filing nails, or air-drumming to Tool, we should probably let me finish or get on the phone. After I've committed my three texts, my maximum has been reached. Texts to me are short snippets of getting to the point in a way that does not require phone time. If it exceeds said three texts I just can't take it. This drives my partner in crime, Jeffry (on 1310 KXAM) CA-RAY-ZEEEEEEEE. He doesn't complain, actually, but I did hear him say to his girlfriend once as he answered my call (you know how you catch the last few words of something someone is saying when they answer?) "....her crazy, self imposed rule of three texts or something..I dunno." It occurred to me then that I'm definitely the minority on this. I don't mind communicating, I do it for a living, it's just, really....if we've gotten six texts deep betwixt us, can't we forge a real live conversation? My mind is prone to wandering. You mention a mall. I mention a product. You mention a description of said product. I think of squirrels and have to explain why. See? For ME it gets hectic. Not so much for the other person. I'm not pointing out Jeffry, but he's who I text second to most with the boyfriend in first place. The boyfriend sends three word replies, and he has a text limit too, but his vacillates between 2-5 texts, and I never know when I've pushed it too far, so then I call, "Baby" he says to soften the blow "It's not that I don't want to talk about this, I'm just in the middle of something."
I'm a woman, so to me, despite his ability to carve and hammer his own personal museum worthy sculpturing abilities (he is a Finish Carpenter), I need attention, an answer, action (figuratively and actually). "Middle of something" means that a six by twelve piece of oak is looming over his head and his teeth are jutting out fourteen nails while he balances a sledge hammer and holds a level between his knees, while seventeen feet in the air on the top step of a ladder. Despite this....I really do need to know if while he's at Lowe's later, if I can please get that planting soil for my wilting plants. So I call. Middle of something. BAH! I can put on a full face of makeup (FAKE EYELASHES INCLUDED) on the highway, with the music blaring, reading a Newsweek and discussing which vodka is best to my passenger on our down the highway (pre-vodka consumption OF COURSE) so I don't see what his level-between-the-knees-nails-in-the-teeth-oak-plank-above-the-head problem is. But I do admit that we should "talk" if texting is a burden. Because I understand! He just doesn't wanna talk during that. Pbbblllthhhht!!! I'd like to see HIM fasten on some lashes going sixty five miles per hour! I really would! I guess the idea that binds us is that less is more and if it must be more, it should spare us typing. TYPING! With our thumbs! I feel so prehistoric. Like an un-evolved ape trying to make dinner with a stick, a rock and a coconut. We've got kitchens now!!!! (The ape dinner is texting, the cell conversation is modern day dinner....microwavable dinner even). So, stop taking me back to the stone ages (or worse yet, if you're stoned, for the love of God Courtney Love, I know NOT what it is you type!)...let's just talk it out baby. No offense.

I sent out a plea to end my bloggers block, and I've been trying to figure out where to start. I stashed a hundred of them in the save file. Here's one that popped out:
the theory of the world ending in 2012. Super seriously this shit freaks me out to the point where I thought about getting ALF tattoed on my back because.. well.. fuck it... the world is gonna end in 4 years. Plus ALF was a waaaay cooler alien than E.T. I mean really? E.T had like 2 lines. ALF was a comedy genius every Thursday for like 3 years. E.T had an hour an a Half and that Goddamn Steven Speilburg is still getting credit for that work of crap.. I digress.

WELL....I'd be really surprised if we all ate it in 2012. Not that I haven't had my paranoid moments. There was the time I grabbed the boyfriend and we bought a lot of dried food and water. Then there was the time I sat blinking in to the computer screen as theory after theory bombarded my fleshy dome. First reason I don't think we need to put it on our calendars is like all good endings, it has to be a surprise. Everyone from the Aztecs to Nostradamos has been predicting the end. I DID check with my mother (The Moon Mama...astrologer extrodinaire) and at first she sighed, because she's my mother, and then she consulted her psychic stars. Apparantly, she says, something more like a world shift of power would occur.

I'm prepared for whatever. Turns out my man can live in the woods unaided for a long...long...long time. I like the woods, and as long as we have some cans of "OFF" stashed away, all should be fine. He's a Finish Carpenter. People think that means he frames houses. No. He does fancy wood shit in people's houses that are big enough to fit six of mine in them. People who make NBA money. People who make Tom Cruise money (but aren't as insane). So anyway, with his knowledge of wood (I assure you, it's thorough) I figure we can get out of dodge and go where we need to in case of emergency. Find such a woodsperson and hide under their bed in case of emergency. I find hiding in their bed to be more persuasive, but you're you, and I'm me.

If The Moon Mama is right and it's just a shift in power, then so be it. Call me when I get the power. I have this little plan to feed everyone and make sure kids have shoes. I'm not gonna do it like Angelina though. I'm pretty much leaving my ovaries and adoption options out of it. There are people already in the world that need the help....OKKAY I guess she does donate millions to charity.....so off Angelina I jump.

So, will we all die in 2012? Good. We can start from scratch. I doubt we'd get so lucky. It's more likely that a random event will clear out humanity or ...you know, just me trying to take $300 out of the ATM in South Phoenix. What for? Dunno. Just saying....DANGER!!!

I think we'll all be fine, and if we're not, then, get your guns and stash 'em. (When Katrina hit the feds came door to door and collected guns. Searched cars and removed them from law abiding citicens...I'm just saying...STASH).

I have too much makeup collected to die anyway, and I believe without my carpenter boyfriend's help, I can create solar panels out of all of the Creed singles I have left over from that time I worked at that station ten years ago. May as well put them to SOME good use. Creed fans back up. You'll be the first to go. ;)

Ever want to make a public declaration of your love? WELL....I had a moment on KTVK Channel 3, The Place With More News last week reporting entertainment news and wanted to thank them all. This isn't a "commentable" blog. Just a big, public thank you after two rounds of guitar hero and almost blowing out a speaker listening to my new favorite group. So. Thank you Lisa (host of "Your Life A-Z"), the main man who called me, and the really amazing producers who, by the way, are in a neck in neck race with the bad-ass graphics guy....dude, Graphics Guy, why we no shake hands??? Gotta meet you! Thank you!