I don't know about you, but when I'm in a public bathroom, I prefer not to carry on a conversation while I'm trying to piss. That's just me.

There's a fellow I work with, we'll call him Robin, who somehow always manages to go to the bathroom at the same time I do. He's a very friendly guy, and I've never had any real problem with him.

Except...

It's a small bathroom - one urinal and one stall. Robin and I most often cross paths when I'm at the urinal, and he's at the sink (which is right next to the urinal) washing his hands. He'll talk to me like there's nothing going on, like I don't have my pants undone and my...uh...stuff...exposed.

I have enough trouble pissing without trying to come up with some response to some inane office chatter.

"Whew, we sure need this rain today, don't we?" Robin said to me today as was trying to piss.  

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Why yes Robin, we do in fact need this rain because the local soybean farmers need to have a decent harvest so that they can pay their mortgages and not end up homeless in old jalopies like the Joad clan.

"Uh...yeah...I guess," I said.

Then he just kind of stood there, as if maybe he was waiting for me to finish. I tried to ignore him. Finally...

"So how 'bout those Cowboys?" he said.

Now, I'm all for talking about the Cowboys. I've been a Cowboys fan since before I was pissing in toilets, and I'll talk about them until I'm blue (and silver) in the face given the opportunity.

Still...I was trying to pee, for God's sake. But then, I thought, Robin wants to talk in the pisser, I'll talk to him. So I started in.

"Hell yeah! Bledsoe looked a little shaky, but he's bouncing back. Three touchdowns for T.O.? That's what he's there for, and it's about time, you know? The defense looked great, but what did you expect?"

And that's when I realized something. Robin didn't give a crap what I said to him. I could tell he wasn't following what I was saying. He couldn't tell a T.O. from a touchdown, and he could care less about the Cowboys, and probably even less about the rain. It didn't matter what I said in response to his questions, so long as I said something. So why talk to me in the first place?

It seems he had some idea that he was expected to talk to me in the bathroom. I don't know where he got that idea. He's not the only person to behave this way - sure, most men don't talk in the bathroom like that, but more than a few do.

There's a division there - they say people are either Elvis folks or Beatles folks (though I have to say there should be a third category, of which I'm one - The Rolling Stones folks). I guess people are either urinal talkers or urinal mutes.

I suspect the urinal talkers are also Elvis people. And I bet they're former Boy Scouts too.

The point? Don't talk to me when I'm trying to pee.

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P.S. - Are you an Elvis, Beatles or Stones person? Let me know in comments.

I've been too busy to blog for awhile. Good busy, so it's okay. And I don't really have much time now. I got off work early today, and it is all grey and drizzly outside, so I have to take a nap. It's the law that you have to nap when it is grey and drizzly outside.

I learned that in law school.

Anyway, I don't usually blog about music releases - people's tastes vary too much, and there's no point writing about such a subjective thing as whether or not any given album is worth a damn.

But then, of course, some albums are worth a damn and everyone should appreciate them.  

I wouldn't have expected it, what with the profusion of one hit wonders with stellar debut albums followed by lackluster second albums, what is commonly called "the sophmore slump," but the new album from The Killers is...well...killer.

"Sam's Town" is better than their first release, "Hot Fuss," and that's saying a lot. "Hot Fuss" was an excellent album in it's own right. "Sam's Town" is chock full of driving rock songs, thick guitars peppered with 80s style keyboards,  and I can't stop listening to it. If you want a good listen, forty five minutes of pure, unfiltered rocking, get this album. Today. Now. Five minutes ago. You won't regret spending the money.

It has an added bonus. Listen to it in the car, cranked up loud (the louder the album gets, the better it sounds). It will make you drive fast. It will make you feel like a race car driver or a secret agent fleeing the bad guys.

And get this...I just found out that Brandon Flowers, the Killers frontman, is a Mormon. Wow. That's just...wow.

Other stellar recent albums I'll recommend:

1. "Rabbit Fur Coat," by Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins - Jenny is the lead singer of the band Rilo Kiley, and this is her first solo album. You may also recognize her voice from the Postal Service - she does all the female backing vocals. She's also done some guestwork on Bright Eyes albums.

2. "Amputecture," by The Mars Volta - Another wicked album from, I think, the most creative and interesting band out there today. They've abandoned the concept album format this time around, but not the 11-minute, multi-movement rock epics they've become known for. This album is more accessible than their first two full-length releases, and may be a better entry for those who were fans of Cedric's and Omar's days as members of At the Drive-In. And it rocks ass. I especially enjoy the two or three songs sung entirely in Spanish. Me gusta mucho.

Gotta go. I have a nap that needs to be taken.

I've been away for a while. I got a little burned out on Al Gore's invention. I want a little input from everyone this time, a little class participation, if you will.

Every generation has one. It's one of those moments. Most of our grandparents remember December 7, 1941. They can tell you where they were, who they were with and what they were doing when they first heard about the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Ask your parents - I bet they can tell you where they were and what they were doing November 22, 1963 (most of them were probably in school). They can tell you how they heard that President Kennedy had been shot, and how they felt when they heard he was dead.

In case you haven't realized, our moment has come and gone. Tuesday, September 11, 2001. It was a big one, and whether we realize it yet or not, it's going to be with us for the rest of our lives.

I want to hear from you. I want to know where you were, what you were doing and how you heard. Were you alone or with friends? How did you feel? Were you scared, stunned or confused? I want to hear from as many of you as I can. Post your story in my comments section.

I'll start us off. Here is my story.

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I worked full time in a grocery store in those days. I usually worked nights, but Tuesday was the only day of the week when I had to work mornings. Because I was a manager, I did not have much real work to do. I just walked around making sure others were doing what they were expected to do.

There was an older woman who worked at the store. Her name was Colleen, and she had been a cashier for over 30 years. Everybody knew Colleen was suffering the early stages of Alzheimer's disease. She had reached a point where her work was inefficient - the management spent more time correcting her mistakes than was economically responsible. But Colleen was a fixture, and she was only seven months from reaching her retirement date. After that she would get a pension. The management went out of its way to accomodate her. She was going to reach retirement, by God, and we were going to take care of her. Hell, she'd been there longer than anyone else - even the owner.

I was walking along the front of the store, sipping my third cup of coffee. It was a few minutes before nine. Colleen walked up to me and put her tiny, soft hand on my shoulder. She had whispy, grey-cotton hair. Her voice was gentle and soft, and I had to lean close to hear what she said.

"A plane crashed in New York. It hit the World Trade Center."

"Really?" I asked.

I didn't believe her. Colleen had a history of just saying things, things that didn't necessarily make sense and weren't true. She couldn't help it.

"Yes. It just happened. Mr. Brummer just told me about it."

Mr. Brummer was a regular customer. He came in every morning and bought three donuts and a cup of coffee.

I looked Colleen in the eyes. They were a deep, grayish color, red-rimmed and rheumy. That look of innocent confusion, that muddled look that seemed to be there most of the time, was not there.

But still...a plane crashing into the World Trade Center? No way. I just couldn't believe it.

I walked around the store for a few minutes. I checked in some deliveries, gave a few orders and refilled my coffee cup. I was walking past the general manager's office. The door was opened a tiny crack, and I could hear the TV inside.

What the hell? The TV is never on in there.

I knocked. Mr. Seaton called out in his harsh, gravel-coated voice. "Yeah?"

I opened the door and stepped inside. Mr. Seaton was at his desk, and Scott, his assistant, was sitting on the corner of his desk. They were both staring at the TV.

"I heard there was a plane crash..."

Mr. Seaton shushed me and pointed to an empty chair. I sat down and looked at the TV. The first plane had crashed. I was not in the room a full minute before the second plane crashed. We saw it live. Scott was the first to suggest this was no accident.

We saw people running down the street in front of a huge cloud of dust. We saw people jumping to their deaths to avoid the fires. We saw the second crash played over and over. We saw the buildings collapse. We saw the incoming reports about the Pentagon, and the fourth plane that was hijacked - the one that crashed in a field in Pennsylvania.

I went home for lunch at one o'clock. My good friend Wenger lived in the apartment below mine. I knew he didn't have access to television, and I was pretty sure he was still asleep. (We'd been out drinking late the night before.) I knocked on his door, loud and fast. He called for me to come in. I ran in and started yelling. "Get up dude! You've gotta come upstairs! We've been attacked! It's all over the news. Every channel!"

He was still groggy. "Who's been attacked?"

"We have! The United States! New York! Come on, it's all over the TV."

I ran up to my apartment and turned on the TV. He came shuffling up a few minutes later. He told me later that he hadn't believed me when I told him, that he thought I was joking.

I didn't eat lunch. We watched the news during my entire lunch hour. I went back to work, and all I could think was that it wasn't over. I was certain there would be more attacks throughout the day, and that any minute I would hear that a plane had crashed in Chicago, LA or Washington D.C.

I went back to work, but I didn't work. I sat in the office and watched the news all day, only coming out to update the other employees on the situation. Our president was nowhere to be seen, and there was only speculation as to the true scope of that day's attacks.

That afternoon, I heard the name Al Qaeda for the first time.

By the time I left work, the whole country had lost its mind. At the gas station across the street from the store, cars were lined up down the block, and gas was selling for over three dollars a gallon. (I know, that seems like not much now, but five years ago that was unthinkable.) The store had sold out of bottled water and our canned foods aisle looked remarkably bare.

I went home and made a sandwhich. I watched the news all that night. Wenger got off work at midnight (he worked at the same store, on the evening shift) and we drank a case of beer and watched the news.

I woke up the next morning in a different world with one hell of a hangover.

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So that's my story. Now write yours. Here are the guidelines: True stories only, no fictionalizing. Also, I want to keep politics out of this. No conspiracy theories or Bush bashing (though I'm all for Bush bashing, I don't want to see it here.) No hate speech. Just tell me where you were, what you were doing, and most of all, how you felt.

And when you've posted your story, tell your friends, your family and your co-workers. Forward them my link. Tell them to write their stories. We all have a story, and it's the same story. We each see it differently. I want to see them all.

This is not a review.

It's just me telling you to go see Lady in the Water, M. Night Shyamalan's newest film.

It isn't a  horror movie, though the television ads seem to imply that.

It's a fairy tale, really, and a freaking brilliant one at that. It's about the importance of stories and story telling in all our lives. It's about our willingness and need to believe - in a silly story, in our friends and neighbors, and in ourselves.

I saw it on a Friday night. The theater was packed with high school kids who were talking and playing with their cell phones the whole time. I suggest you avoid my mistake - see it in a nearly empy theater during a weekday matinee if you can.

And be prepared to think. Listening to comments as I left the theater, it was obvious that most of the people in there came to see a mindless thriller or action movie. The subtlety and beauty of the film went right over their heads.

If you want a thoughtful, emotional film that makes you feel good to be alive when you leave, then go see it. If you want action and screams, go see...well...something else. Wait a few weeks and spend your money on Snakes on a Plane or something. Just don't come to my theater and talk and play on your phone for two hours. Go to the Burger King to do that.

I need a taco.

(I know, I know. I need to post more often. I'm working on it. It's hard to stay productive. I'm busy,  what with sleeping in, reading my ass off, hanging out with Chris and playing Madden NFL '06. I promise to step up production.)

Some battles can never be won. Some opponents can never be beaten. If you played chess with me in the last couple of years, maybe you know the feeling.

I spent this past Monday at a secluded spot on the Cossatot River, just south of DeQueen, Arkansas. My cousin, Jeremie, was in town for a visit, and my dad, my brother and I crammed into his pickup and made the hour-long drive. After twenty minutes navigating a dirt road labyrinth we finally found the place - a gravel bar just above a small rapids.

Another family was there when we pulled up and parked in the shade of a tall oak. The beer-bellied dad and his fleshy wife with faded and blurred tattoos floated on rafts while their three sons splashed in the river. The boys were deeply tanned, the deep, shining brown color of those who spend their entire summer vacations outside and shirtless. Playing is hard, sweaty work - a full time job - and there is no time for inconveniences like shirts or sunscreen. One of the boys had a bag of firecrackers and was not shy about using them. The tiny explosions echoed up and down the river like distant gunshots.

The river was not as shallow as we had expected. It hasn't rained in the area for weeks, and 100 degree days are the norm this time of year. We had half expected the river bed to be nothing more than a rocky path and a few pools of stagnant water.

The water was low - thigh deep at the center of the river - but the flow was good. We slathered on sunscreen, popped open a few beers and waded in. The water felt good - it was not exactly cool, but it was a relief from the dry, suffocating heat. There was a period of adjustment. The rocky bed of the river was slick and not easy to walk on. After a few hard falls I had to cut the string off my swimsuit and use it to convert my flip-flops into Jesus-style sandals.

(Note for all potential river rats: Flip-flops and fast running water do not mix - unless, that is, you enjoy chasing your footwear as it floats down river.)

There was not enough water for a proper swim, so we did what any group of bored men would do - we initiated a large scale engineering project. My brother Clint made the suggestion.

"Let's dam the river!"

I sat back at first. I was skeptical. Surely an effective dam would take hours, maybe days to build. But Clint was optimistic. He started dropping rocks in a broad semi-circle across a naturally narrow spot of the flow - a pile of rocks on one side and river bamboo on the other. My dad jumped in - mostly offering advice and helping to move in some of the bigger rocks. Jeremie began working upstream to divert more flow towards what would be our swimming hole.

Within a twenty minutes the water slowed and rose around me. The rock wall Clint and my dad were building grew above the surface. I noticed a gap near the bamboo where the water was escaping, and I began to pile rocks to stop the flow.

We worked for an hour, building the walls up, patching and reinforcing the low spots were water escaped. The water rose to chest height.

After two hours, the water level seemed to stabalize, but we continued to find low spots and leaks in the dam. For every leak we plugged, two more appeared. Jeremie hauled in some massive rocks to stabilize the structure.

We kept working, and we really had no idea what our objective was. We had not set a goal for water depth. We just kept working - plug a hole there, build a sluice here, reinforce over there.

We stayed at the river five, maybe six hours, and spent most of that time building and improving our dam. It occurred to me that we had come to have fun, and that we were sitting here working our asses off. I kept telling myself - "I'll stop after I plug that hole and then I can just sit back and relax." But then there was another hole, and I couldn't just let that go, could I? It would ruin the whole thing...And there was that hole over there...what about it?

Late in the afternoon I realized I was the only one working on the dam. Clint was floating down the river on a tire tub that was too small for him, his back already turning bright red under the hateful gaze of the sun. Jeremie and Dad sat leaning against a rock shelf, letting the water rush down their backs and squinting behind their sunglasses. 

I guess they understood the futility of the whole thing before I did. No matter how long we worked, no matter how many rocks we hauled and dropped into place, the water was not going to stop flowing. It would come into our makeshift pool, swirl around us for a while, and then find a way out.

I went downstream and looked back at our damn. What seemed so solid from within was just a weak, porous thing. Water gushed from invisible chinks and gaps in the rocks.

It was then that I decided winning was impossible. And that's what I'd been trying to do - to win. Winning, to me, would mean total blockage of water. No escape.  

There are some battles that can't be won. There are some that can't be won because they aren't meant to be won. Sometimes a draw is the best you can hope for. Sometimes a draw can be the ideal, and the goal is not to win, but to avoid losing.

Water always wins. Water always wants to go downhill, and no matter how hard we try, water goes where it wants to go. Water wants to rush on by. It wants to caress your ankle and then rush on its way - to the sea, to a lake, or a bigger and better river.

The dam tried to stop the water from moving on. It managed to slow the water down for a while, to get it to spend a little time with us before heading on to wherever it wanted to go. 

I think maybe that's the best outcome. Maybe the ideal is to slow the water down, spend a little time with it, and then let it go where it wants. While it's there, it can be a great comfort, it can offer a respite from the unrelenting heat. But there's no reason to hold it back, because there's always more water up river, and it's always headed your way.

(Thanks to Chris, for a great pep talk on letting the river run. You know what I'm talking about.)

When it comes to technological advancement, I tend to drag my feet. I think it runs in the family. When I was a kid, we were the last family to get a VCR. I remember going to Tyler's house down the road when I was a kid simply because he had a VCR and we could watch E.T. and Back to the Future over and over.

We bought a set of encyclopedias in 1989 - my mom convinced my dad we needed them for schoolwork. The next year, Al Gore invented the internet and encyclopedias went the way of the dinosaurs.

As I sit here, I look across the living room and there they are - thirty something volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica, stacked like dusty bones in a corner. I doubt they've been touched in ten years, maybe more.

But we got some use out of them for a few years, because we were one of the last families to get a home computer. It was 1995, I think, or maybe 1994 at the earliest.

My dad just bought a DVD player last year. He loves it, but he was suspicous at first. (He still has a stereo with an eight-track player on it.)

It seems we always come around, but just a few years after everyone else, and as soon as we catch up, everyone else leaps forward.

I remember when CD players first became popular. I stuck with my good old cassette tapes for a long time. My car still had a cassette player when I went to college in 1996.

And now I love CDs. I love the hell out of them. But we are now an ipod nation. I haven't quite made that leap yet, but I've been thinking about it. I'm awfully suspicious.

The biggest, most pervasive technological advancement of the last 10 or 15 years is the cell phone. I don't have one. Nobody in my family has one. (My brother had one briefly - it was for his job, and was provided by his employer for work purposes only, so I don't think that counts. He hated having it.)

I plan to resist getting a cell phone for as long as I can. Anyone who knows me has heard me rant about cell phones, and can attest to the depth of my hatred for them.

Stephen King once called cell phone "twenty-first century slave bracelets." He even wrote a novel about them, called "Cell," in which an electromagnetic pulse strikes every cell phone in use and turns those on the phone at the time into mindless zombies. Human civilization collapses and a lot of really bad things happen.

So appropriate. I loved it.

There's just something about the dependence people develop on their phones that just...well, it scares me. I went to a movie with a friend a few weeks ago, and he brought a friend of his whom I did not know. He was a nice guy - we talked movies and comic books, and he seemed okay.

But then the movie started, and he kept his phone sitting in his lap the whole time, the display glowing bright blue and casting a glare on my glasses. He spent the entire movie sending text messages to someone (probably his new wife at home, if I had to guess). I wanted to take his phone away and crush it.

If he wanted to talk to his wife so badly, he could have either brought her along or stayed at home. People go to movies to escape the world outside, to immerse themselves in something bigger and maybe better. That is impossible to do with such a strong link to the outside world sitting there glowing on your lap.

That link follows the cell phone user every where - the car, work, home, the store, even school. If I wanted somebody to be able to talk to me wherever I went, I'd take him or her with me.

Cell phones have created a new breed of etiquette, and it isn't pretty.

I have a very good friend whom I have known for twelve years now. For most of that time we have lived in seperate towns and don't get to see each other nearly as much as I'd like to. A few years ago he got a cell phone, and now, on those rare occasions when we are both in the same town and he comes to my house to hang out, he will interrupt what we are doing to take a call or sometimes even make a call, usually to his girlfriend.

I know what you are saying: "Well, it's his girlfriend, he has to take the call." Well, yes, I can concede that, but does he have to go stand outside my house for 45 minutes, or an hour and talk to her while we're supposed to be hanging out? Probably not.

I remember once, about three years ago, he came to my house around nine o'clock. He wasn't in the door two minutes before the girl he was seeing at the time called. He stepped outside and started talking to her. After two hours (yes, two whole hours) I just went to bed. The next morning my brother told me my friend stayed out there on the phone well past the time I went to bed, and when he came in, was surprised to learn that I'd gone to sleep.

(Note: My friend is reading this...I know you are. Don't take it personally, you aren't the only one. And I know you know it bothers me when you do this, we've talked about it, and you aren't nearly as bad about it now as you used to be, which is awesome. We'll always be cool, no matter what, my brotha from anotha motha.)

Driving is a very dangerous thing today. I truly believe it is much more dangerous to be on the road today than it was 15 years ago because of all the idiots who talk on the phone while driving. I can't tell you how many drivers in the middle of "important" calls have come within a breath of killing me. Most of the time they never even notice the near accident - they're too busy talking.

I'm also bothered by the trend I see among young people - the ones who have grown up in a world were cell phones have always been. Last year I worked as a substitute teacher. I was dismayed to find that the school allows students to have their phones in class. Of course they aren't allowed to make calls in class, but I can't even count how many phones I've confiscated from kids sending text messages back and forth instead of doing their work. I've caught more than a few kids using their phones to cheat on tests. I even had one group of particularly snotty kids use their phones to email the principal during class to tell him I was abusing them. (I wasn't - they were just angry at me because I wouldn't let them skip class.)

My point, if I have one, is that there's something to be said for a little isolation now and again. Instant communication, from anywhere and everywhere, simply encourages that particularly American desire for immediate gratification. There's something to be said for waiting, for having some time alone and disconnecting from the world around you. And safe driving - that would be nice.

(Random Note: Whatever happened to Coolio? He needs to make a comeback. He was freaking awesome.)

I'm sitting here watching Ghana try to do the impossible and knock off the World Cup favorite Brazilians. I've never been to Ghana, and I don't know precisely where it is, other than somewhere in Africa, but by God I really want Ghana to win.

Why? Because they are the underdogs? Maybe - everyone loves an underdog. Ghana wasn't expected to make it into the World Cup tournament, let alone beat both the Czech Republic and a number five ranked U.S. team. Brazil has won more World Cup Championships than Ghana has scored goals in its history. Talk about underdog - Ghana is the soccer world's version of the Jamaican bobsled team in "Cool Runnings."

Or maybe I want Ghana to beat Brazil so badly because Ghana is the team that knocked the U.S. out of the World Cup. That was an embarassing loss. Not that the U.S. was playing inspired soccer anyway. They got spanked by the Czechs, tied Italy (only because an Italian player accidentally kicked a goal for us), and then got beat handily by Ghana. Ghana also knocked the Czechs out of the tournament. But if Ghana were to beat Brazil, the acknowledged favorite by just about everyone on the planet (except the proud folks in Portugal) then the U.S. loss won't be so bad. There's no shame in losing to an unknown team that comes out of nowhere to beat the best in the world. There's a pride in being part of such a wonderful story, I think.

And if Ghana wins it all - wow. That's what Africa needs. With so many countries decimated by petty warfare, terrorism, genocide and AIDS, they need a little something to feel good about. It's not much - just a soccer tournament - but look how much of a lift the people of New Orleans got when the Saints won their first game of the season just a few weeks after hurricane Katrina.

Several times during the broadcast the picture goes to a small African village, where dozens of poor villagers are crowding around a tiny black and white television powered by a car battery. That's how much this team means to the people they represent.

And how do the American people feel about the team that represents them? They seem pretty ambivalent. And that's how the team looked when they played - ambivalent. The Ghana people are inspired, and that's how their team is playing. There's a lesson here, and I plan to explore it further in my next post later today.

Until then, Go Ghana!

Note - And later today Spain versus France. Winner goes to the next round, loser goes home. Wow. I never thought I'd enjoy soccer this much.

Okay, I'll admit it. I ran the stop sign. But it wasn't like he said. It was one of those rolling stops. You know what I mean. You've done it. You pull up, the road is deserted, you slow down to three miles an hour, look both ways, and go on through. I was hurrying to a parking lot so I could pull over and check out the awesome rainbow in the sky. It was one of the ones that go all the way across the sky without a break, and I wanted to get a good look at it while I could.

The cop was parked in the woods, backed way up in there. As soon as I saw the lights in the rearview mirror, I knew he'd seen me roll through. I pulled over. As he came up to my window, he took a long look at the ropes and foam blocks in my backseat. I use them to carry my canoe on top of my car.

He was one of those really young cops - nineteen, maybe twenty years old - fresh out of the academy. He couldn't even grow a full moustache (though I could see he was trying very hard).

He asked me for my license and insurance. I gave them to him. He told me I was lucky, and that my insurance ran out that very day (June 16), and that if he had pulled me over a few hours later, I'd be getting two tickets. I looked at the insurance card when he handed it back to me. I had another month left. It actually expired July 16.

Dumbass, I thought.

"You know why I pulled you over tonight, son?"

"Yeah," I said. "Probably because I did a rolling stop through that stop sign."

And this is where he turned into a jerk.

"Rolling stop?!" He threw his head back really far and laughed like I'd just told a dirty joke. "Son, you didn't roll through there, you flew through it. You didn't even slow down."

Now, like I said, I did in fact run the stop sign. He had every right to pull me over and give me a ticket if he so chose. But did he have the right to be a jerk about it? It didn't happen like he said it did. I knew it. He knew it.

He wrote me a ticket. He could have given me a warning, and most cops probably would have, but that's okay. It's his decision and I recognize that. But his attitude...On the ticket he wrote "Disregarded Stop Sign." As if I saw the stop sign and made a concentrated effort to ignore it completely.

Then he started interrogating me.

"Where you going this evening, son?"

Well, I wasn't going anywhere, really. Just out for a drive, listening to some music. I certainly wasn't going to tell him I was looking for a good place to look at a rainbow.

"Nowhere," I said.

"Nowhere? Ya gotta be going somewhere, son."

What's with this "son" crap? I thought. I'm at least 8 years older than you!

"No," I said. "Just out for a drive, killing some time."

"Out for a drive, huh?"

What? Is that a crime now?

"Well, where are you coming from?"

"Nowhere."

"Huh." He laughed again. "Well, you gotta be coming from somewhere."

"Not really."

Again. "Where are you coming from, son?"

What is wrong with this guy? What did I ever do to him?  I thought. It's probably the John Kerry sticker on my back window.

"Well, I did just stop at the Starbucks drive-through." I held up my cup of House Blend.

"Oh! Starbucks, huh?" As if that explained everything.

I was sure he was going to search my car at that point. I didn't have any guns or drugs or illegal immigrants stashed in the trunk. I was an innocent, law-abiding citizen, but I shouldn't have to let him search through my car just to prove it to the likes of him. I went to law school buddy, I thought. I know how this works, and I know all about the Fourth Amendment. You just try it. 

He didn't. Something made him change his mind. He lectured me about stop signs, gave me the ticket and left.

"Have a safe night, son," he said as he ambled back to his cruiser.

"Whatever, son," I mumbled. I wasn't brave enough to say it to his face.

He got in his car and followed me for about a quarte of a mile before passing. The speed limit was 40 mph. He passed me going at least 60 mph. I followed him, and he ran two stop signs in a row before turning onto a side street. He didn't even slow down. No rolling stop. He just "flew" right on through.

By that time, the rainbow was gone.

My brother, Clint, and I went to see "Nacho Libre" yesterday. We both wore cargo pants, and filled our pockets with cheap tacos before we went in the theater. My other brother, Kyle, pointed out that we should have taken nachos instead of tacos, but, you know, I just don't really care for nachos. Just cheese and chips. Nothing special.

Like the movie. Nothing special. Just wasn't that funny. Way too many pointless farts. It was as if Jared Hess sat in the editing bay and thought to himself, "You know, nothing funny has happened in the last minute or so, I'd better add a fart sound."

Now, I'll be the first to admit that farts are in fact funny. Everyone knows that. But farts aren't funny in and of themselves. They have to come in the right context. They have to rear their stinky heads in the most inappropriate times. When they are thrown into a  movie just for the sake of having farts in the movie, they are, as Terry Bradshaw likes to say, "NOT FUNNY!"

Farts aside, the rest of the movie wasn't much better. There were a few parts where Jack Black broke into song for no reason, in his typical Jack Black fashion, which I usually like. But not here. It seemed forced and pointless. And it clashed with the tone of the movie. I think it must be in his contract for him to get to do a goofy singing bit in every  movie.

I don't mean to hate on Jack Black. I'm a big fan. I just think he chose the wrong movie to do. Plus, his "mexican" accent was horrible.

(On a tangent, I keep reading these stories about how Jack Black is attached to star as Hal Jordan in a Green Lantern movie. What is wrong with Warner Brothers? They might as well hire Joel Shumacher to direct it. )

Anyway, I wish I'd saved my five bucks. Though I will say this - I saw the trailer for Will Ferrell's new movie "Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby." That two and a half minute trailer was funnier than 90 minutes of poorly directed Jack Black, and if the rest of Talladega is as funny as that trailer, it might end up being the funniest movie ever made. Period. If you haven't seen the trailer, check it out. http://movies.yahoo.com/feature/talladeganights.html

Oh yeah. And the tacos were really good.               

I can't tell you how many times I've been in the heat of conversation and either heard or spoken a random phrase and suddenly realized "Hey! That would be a great name for a band!" It happens all the time.That may be my niche - professional band namer. Here are some of the better ones:

Johnny Government and the Masturbators

The Bourbon Legends

Slutty Mary and the Mimosas

That's just a taste of my awesome talent. Got a band? Let me name it.  Drop me a line.