With Cyndi's foster kittens, 8-week-old brother & sister: Rowen and Puck.


Further evidence why I wouldn't be a good father.  Asleep on the job.  Or maybe the Johnny Walker Black on the rocks did me in.  Then again, they are sleeping, too, so perhaps I do have some pussy control.


Chris, Jason, Ana and Tim at Rib Fest Sunday night.  Where they many place ran out of ... ribs?  We did have some garlic corn and funnel cake.  And eventually we found some finger-lickin' good ribs.  The Port-O-Potties were some of the nastiest of all time.  Until I see the ones at Taste of Chicago, that is.

And is it wrong to think of the corn dog as the gay man's lollipop?


The sniper shooter never takes a break, especially when there's an unsuspecting g-string diva right in front of him.  Too bad there isn't a Gee Fest.  That would be finger-lickin' great.


Panera oddities and Ribless Fest.
On the Road w/Scott Derenger


Damn I need to leave this Panera. Laundry list of things to do. Hoping to get a new phone. Been without one for a week now. Yep, 2009, and I have no cell or home phone. I know nobody's phone number by heart, other than an ex girlfriend, my mom, my old buddy Ray, and my Aunt's. Maybe more if I thought harder, but why?

A lady and her husband were standing in line an hour or so ago.

"You wanna tea bag?" she asked him. Thank God I wasn't drinking my coffee or I would have conducted my own nostril enema.

At Rib Fest in Chicago last night, most places were out of ... ribs? I know it was a gorgeous Sunday in Chicago, and it was the last night of the 3-day annual event, but come on. No ribs? It's only once a year. Gets your ducks in a row and your ribs on the grill.

A few places had them, but they were nothing special. I just rubbed my fingers in the sauce and licked them off. Of course AFTER boiling my hands in bleach upon leaving the Port-O-Potties.

I'm gonna end this painstaking thing right now. Below is a video blog from Saturday night, when I sat on my porch and listened to the jungle-like surroundings.

WAIT! While I sitting out there, a raccoon crawled up on my porch and tried to climb up the steps leading to the deck above mine. He must have been blind or simply clueless that a 185-pound human being was sitting two feet from him.

Some people would have yelled and screamed. I may have, too, had it not been for noticing a 3some of coons walking on the upstairs deck last week. The creature was fresh in my memory. That and my mom feeds raccoons, opossums, birds, and other critters on her back porch all the time. We watch through the glass back door as they feast on whatever leftovers mom sets out for them. Sometimes the varmints eat better than us.

Last week, when John and I saw the pack of coons, we grabbed two mini National City-sponsored Ryne Sandberg Hall of Fame 2005 bats, and made our way into the wild. Or upstairs, through the vines growing along the wooden rail. They scampered away, huddling in the corner but well outta our reach. And really, what would we have done otherwise? Smack the shit outta 10 pound raccoons who were certainly more scared ,,of us than we of them? At least that's what Animal Planet claims. No raccoons were available for comment, though.

Saturday night I had a light shining brightly in the direction of my metal porch table. It was initially used for the video blog I had done an hour earlier, but when the sun went down, it became my writing light. So as I saw the coon's claws extend toward the first step outta the corner of my eye, I sat speechless. But I acted swiftly.

I clapped my hands twice, as viciously as possible. Some people are saved by the bell, I was saved by the clap. Then again, some have been killed by the clap, too.

My laptop was, for a change, actually on my lap. Had I leaped up, the porn-ridden thing would have crashed to the ground. Or I would have juggled it to the end of the deck, and dropped it over the rail, where I tossed the pumpkins from last fall.

But I maintained my composure and used one of God's gifts to me: a loud, obnoxious, ear-piercing clap. People have been known to cover their ears when my spastic claps commence, sometimes outta nowhere. Unprovoked. No runs were scored. No first place finishes. No motion picture deal. Just Scotty being Scotty.

"It's 8 in the morning. Why the fuck are you doing that, asshole?" That's been uttered on more than one occasion, possibly at work, possibly during free hotel breakfast.

"Mind your business," I retort. "They biscuits and gravy kick major ass!"

And maybe once or twice at church. Which is also how many times I've gone in the last year.

In high school I played baseball as a senior. I was one of the last cuts as a junior, so Coach Rodeghero told me in his history class. Brian Bloom, a senior and also the school's only male cheerleader, quite the team his senior season; Coach Rod claimed I was next in line. I called bullshit, internally, and shrugged my shoulders, as if to say, "What the fuck good is that now, coach?"

Like telling your friend, "Hey, I really wanted to take you to Gibson's for dinner, but I opted for Burger King instead. And now I'm broke again. Sorry. Just thought you should know."

When the season was over my senior year, after I batted like a dozen times and pinch ran once in a while, Coach Rod acknowledged my bench presence at the awards banquet. Something to the effect of "being a positive voice in the dugout, keeping the team in the game at all times with his attitude." Or something like that. In short Rod was saying that "Scott annoyed the opposition - and probably our own players - with his constant chatter and obnoxious clapping."

How proud was my father of his oldest son, playing varisty baseball at his alma matter, and being congratulated for relentless clapping?

I had obviously replaced Bloom as the team's cheerleader.

Back to Saturday night's raccoon rambling ...

When my claps sent the raccoon scampering back down the stairs and into the Saturday night shadows, I felt like the old lady on THAT commercial. You know the one, where the old lady sits up in bed, claps her hands twice, and turns off the lights. CLAP ON, CLAP OFF. CLAP ON, CLAP OFF, THE CLAPPER.

And just then, as the coon got outta sight, he set off the motion lights.

So like the old lady, I turned on the lights.

Just another in a long line of "Scot Derenger has was too much free time" experiences.

Second City softball tonight against the league's best, The Spot. 5:20, 16" style along Lake Michigan. Weather permitting, of course.

(The Panera girl - yes, I'm still here. It's now 11:37, 97 minutes after I was supposed to leave - just gave me a sample of their frozen lemonade. Tiny cups, the kind you rinse with at the dentist. There were two left on the tray - one had a blue straw and one a pink. I went with blue. The large bald black man 20 feet away, was left with the pink one. His shirt's kinda pink, too, and mine is light blue, like the straw. Weird, huh?

But is this thing really a straw? It's thick as hell. More like a soft PVC pipe. It would be an ideal felch tube. (Google it if you're unsure.) I don't think you're supposed to suck through this thing. Veins could pop out in my head and scare the children on their summer break, the little shits climbing on the leather chairs in front of me. Maybe this blue thing is just a stirrer and I'm supposed to stir it around to make it melt, and then drink it.

I just looked at the bald black man to see how he was using his stirrer-straw. We made eye contact. Very uncomfortable. Both bald, both wearing glasses, and both wearing shirts that complement ours drink apparatuses. Mind boggling, wouldn't you agree?)

Here's that video ...


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