This blog, in so many words, is a thank-you.

Thank you, to you.

Thank you to everyone who has read a piece of my writings over the last few years. You read the funny ones, the serious ones, the pointless ones, the powerful ones, and the ones that I look at nowadays and wonder what the hell was I thinking.

There's probably nothing in this world that could show my appreciation to all of you.

(Well, in these days, I'm sure money could. However, I don't have any money either. So that idea is out.)

The main reason that I thank all of you, is that when I don't write, you notice. You bug me. You nag me. You remind me. You let me know, in so many ways, that what I do is not for nothing.

That appreciation of you is why I do the AMA Blog. And that time has come, once again. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I give thanks, or a least try to, by letting you have control of the blog. You ask the questions. I give the answers.

The same rules apply as every other AMA Blog. The same theory applies too: if you never ask a a question, you'll never get an answer.

Get ready, get set, and ask away!

Ten days have gone by since the presidential election, and every time I have wakened up in the morning (yes, all ten times) Barack Obama is still president-elect.

Meaning, that it might not be a dream after all.

In the meantime, there are quite a few people in California living a nightmare right now. Specifically, those who just so happened to have married someone of the same sex in the past half-year or so.

That same Tuesday when America voted Barack Obama president, the residents of the state of California voted for a proposal that changed the California constitution, and within it, recognizing marriages that are between only a man and a woman. Meaning, there are some out there who have gotten married earlier this year, only to have those marriages mean absolutely nothing now.

The situation, already being an uproar, has caused nothing but more uproar across the country. Journalists, opinionists, bloggers, and ordinary people have weighed in.

I will not weigh in. I will sit on the fence and straddle it, as far as this issue goes. I have completely valid reasons for and against the allowance of same-sex marriages, but writing about them will not make me side one way or the other. It will just bring up a lot of arguing.

This particular writing is about some of the problems and issues about what I see in other people's opinions, and how I see this 'battle-of-sorts' portrayed in the media and on the Internet. Most of what I say will be negative. It might even sound one-sided. It is not meant to offend, but if you are easily offended, or hold strong opinions about this subject in either way, you might want to stop. This blog will cross the line.

I believe that it is going to take a very, very, very, very long time... a very long time, for same-sex relationships to be recognized without bias, without opinion, or without some really, really weird look from someone. A same-sex relationship is different and not 'different' meaning that it grosses people out, but 'different' in a sense that those of us who have fallen in love, or desire to fall in love with someone of the opposite sex, cannot imagine things in your shoes. Those who have not experienced it cannot show true appreciation and empathy for the situation. I believe that--and that alone--makes it very difficult for some, even the ones with open minds, to support a proposal of this measure.

I also believe that the phrase 'WIIFM,' or, 'What's in it for me?' goes greatly into account here. While many people have been saying that allowing same-sex marriages will have little to no effect on the opposite-sex couples, which gives the general public little reason to step up and make that change. Because, while something not having an effect on another person is a good reason to some to allow change, some people look at the same thing, and say, "Why change?" The more popular phrase is "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." However, since marriage is having its problems, the phrase should be "If it ain't gonna fix it, just leave it broke."

And speaking of the general public, it is something to be said about popular opinion. When I was a child, I wanted my way, and never seemed to get it. I remember wanting McDonalds for dinner, but the rest of the family voting for pizza. It is enough to make a spoiled boy cry, but the majority won out all the time. Popular opinion is just that--popular. It is the opinion of the majority. As of four hours before I started to type this blog, 52% of Californians supported the measure that eliminates same-sex marriage rights. Popular opinion rules. It does not matter if you are smart and the populous is dumb. If does not matter if you are right and the majority is wrong. Plain and simple--the majority rules. Moreover, if the remaining votes hold the results to where they are now, then it is clear that the majority does not want same-sex marriage. I believe that will change at some point in the future. Seeing that some websites estimate that only 1.5% of the U.S's general population is in a same-sex relationship, yet almost 48% of the California voting population is showing support for same-sex marriage. I think that statistic shows that we as a people are making huge, huge progress toward acceptance of same-sex relationships.

As much as I can see the 'progress' that has gone on in the past eight years, there are others that do not. Many people are surprised, and some upset, that America has come to allow an African-American to be elected president, and still have measures like California's Proposition 8 still pass. They think that this country has taken a huge step forward, but still has taken a huge step back because of it.

I wonder why people would think that way. I wonder why people would take two idealisms that are completely different, the gay rights movement and the civil rights movement, and compare them to one-another. They are definitely not one another. Being African-American is not the same as being gay. Neither is being Hispanic, Asian, German, French, or any other race or ethnicity. Each is important, but there is a huge, huge difference between race and sexuality.

The melting pot of the world is showing, but in most cases, you can clearly see what race a person is simply by looking at that person. Everyone who has ever looked at me has known that I am black. There were no announcements. There was no "coming out of the closet." It was there in the beginning. With everyone I know that is gay, including friends and family, there has been a "revelation" at some point. There is an entire childhood that goes by, sometimes a teenage life, and some even go into adulthood before realizing a love for the same sex. If we just meet someone for the first time, sometimes we can tell by the way one acts, or how one dresses, or some other clue, but we never know for sure until we are informed of such. Unlike knowing someone's gender, it can be a considerable amount of time that goes by before knowing someone's sexual preference. In addition, once that preference is out in the open, a view of a person can change. Whether that change is positive or negative, it is still a change, and it is something that needs to be adapted to. The person that is going through the change may need to adapt him or herself when he or she realizes it. Homosexuality can be hidden from view, whether it is purposely, subconsciously, or unknowingly. Race cannot.

This does not mean that both struggles share common plights. It simply means that both have to be accepted in different ways. Accepting one is not a requirement for accepting the other. Although, it may be a confident prerequisite to go by. And it's enough inspiration, in my eyes, stop having people throw their hands in the air over prop 8 and say "Why is this country so cruel?" and begin to grip their fists again, and inspire the people who support this measure to fight for what they believe it. The natural evolution of this country, I believe, will make it happen one day. One day you will wake up with the same options as everyone else. One day it will not be a nightmare, but it will be reality.

You just have to keep reaching for it.

[J! welcomes your questions, comments, and opinions on this blog, just like any other. Click here to subscribe on MySpace, or get the RSS feed.]

Senator Obama,

You have clearly lifted us.

You have lifted us as a nation, and as a people. You have lifted us as one world. You have lifted the spirits of so many Americans who have lost hope, faith, and belief in their country. Moreover, over the past two years you have certainly lifted the standards of how politics and leadership are displayed.

In turn, we have lifted you to the position of power and leadership that so many people loathe to think about, considering the happenings of the past eight years. We have lifted you to be of the magnitude of Paul Bunyan, who was so big and powerful that nothing could stand in his way. Some have lifted you to the height of Martin Luther King, Jr., and consider you to be the new, living, walking, breathing symbolism of change and equality that so many have fought for, for so long. We have lifted you to be the example when we tell our children, grandchildren, nephews, nieces, and all who grace this world after us that they can be whatever that want to be in life. We have lifted you—chosen you—elected you to lead this country and this world in a time where new leadership is needed.

Over the past eight years, the United States of America has descended in ways that most of us have never seen, and in ways that some thought they would never see again. The rule of the past eight years has been nothing short of a tragedy. We are in a time where businesses are failing. We face people losing their homes. We face gas prices that have doubled, tripled, and quadrupled in the past eight years. We face a drained, depleted, and overworked military. If one is not outright rich, then most likely, one has at least one thing that has had a major effect on how that one lives their lifestyle. While most of us could differ on what could change, everyone knew that something had to change. We, as Americans, and as a people, are vulnerable. We are one who, at this time, needed to be convinced that there was hope on the horizon. We were looking for change, and we were looking from it, from anywhere.

We found it in you.

When people are at their most vulnerable, they are at their most gullible. Frankly, anyone who was over age 35 and had a couple of speeches that they practiced for a long time could have made a considerable run for the White House. Many politicians did. And while people attacked your experience, I strongly believed that you lack of experience, and your lack of exposure to politics "as usual" is what brought you over the top. From the words you say, you come in with a different viewpoint, and not what every other plain old politician tends to show up with every four years. Americans wanted different. You, senator, are different.

The biggest difference, quite noticeably, is the color of your skin. This means so much historically and there are people out there who lived to see this day as a day of "justice," where we, as African Americans, start to get some sort of "return" on the struggles we have had in America in the past decades. Senator, we need you to assure them that while things are better for all of us, no matter what race, color, or creed, that we still must individually work hard, and have the same passion throughout our lives, that you have shown us in the past two years of your campaign.  We still need to go to work everyday. We still need to get as much education as possible. Every day is a struggle for every American, and the fact that I and others close to me relate to you in so many ways, does not make us an exception.

You have also convinced the world that nothing is in a name. There are tons of people who believe that a name can have a huge impact on a person's future. I include myself in that list, and I know that being named 'Jason' has opened a door or two for me. Now, I may have more confidence in choosing names for my potential children that are more representative of them, rather that something that's more representative of what others may think.

You have convinced us of so many things in the past two years. You have convinced us of this change in so many ways that we follow you wholeheartedly. We, as a people, and as a nation, will do what we can to make sure we all get a little close to the goal so many of us have of lifelong prosperity. We trust you to take us there.

You have lifted our hopes, and our spirits. You have lifted us beyond our wildest dreams. And we have the hope of being lifted as a people.

Please, don't let us down.

J!

This is what I get for being so lethargic.

I bought the wrapping paper for my brother's birthday gift two days after I bought the greeting card and the box to ship it in. I bought the greeting card and the box to ship the gift in three days after I bought the actual gift.

And I bought the actual gift two days after his birthday.

That's about a week late, for those who are counting.

But, as late as it is, it's not "never," and still, I kinda gave a sigh of relief as I drove in the parking lot of the Post Office, because this was something that I had to accomplish--and today.

And then, I looked at the other cars, and gave a slight sigh of frustration. Apparently, other people had to get things accomplished today, too.

I grabbed my box, and walked toward the door, and when I looked to the left and the right, I saw a group of us who looked like we were on a crash course toward the door. There was a older lady on the right who had a thick envelope. There was an really, really, really older gentleman on the right with a really, really, really think envelope. And slightly in front of all of us, there was a younger (thought slightly older than me) lady with a five-year old in tow, and a Tupperware bin the size of a larger laundry basket in her hands, which is full of several smaller packages...

...Great.

She, ironically, would be the one to hit the door first. I, less than ironically, would be the one to get to the door last.

Now, this isn't your bigger post office, where there's a long line and only one person available to help customers. This is the small-town-America post office, where it's a lot smaller, a lot more relaxed, and there's still only one person available to help customers.

Being last, I walk in, and I see the line only consists of the four of us who just walk in. I also see the lady in front, with the tub full of packages, have some sort of moment where she remembered and episode of 'Oprah' and started doing one of those random acts of kindness.

She looks at the older lady, smiles, and lets her jump the line to get to the clerk. She looks at the older gentleman, and lets him get in line in front of her.

Then she looks at me, with my one box, and simply turns around like I'm not even there...

I can't believe this b*tch ignored me like that!

[Blogger's note: I'm interrupting this blog to let you, the reader, know that I would normally never call a woman a b*tch. But in this case, her looking at me and my one box, and then not caring that I'd have to wait for her and her 45,000 boxes, is what I like to call 'a b*tch move.' It was incredibly blatant, and incredibly rude. In addition, it's not a sexist statement, for if a man would have done something like that, he'd be a b*tch too. In fact, if I had the tub of packages and she had one, if I did not give up my spot, it would not be 'gentleman-like.' I would be called a b*tch in that situation. So, yes, I can call her one too.]

Okay... so where was I?

Yes, as I was mentioning, I can't believe that b*tch ignored me like that! So I gave this ugly scowl to the back of her head, like I was cursing her with a pimple, or something else that would ruin her prissy little life when I heard a gasp.

I looked down, and did a double take. The pink outfit, flowing brown hair, and the small book of the lady's little five year old were hiding under a corner of a post office counter. The eyes of that small child were fixated on me, and my scowl of pimple-death upon her mother, which, after noticing the child, made me smile. I knew I got my point across, although indirectly. That child was going to remember me.

In the time it took to wonder why this lady would not tell her child to get off of the floor and from under the counter of a business establishment it was the lady's turn in line. I could be wrong, but I believe she had packages going to 17 different states, and 2 foreign countries. And all I could do was stand, and wait, and stand, and wait, and stand, and wait...

Thankfully (or not, depending on how you look at it), I wasn't the only impatient one. The daughter had somehow found the courage to emerge from that dirty, dusty corner to start playing with the shipping supplies handing there for sale. She seemed to be partial to the ready-ship boxes that were sitting there, and made a valiant attempt to make a dollhouse out of about four of them.

You'd think that momma over there would have this 'parenting' thing down as much as she had the 'shipping' thing. But, alas, no. She did warn the little girl to stop, but carefully put two of the unfolded, un-taped, and (most importantly) unsold boxes back, and sternly warned her daughter that she could only play with those two boxes. No effort to buy them. No apology to the obviously annoyed postal clerk or the people in line...

...Oh, yeah, the people in line. There was a guy who tapped me on the shoulder and caught my attention. He also brought my attention to the people behind me. When I started, I was the only one waiting. Now there were six of us. The guy behind me, with a desperate look on his face, asks, "Is that whole tub full of her packages?"

I frowned my face and nodded my head. He shrugged, and when he shrugged, I saw just a simple yellow card in his hand. The poor guy wanted to just have his mail held while he was on vacation.

I pointed to the card, and said "I'll take it." He was more than pleased. And I was just glad that I accomplished something.

Meantime, the little girl had accomplished building her two-box fortress, and equally accomplished tearing the damn thing down. She had gone back to her corner under the counter to grab a half-gallon bottle of water, and the book she forgot earlier. Boredom has struck the little girl, and she wanted her mom to read her a story.

But no. Mom was busy. Still. In her well-thought of plan to annoy me even more, she had to "forget something." When the postal worker was about two-thirds done with processing all those packages, she ineptly asks... "Will I be able to track all of these packages?"

All I could do was grit my teeth. And by now, even the postal clerk, who was not happy to see the huge line forming behind this woman, was even more annoyed, as she had to grab every package she already processed, and now add delivery confirmation to each one.

Not to be outdone was the little girl, who wanted story time confirmation, and wanted it now. Mom, still only interested in the boxes, which were so close to being done, had an idea.

"Here, honey," She opened the book and fanned through the pages. "Why don't you look through the book, and find your favorite picture, and whatever picture you pick, we'll start reading from that page when we get home, okay? And you only get to pick one..."

She picked one in about three seconds. Either that, or story time didn't matter anymore, because she had to go to the bathroom.

And from the way this girl sounded, the "had" was in italics and in bold. She had to go to the bathroom. And the best mom could offer was "Can it wait until we get home?" That's it. Knowing there's no public restroom in this place. Knowing she had no choice but to go home, she still asked her child... a child... if it was okay. What was the other option? Seriously? What else was there?

The only other option for the little girl was to cry. Loudly. Annoyingly. Painstakingly crying. The type of crying that makes you go "thank you!" out loud when the lady finally pulled out her credit card to pay for her ninety-some-odd dollars in pure postage.  I knew my wait had finally been over.

I also knew that this was karma biting me in the butt. I knew this was my small, simple punishment for waiting too long to get a gift for my brother's birthday. And based on what happened today, it will never happen again.

And as that lady was taking her credit card back and getting ready to sign the charge slip, a figure came out of the shadows. That figure stepped up the counter, removed the "closed" sign, and bellowed, "Next, please!"

And I waited... for... how long?!?!?!?

That's what I get for being so lethargic.

There's one thing that can make me the happiest man in the world. There is one thing that can make me forget about all my problems, fears, and downfalls. There's one thing in this world that can actually make me cry.

It's a trip to Best Buy.

I look for any excuse to make my way to this… utopia… of electronics, games, and appliances. It makes me feel like my life means something.

Yes, that sounds like I'm filling a void in my life with electronics. And I am. A new TV would fill a void in the lives in a lot of people. So there—I'm still normal.

And I never to go Best Buy to simply shop. The store is not called Best Shop. It's called Best Buy. And when I'm there—make no excuses—my sole purpose is to buy sh*t. Such was the case this past Thursday.

Eleven months have passed since I got my first iPod. I knew I didn't need the damn thing, but when I ended up getting in touch with the 3^rd generation Nano, I fell in love. There was an instant source of music, video, games, and endless entertainment that stayed in my pocked, and was the size of about three credit cards stacked atop one-another. Nothing could separate me and my iPod. It went on dates. It went on trips. It actually kept me from falling asleep at work on many occasions.  And we won't talk about what it did about my sex life.

Seriously, we won't.

On Thursday, it was time to change. It was time to grow. It was time to get a bigger iPod. And after weeks of pondering, and trying to figure out of whether I should go with the ungodly amount of memory of an iPod classic, or the ungodly touch screen and functionality of an iPod Touch, I finally decided I was going with the iPod classic. So, in Best Buy that night, I walked over to the iPod section, where one of the blue-shirted representatives was, ironically, arranging the iPods. He noticed me, and asked if he could help me.

I replied, "Yes, you can help me by getting the f*ck outta my way so I can get this gottd*mn iPod!"

He did a double take, and realizing that I meant business, he simply said "Silver, or black?" I got the silver one.

Today, this day, Friday, I have been making my new iPod my own, filling it with about 2,700 songs or so, a crapload of podcasts that I usually listen to, and every picture, television show, movie, and video I have on my hard drive.

And I still have about 120 gigabytes of empty space. That's a lot of space.

The space thing, I will never have an issue with. I can always use extra space. But, I do feel a little uncomfortable about the size of this thing. With upgrading my iPod, I've gone from a device that is the size of a few credit cards, to something a little above the size of a billfold, and considerably heavier.

How much heavier? I think I had to go to the next hold in my belt loop to keep my pants up.

I'm seriously pondering this change. And while I was pondering, I thought of something that's really disturbing.

Think about this: I started out with an object that stores things, that's incredibly small, and convenient, and that I can carry pretty much wherever I happen to go. Over time, I've found that I need more space to store more things, and that I'm going through the process of carrying around something a little more inconvenient to accomplish that, but at the same time I don't necessarily "need" the things that I'm carrying.

That's the same thing I say all the time, about women that carry purses. Most of the things that I see women carrying around in their purses are things that I say they don't necessarily need.

And now I'm doing the same thing as them. I'm just using a different format.

That means that I don't own an iPod. Actually, I own an iPurse.

There could be other reasons behind this, such as my constant need for electronic fulfillment, or possibly some desire to have the newest electronic fads. But I believe I came to an epiphany about the average American's need for accessibility—the need that doesn't just come in purses or iPods, but that comes in wireless Internet, instant stock trading, multiple cable channels the show the same movie three times in a row, and—surprise—social networking websites that detect our every thought and move.

I'm still contemplating the return of the iPod to Best Buy, because ultimately, I may not need all the memory.  But I think I going to have to contemplate giving less criticism to the people out there—men and women—who constantly carry Blackberry's, daily planners, makeup, cell phones, nail clippers, and other odds and ends that they call necessary.

Because, apparently, I may be one of them. And it's only fair.

[J! is proud of the fact that his new iPod is able to hold every single episode of Two Stupid Dogs that has ever been made. Be sure to keep an eye out for every blog that J! has ever written by subscribing…]

I got another 'tag.' This time it was from 'Redskins Lanne.' Which means that it's time for a new 'tagged' blog.

Actually, it's been time for a new tagged blog for a long time now. Because this tag was sent to me in August. More like the beginning of August.

These tags make you explain ten random things, facts, habits, or goals about yourself. And me taking two whole months to write this implies that I have nothing random about me, no goals, or no habits.

Or, since this is the forth type of this blog that I've done, does that mean that I've explained and shared every little thing about me that I possibly can?

That's something to think about later. In the meantime, I have to thank Lanne for sending me this the same way I've thanked the previous three people--by stabbing her repeatedly with a plastic straw. Hope you enjoy, Lanne...

The Nautica 'Fetish'
I long ago wrote about a "obsession" I had with a certain style Eddie Bauer shirt. Well, since I've written, EB has stopped making the shirts, which totally made disgusted and more than willing to pout at any given notice. Well, it took months upon months to find something to replace my fabulous shirt with, and I finally found another fabulous shirt. Same style. Same fabric. Different company. Nautica now makes my fetish shirt.

Blue, Without a Clue
One day I waltzed in the shower, and noticed something horribly wrong. The towels I were using were blue, and the water around me was blue. Well. it turns out that I was the one that was blue. My skin was blue. My hair was blue. My fingernails and toenails were blue. And every time I took a shower, washed my hands, or did anything, there was a trail of blue. This happened for about three weeks, and was starting to scare me, because I couldn't find out why. Then, in a heartbeat, while lying in bed, I realized that all of the sheet sets I used for those three weeks were all blue, and all of them were bleeding dye, even after washing them. Turns out every sheet that was doing it, was purchased at Wal-Mart. I've been buying designer sheets since, and I've never looked back. And that "Wal-Mart" thing: we'll talk about that later, in another blog.

That's Pretty Useless
Including my PlayStation2, my computer drives, and my stand-alone models, I own five DVD players. Including my copies of Spaceballs and The Simpsons Movie, I only own two mass-produced DVD's. You can figure that one out. 

Pack Rat
For some strange reason, I have always felt that I should keep records of anything and everything. So, for a long time, I kept a lot of stuff, just to be keeping it. And just a few months ago, I decided to clean all of this stuff out. I couldn't believe what I found. I had paycheck stubs from my first job at age 16. I had pictures of people I never even knew, and still don't know. I had clothes that I hadn't worn in ages. When all was said and done, I had filled the equivalent of five average-size trash bins. But even still, I kept some things...

Dollhouse
...like my collection of plush humans and animals. Back in 1998, someone who was special back then gave me a singing Bananas in Pajamas doll. (I loved that show, and I don't care what anyone says about it.) Every special someone after has seen that doll sitting on top of my bookcases, and decided that they would provide a doll of their own. So, that collection has steadily grown to about seven dolls and one small plush pig, my favorite being my South Park "Kenny" doll... which, of course, does nothing but mumble. A girl I recently dated said that if we got married, since I was choosing her, the dolls would have to go. I miss her.

Is That the Headboard, or the Footboard?
Sometimes, I sleep in my bed backwards. My computer and RV sit beyond the foot of the bed, so it gives me a better view. And every once in a while, I'll move the pillows, get comfy, and stay that way for the rest of the night.

The Skies Ain't Friendly
When most people fly, they prefer the window seat, so they can get a good view. Fuck the view. Gimmie an aisle seat. Being 6'3" tall, having a window seat is horrible on my knees and ultimately makes me claustrophobic. I almost lost my sanity on a flight from Detroit to Milwaukee once, and that would not have been cool..

Pour It Up!
I also kept hold of my pilsner glass collection, which includes about 60 pilsner glasses bought as souvenirs from places that I've been and seen. This grew from a desire to visit the first ESPNZone in Baltimore when it opened (and I got there after only a month of planning). Since, everywhere I go, if the sell the glasses, I'm getting the glasses. My collection will likely grow if my plans to go to Las Vegas at the end of this year hold up.

No Nukes
To this day, I have never owned a microwave. I don't believe in reheating things, and I don't believe in leftovers. And since I try to avoid those pre-packaged TV-dinner type of meals, that means the only thing a microwave would be good for is popcorn. And I already have two popcorn poppers. So, unless hell freezes over, they outlaw stoves, or I get married (because my wife will probably buy one) I will probably never own a microwave.

Why Am I Here?
A few months back, I came across a site call Orkut, which is a--well, another--social networking site. All of a sudden, for reasons I don't know altogether, I had to join. And just before I sent out that huge mass email to my friends telling them about how they should join too, I realize that I might be over-social-networking. I'm not on these websites too much, but I do spread things around too many websites. So, lately, I've kinda abandoned a few of them, and are focusing on just two. And yes, this site, as boring as it is to me now, is one of them, because I love to blog waaaay to much...

[J! invites you to join him, not only by adding him as a friend on MySpace, but by befriending him on Facebook, sending him a hi5, introducing him to Orkut, or by following his every move on Twitter. Of course, you can subscribe to his MySpace blog as well.]

I am in no way, shape, or form like Jerry Seinfeld. But I like to take a similar approach when it comes to blogs.

I blog about "nothing." I blog about small things that people usually don't pay any attention to. I enjoy bringing up things that nobody really thinks about on a normal day. But I have to write about something that's been so big, I can't pay attention to the smaller things until I get this out of the way. And now that I'm thinking about it, I can still bring the subject up Seinfeld-style.

What's the deal with the economy?

In particular, can someone explain to me, this $700 billion financial package that somehow donned a cape and tights and saved our economy single-handedly?

Once upon a time, it was a fad in this country to own your own home. You had to have a piece of the pie. You have to live the American dream. All the commercials on TV said so.

So people went out and got house. All the people in the world with enough money bought houses, and built houses, and got summer houses, and all of a sudden the rich people said "I'm good!"

And so banks needed to keep lending to stay in business. So they got the people who weren't exactly rich, but could still maintain a house off of a decent living. And all the people in the world with just enough money bought houses, and all of a sudden the not-so-rich people said "I'm good!"

And so banks needed to keep lending to stay in business. And who exactly is left? People who don't have decent credit. People who are not exactly financially sound. People who aren't "poor" or "broke," but people who have problems managing money or making correct financial decisions all of the time. For some reason, they're seemed to be a lot of those people. And the banks kept lending, and lending, and lending, and lending.

And then the unthinkable happened. And when I say unthinkable, I don't mean that this would not be imaginable at all. It just means that no one seemed to really care.

The "unthinkable" was that people started to not pay on their mortgages. There are a lot of things to consider, such as gas prices, people losing jobs and income, rising costs of food, or whatever. But for some reason, mortgages are not getting paid.

So now, banks are starting to crash and burn because of the decisions that they made in lending people money for houses that people ultimately could not afford. As a result of the failures of these financial companies, the stocks in these companies are going down, and people who invest in these companies are losing money.

Do I see a problem there? Yes, I do. And it's huge. But is a monetary gift from the feds really going to solve this thing?

It could, if the cash got into the right hands.

I haven't looked at every little detail of the bill, and don't know if everything I'm saying is right. But those people I trust oh-so-much that are called the media, says that most of that money is going directly to those corporations that are failing. There are a few things that benefit us, such as in an increased FDIC insurance max payout, and more educational and housing tax credits. The bottom line, however is that this bill will put the failing lenders on stable feet, and save the investments in those companies, and the other companies that are publicly traded.

I think that's a horrible idea.

Lenders have collateral of mortgages that end up failing. The collateral, oddly enough, is the house that they ended up financing. If someone fails to pay, then the house goes to the bank. Most of the time the bank will sell the house, and make enough money from the sale to take up the loan. And yes, the housing market sucks at this time, but the house isn't going anywhere. The land isn't going anywhere. Is waiting really going to hurt?

The stockholders and the investors? Well... I hate to say it, but the stock market is not a guarantee. Investing money in any form is a risk. Reading any prospectus will tell you that any investment has a chance of losing money. You mean to tell me that just because you're losing money in stocks means that you life is coming to and end and we need a bailout bill to save it? I personally don't believe that things should work that way. Stocks are meant to grow over time, and gain money in the long run. If you want a shorter time on return, then more than likely you're taking a bigger risk on your investments, which means that you'll probably have better luck at a casino.

I've always been leery of investing. I've always believe that stocks should be priced based on the value of the company that we're investing in. However, they're bought and sold based on what people think those companies are going to do, and if the company meets, or sometimes exceeds, those expectations. And on top of that, most people trust investment firms with their money. They expect these firms to make money for them, when, for the most part, the firm is only worried about the people who have invested in it, and not the people it's serving. But I digress...

If this "bailout" is really going to work, why not give the money to the people who are losing their houses? The way the bill is now, the lenders get most of the money while keeping most of the property that it foreclosed. That's just like the lenders having their cake and eating it too. Giving the money to the actual homeowners would eventually work it's way up the system. Mortgages get paid, the finance companies have the payments--and capital that they are expecting to have, and the investors who put their money in these companies can at least be on the same level as investors from other industries. (Even though right now, it doesn't really matter what industry you're in.)

But of course, the things that make sense--at least to me--will never happen. And instead of this bailout helping the people it should be helping, it's only going to help the companies who were dumb enough to make a ton of bad loans in the first place, and the investors who were dumb enough to trust those companies with their money. It's not going to help the people who need to get back into their homes.

And in the meantime, there's still a fad out there that you have to own your own home. What's the deal with that?

This past weekend, the weekend of Labor Day, my fair city of Milwaukee, WI showed showed it's wild side, playing host to the Harley-Davidson 105th anniversary festivities.

The festival marked another milestone for a company that has managed to make it's unique mark on the nation, and the world, and a company that was founded in, and has been headquartered in, Milwaukee ever since.

And I don't underestimate when I say festival. Look at everything that went down. Thursday through Sunday was an essential city-wide party, which included block parties and festivals downtown and at the shores of Lake Michigan, separate parties and events at Harley dealerships across southeast Wisconsin and Harley facilities alike. Multiple concerts brought Bruce Springsteen, Kid Rock, Foo Fighters, Sugarland, and ZZ Top. And the celebration even included the opening of the Harley-Davidson Museum, which has artifacts from all 105 years of the company's history. And by gosh, there was even a parade, that--literally--cut the city in half, that every biker that attended could participate in.

It was one of the biggest festivals I've ever seen in my life. I was amazed. I was astonished. And I absolutely abhorred every second of it.

I have to say that I am in no way jealous of not having a Harley. While I haven't ridden on a Harley in my lifetime, I have ridden on motorcycles, and they are just not my style.

In the world of a biker, I am what's known as a "cager." While that sounds like I'm some sort of wild mammoth-like beast that needs to be tamed, that simply means one thing: I drive a car. Four wheels. Windows. A ceiling. Air conditioning instead of wind. And no need for chaps. And while I love the feeling of cruising on the road with the best of 'em, during events like this, I feel like a stranger in a strange land.

Take this into consideration. When bikers are in town, they get the good parking. And it's not because the have a thin, narrow bike that can sneak in between cars. It's actually because the city mandates it. Roughly a third of downtown streets over that weekend were reserved for motorcycle parking only. Meaning that cagers like me were left to fend for ourselves. I work in the heart of downtown, and while on a normal day I can get a space at a parking meter for roughly two dollars a day, during these days I, and my fellow cagers were stuck getting premium parking for as much as $20 for a day, or finding cheaper spots that were as far away as an entire mile. Unfortunately, no bikers were willing to give me a ride from my car to my job, or back.

And while you average street has normal traffic, my streets had biker traffic. And biker traffic works a little bit differently. For instance, biker traffic can somehow can be on the wrong side of traffic on a two-way street, and have the right to look at me like I'm the one that's crazy. And I truly must be crazy, because over the course of four days, that happened to me five times. Yes, on five separate occasions I almost came in contact of a biker who was going the wrong way.

(If there's a bright side to that, five years ago, during the 100th anniversary, it happened on 16 separate occasions. That's a serious decline.)

Oh, and I almost forgot about the one-car rule. This law is unwritten, but every biker seems to know it. When a biker is riding alone that biker is the equivalent of one car. If 24 bikers are riding together, they apparently are the equivalent of one car.

So, if I, and 24 bikers get to a four-way stop, there's a little confusion there. Because if they stop first, I always assumed the the first two that stopped (because two bikes can stop side-by-side on one lane) can go first, and then I go, and then the next bikes go. But the bikers think they're all one car. So they all go together. And since I thought only the first two were supposed to go, I end up going and almost hitting the next two, or four, or however many might be in the intersection at a time.

Could you imagine me and 24 bikers discussing an accident? Trading insurance cards? Who's more likely to get a ticket there... I wonder....

But enough of the traffic aspects of things. Traffic issues are minute. Honestly, there are other cagers out there who think the road belongs to them as well.

What really gets me under my skin about this "reunion" is the social aspect of it.

If I'm a Harley owner, I get to go to a four-day long party, get deals on parking, see concerts, go to a new museum, and basically get treated like I'm the upper crust of the earth for a long weekend. And why?

Just because I own a motorcycle.

I have nothing against bikers, or music-goers, or anyone else gathering and celebrating. I know that conventions and festivals bring revenue from one city to another. And if it's good for anything, four bikes can fit in the same space as one parked car. But why does my way of life, and the ways of lives of others, have to be set aside for a few days because they either decided not to purchase a certain product, or they can't afford to purchase a certain product?

There are conventions for anything nowadays. My experiences at the Milwaukee Bead and Button Show for my job has proved that. But on what occasions for things like that has an entire city been put on hold? Do they block off streets for World of Warcraft festivals? Are parking lots and sides of streets ever reserved for the owners of Coach purses? Instead of a concert, how about having a free play for people with Harlequin romance novels? And when are they going to block of an entire street for a John Deere lawnmower parade?

My guess is never.

As unique and influential as Harley-Davidson's are, I think it needs to be realized what exactly is being celebrated here. Is it the tradition? Is it the uniqueness? Or is it just the fact that somewhere down the line, someone shelled out some extra cash, where someone else didn't?

I think we should discuss this... perhaps at a party...

[J! is proud that during his stint working at the Bead and Button Show, he did not venture off, browse the show, or buy any single bead of button. Now that's dedication! Show you dedication by subscribing to It's All About J!]

To go through it once is embarrassing enough. To go through it twice is pretty unreal. And here I was, going through the humility of it a second time.

Here's me, trying to check out, in the alcohol section of the grocery store, puzzled, confused, and... did I even mention embarrassed?

I forgot my driver's license.

I already went through this over the weekend, while trying to buy drinks for a birthday party. I, nor the partygoers were happy when I did not show up with their various Smirnoff Ice's, Miller High Life's (or High Lives), Heinekens, or Captain Morgan. I was almost shot that night.

This time wasn't as bad. All I really wanted was to try one of those Jack Daniels lemonade drinks. One of the things I want to see in life is a way to make Jack taste halfway decent. I'm sure they'll accomplish that sometime before I die.

And speaking of die, I could have killed myself for forgetting my ID again. But instead, I apologized to the cashier, and made the walk of shame to my car.

On the way, I scoured my pockets thinking about where the hell my ID could gone. And while the scouring was going on, there was a red-headed lady looking that was kind of younger in age that gave me a look. I looked back, and gave a short smile that was more of courtesy than anything else, and didn't pay much attention.  I just wanted to find my ID.

While still walking the parking lot, in my train of thought, I realized one thing that was really important. I had on cargo shorts. I had more pockets than usual. And behold, in a pocket  that I wouldn't even normally have, there was my driver's license. There was also $150 that I completely forgot about.

You would have think I won something on The Price is Right by how high I jumped at that moment. Well, someone did win something. I won the right to buy alcohol.

I made a beeline back to the store, hoping the cashier had not put those drinks back yet, when all of a sudden I'm interrupted by a small, yet assertive voice...

"Excuse me..."

I looked... and it was the redhead. I actually looked twice. On second look, the red hair wasn't natural. But, that was kind of offset by the fact that she was very attractive. But, that was kind of offset by the fact there was a table full of stuff behind her that I didn't notice before. So she was selling something. And no matter how cute you are, you are never attractive when you're attempting to make my wallet emptier.

I gave a smile... again... and looked straight into her eyes with interest. For some reason, anyone with a script seems to flutter at it when you're staring right at them. And yeah, she had a script...

"We're pitching an effort to bring more older-style materials into children's classrooms..."

The stuff on the table included some small toys, a bunch of DVD's that looked to be targeted for kindergartners, and and a bunch of those books that have the buttons one the side, and when you push the button it makes a sound. I loved those. I may actually consider buying one...

...until my thought process is interrupted by the redhead crunching down on an apple.           

"I'm sorry... this apple is just really good. But what I was saying was, what we'd like to do is get this educational toys into children's hands..."

She hands me a DVD. "Lil' Iguana Teaches Fire Safety."

"...and these toys teach important lessons, like Fire Safety, how to call 911, stranger danger, and things like that..."

At this point, I'm thinking, "Who the hell is Lil' Iguana?"

"...so, if you'd like to purchase a video or toy to take home, you can. Or, if you don't have younger children or know any, you can donate the purchase, and we will find schools and daycare centers who can use them."

Was that her pitch? Yeah, I think it was. "So how much are they?"

"They are twenty dollars each..."

$20 for a DVD? I guess that's not bad. I paid more purchasing Blind Date Uncensored. But, the thing is, I didn't have any cash on me. And I usually don't, so when I happen to be asked if I have any spare change or extra cash, I can say no without lying. I know, it's cold. And for those of you scoring at home, my check card was going to pay for the alcohol, and that $150 I mentioned earlier could not be spent. So I apologized. and I told her that I didn't have twenty dollars on me.

She quickly interrupted. "Well, we take cash donations as well, and your donation of or over ten dollars will be matched and used to purchase more items."

I reached in my pocket... or at least the pocket that should my my money in it. There's a-five dollar bill, and a one-dollar bill. "All I got is a five. It's yours if you want it."

She squirmed a little bit. And she managed to blurt out... "I'm sorry... but I can't accept anything under ten dollars."

My eyes widened. Seriously. My eyes don't usually widen over anything. But they widened today. Since when do charities and fund raisers not accept money? Is she sure about this? I asked her one more time, just to be sure. "Seriously?"

"Noooo... I'm sorry..."

I find it strange that someone would ask for money for a good cause, but not accept what you have to offer. The one thing I do know, is that I offered the grocery clerk my driver's license, and my card, and in return, I got what I wanted. And I got a bottle of Captain Morgan. Just in case.

And as I walked by that redhead again on the way out, alcohol in hand, I wished her good luck.

She's gonna need it.

An arrogant man with a microphone in his face lost his job this week because of racial slur.

Don Imus? No. At least not yet.

Sure, everyone has heard about the latest incident that made Imus put his foot far up his mouth. Adam 'Pacman' Jones was already good at turning himself into a actual walking slur, with a couple of incidents involving night clubs over the past two years. And only Don Imus can take something, or someone, that's already lowered himself to the ground, and make him even lower.

Normally I wouldn't care what Imus says. Actually, I don't care what Imus says. What really gets me pissed off about situations like these, is that people really misconstrue what Imus is saying.

Yeah. I said it. People take the words his wrong way. But don't get things twisted, because Imus is still the dumb, racist a**hole that we've come to know and love.

People have listened to the sentence "what color is he?" to sum up this whole thing, as if Imus is trying to make a point that Pacman is doing what he's doing because he's black. And that's not the case.

Pacman is doing what he's doing what he's doing because he's dumb.

And while you and the rest of the world is fuming because Pacman is black, I'm fuming for different reasons.

Did you catch the statement about the night club?

So yeah... I guess people don't go to night clubs to have fun, socialize, dance, party, or just have a life. According to Imus, people have to go because they have a drinking problem.

I do have a drinking problem. I don't do it enough.

According to Imus, there has to be drugs there. Lord knows I can't have fun and remember it the next day.

And, gasp! There are women there! I'm sorry, Don, that not all of us hang out at the Blue Oyster all day.

Lastly, of course, people have guns. I think guns are a requirement to get into nightclubs nowadays. That way, when I ask a girl for her number, and she says no, I can just shoot her.

Blatant racism is one thing, and people can uproar about it all they want, but it doesn't bother me. Dumb racism is what gets under my skin. Call me a nappy headed ho all you want, and I won't care. Ask me what I'm doing on this side of town, and you'd pissed me off.

(And speaking of the phrase "nappy-headed ho's," I wish the world would realize that it was the word "nappy-headed" that was racist, not "ho.")

Nevertheless, Imus was not the one to lose his job. Apparently, the big racist of the week award goes out to...

...Shaquille O'Neal?

Big Shaq had to go on a microphone and boast and brag about how Kobe Bryant couldn't win a title without him. And I, personally, am happy for that. I admit that I'm a part of the Kobe Hateration.

But there were a few lines in that whole sat that didn't sit well with a few people. One of those people was Joe Arpaio, sheriff of Maricopa county, Arizona. Shaquille is actually a volunteer deputy for the department. Arpaio is the boss, and he thought Shaq's comments were "racist."

And the sheriff is making Shaq give up his badges.

Now, I'm not the smartest man in the world, but something isn't right here.

One man is on national radio, and the other is at a private party. One man doesn't know what he's saying, and the other one know exactly what's coming out. One man is talking about a different ethnicity, and the other.. is talking about his own.

I'm not a fan of the word "ni**a." I'm not justifying Shaquille for saying it. After all, I believe it's another form of dumb racism. But Shaq, just like Imus, has fallen victim to the snap judgment that this world seems to dish out on people every time someone does something even remotely questionable.

If this was something that people didn't throw out all the time, like any of us in this world as so high and mighty, maybe people wouldn't look at these situations and be so quick to assume and shun someone. Maybe Al Sharpton wouldn't come running from the hills looking for some publicity. And maybe the media would finally learn to tone things down as well.

I guess what I'm saying is, is that it shouldn't matter to you, or I, what these people say.

For once, why don't we mind our own damn business.

[J! still believes that Shaq-Deisel and You Can't Stop the Reign are two of the most revolutionary rap albums ever. You can subscribe to his "revolutionary" MySpace blog here.]

It happens.

Every man goes through it at least once. No matter how masculine. No matter how much testosterone he has. No matter how much of a sports watchin', beer drinkin', 'man's man' a person is.

Every male goes through a brief flash in time where he may do something that may make him stop and question who the hell he is.

I went through that flash in time last week. It was that one brief moment where I had to stop and ask myself, "Did I just do that?"

I'm confident enough in myself to actually put this in a blog without worrying about anyone passing judgment, and with that in mind, I'd like to simply ask all the women who want to date me (all none of you) that you don't worry about me.

This story starts with me lying in a hospital bed. It's none of your business why I was there, but I was. And over the course of a few days, I was bed ridden, and subject to nurses poking and prodding me at every turn, hospital gowns that expose every element of a man's backside, and people actually wanting to measure my pee.

That's not cool.

There was always a big whiteboard  on the other side of the room who always said who my nurse for the moment was, and so I always knew whose name to yell out when I wanted a refill on my endless supply of crushed ice.

They preferred that I pushed the big, red, "nurse" button, but me and technology don't get along well. So I kept yelling.

There was one particular time where I took a nap, and upon waking, that whiteboard, under nurses' assistant, said "Jaime." At first thought, I didn't care, as long as Jaime kept the ice coming.

Well, Jamie walked in. This Jamie was pretty tall, dominant, had short hair, and instead of the customary teddy bear and pastel outfits, there was a black shirt, blue pants, and a pair of Air Jordans.

Jamie was a guy.

I seriously didn't care. Nursing is a pretty good profession, and if someone gave me the opportunity, I'd do it in a minute. Wait... on second thought, I don't think I'd like to measure people's urine. Never mind.

So where was I?

Yes, Jaime. He had to measure my vital signs. So he gives me the thermometer to take my temperature, takes my blood pressure, and leans in to grab my hand and take my pulse.

And all of a sudden, I'm in heaven.

I took a breath in, and this man smelled... goooooooood.

Like, seriously good. Whatever cologne he had on, seriously kicked ass. I took another breath... thinking I could kinda catch the smell, but I couldn't make it out.

And just when I was actually about to ask him what he was wearing... my testosterone slapped me in the face.

"What the hell's wrong with you? Dude... This is a guy... a guyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! You can't go asking him what the hell he's wearing. What if he takes it the wrong way? That would not be cool. What if he's gay and takes it the right way? That would not be cool. Get your shit together and let that man do his job!"

My testosterone was right. So I sat there, and kept my mouth shut. And I pulled my gown down, just in case.

Of course, then he asks me if there's anything that I need. And instead of asking about sweet smelling fragrances, I just asked for me refill on my cup of ice. And I haven't thought about it since, except for that fact that it might make a pretty funny blog.

It happens.

Thankfully, we've seen a recent drop in gas prices in Milwaukee. They've gone from $4.12⁹ for a gallon, to $4.10⁹ for a gallon.

Wow. Jump for joy.

As amazing as the drop is, these gas prices are still just a tad too much for me. So, I've gone and made a plan of how I'm going to save gas and avoid driving as much.

The plan: don't drive at all.

And although I've failed myself a couple of weekends when I've just had to get out of the house, I've pretty much kept up with this amazing, complicated plan.

One of the keys is my commute. I take the bus everywhere. And when I say everywhere, I mean just to work and back. Because when you're actively dating, taking the bus is not as cool at age 29 as it was at age fifteen. But that's a whole other story.

So now, on weekday mornings, I scurry out of the house about 20 minutes earlier, walk about eight blocks, and hop on the freeway flyer.

Busses are very interesting modes of transportation. As a kid and young adult living in the inner city, I've seen all walks of life, young to old, poor to not-so-poor, going to take care of responsibilities that would help us build better lives or make ends meet. School. Work. Whatever. And although most of everyone had a purpose on that bus, and most of those purposes were common, you noticed that everyone on that bus kept to themselves. It was almost like a ritual. As time went buy, and faces on the same bus got more familiar, all you really changed about your approach was to maybe give a head nod. To older ladies, the "gentleman" in me probably smiled at them, or once in a blue moon I would actually say "hello." But that had to be on a good day. But even after that, it was back to normal. Staring out the window. Listening to a Walkman. Keeping to yourself.

Rides today are a little bit different. I've edged out to what would be called "suburbia." Here, people ride the bus not because they have to, but because they choose to. It's not the only means to get you somewhere, it's the alternate means. Whether it because they don't want to deal with the traffic that comes with being on the highway, they don't want to pay for expensive downtown parking. Or because... ahem... they want to save money on gas, the freeway flyer brings a different group of people altogether.

And every morning, at 6:23am, I witness this group of people. And the differences are so major that if Rosa Parks were alive, I'd ask if this is what she really wanted.

I step on, pay my fare, immediately give a head nod to the only other black person on the bus (c'mon... we're in the same boat here), and immediately look for an open seat. Unfortunately, I'm usually lured to one of the seats in the back.

When I was younger, and headed to high school, the back seats of the bus were where you usually found the pranksters, potheads, and the ones who wanted to skip school by walking out of the back door as soon as they walked in the front door. They were usually the loudest ones on the bus.

Now, I come across a collective bunch of office workers, maintenance workers, and temporary workers who all, for some reason, want to get a point across. And they talk. They talk about the price of oil by the barrel. They talk about Barack and Hillary, and how they think neither one stand a chance. They talk about their jobs, and their salaries, and what they did on their respective vacations. And somehow, they are the loudest ones on the bus.

And when I get on, the only open seat is right along with them.

And I sit, iPod buds in my ears, listening to podcasts, minding my own damn business, and trying to tolerate my ride to work. And for a couple of weeks, it actually worked.

Until one day.

I get on. I sit, iPod buds in my ears, listening to podcasts, and as I'm listening to Dan Patrick, I hear another voice in the background, and... wait... is it directed toward me?

I look up, and there a lady staring at me. Kind of older, and as rude as it is to say, she had the resemblance of Humpty Dumpty, and. with her sitting back row, center, I really did have a fear that she was going to fall.

Instead, she inquired with interest, "Do you ever smile?"

The polite J! quickly responded, "My smile always takes the day off." Quick. Witty. End of discussion. And a lot better than what the rude J! wanted to say. Besides, smiling for no reason nowadays is good enough grounds for people to think the you're in you own little world. And while I sometimes am, I try to hide that as much as possible.

And during the ride that day, I thought nothing of the question. It had to be just a simple anomaly in the otherwise flawlessly systematic scheme of things that go on while going to work.

Until I got to where I was going, and the same lady said, "Have a good day!"

Yeah. Sure. Whatever.

And with that, as I feared, it turned into some sort of battle of wills for about the next two weeks. Same seat. Same iPod and earbuds in ears. Same time every day. It was like she was telling me that I needed to have some degree of mannerism, while I was telling her that me not saying a damn thing to her was me showing mannerism.

This silent battle raged on for about two weeks and somehow ended when seats that were closer to the front started to open up. And I felt blessed. My ride again to work was personal, private, and reflective. Just how I like it.

But the open seats were short lived. And all of a sudden I found myself sitting back near the conversationalist of death. One day, she did her usual hello to which I somehow have to acknowledge, or else she'll stare at me until I do. And when I did, and when I expected her to leave me alone to my PTI podcast, something else came out.

But I couldn't make out what she was saying. So I remove my earbuds...

"So... how am I?"

Wait... she said what? She expects me to ask how she is?

The emotions almost spilled. Almost. I almost lost it. But it kept it. And I explained.

"Forgive me, but there's a reason people wear headphones, read books, and look into empty space. And I don't have a problem with conversation, but I'd rather keep to myself."

She gave a look of shock. One of her colleagues smiled and her and shrugged. And the person to her left didn't care. He had on iPod earbuds too. And I turned my eyes back forward and continued to listen to my podcast, not caring what she said about me, or what she said at all.

Ironically, I have not seen that lady on the bus since. I suspect she's going through health issues. I wouldn't think that I would cause a person's commute to change. But then again, I can't worry about it.

I have peace in my commute. I had to pull the string to do it.

In a way, it was my stop.

...

...

knock... knock... knock... knock... knock... knock...

I spent seven minutes pounding at the door, because I thought there was a slight chance that the doorbell, that I spent the previous seven minutes ringing, may not have worked the right way.

And for the entire fourteen minutes that I stood on her porch, a flurry of thoughts ran in my head.

The main one was... "Why am I here?"

But then I thought about the blog. She was going to amuse me. It was inevitable. It was just a matter of when and how.

My thoughts were interrupted by a light coming on through the window. A couple of seconds later, a shadowy figure came to the door and finally opened it.

"Wow..." is pretty much all I could say.

I hadn't seen This Girl in a year. And while I could probably point her out in a crowd, the things I mainly remember were her smile and her weave.

The smile was still there. As far as the weave, I had to be mistaken. She must wear flat-out wigs, because her hair was the most untamed, unmanaged, unstraightened, and untouched hair I've ever seen.

Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom sat atop her head. Literally. It was all I could do from just throwing her in my car and taking her to a shop... any shop. It was also all I could do to hold in the laughter, fear, and worry that had all mixed in my mind from the sight of a person who would present themselves like that.

Instead, I accepted her invitation in.

I was able to get a better look of things in some light, and yes, her hair did completely suck. Combine this with a tye-dye tanktop and some faded blue sweats, and you've got the look of love. To give her a little bit a credit though, she was wearing lipstick.

I sit. She sits. And we begin to catch up, starting from the day after that horrid dinner. I tell her how I've been. She tells me how she's been. She shows me some pictures of her family. I show some pictures I have stored in my iPod. It's really not anything important.

Until I consider the fact that she's rubbing her hand against my hand, and up my arm, and along my back, and back down to my leg. He left hand never left contact with the right side of my body.

Not bad, considering the fact I apparently have no game.

About 90 or so minutes goes by. I have truly ran out of stuff to say, and it looks like both of us have big enough boundaries that nothing worth blogging about is going to happen.

(Did you forget the blog was the sole reason I was there?)

And as I announce my intentions to leave, she places her hand on my knee, and asks me to stay. In a desperate effort of negotiation, she holds up a copy of Borat, and asks if I'd like to watch.

I again close my eyes, and cover my mouth in awe, for I believe that I've just seen the only physical copy of Borat in VHS form. I had no choice but to refuse.

But she asks me to stay five more minutes, and considering that five more minutes is less than two whole hours, I agree.

This girl sits next to me, turns toward me, and puts her right hand on my left thigh...

"I've been wanting to ask you something ever since I got here, but I'm afraid that you might react in the wrong way."

I encourage her to ask, because the worst I can do... is act the wrong way.

"Well..."

...her hands grab my hand, and her head looks down, which makes my head look down, which makes me wonder what she's looking at...

"... I was wondering..."

... her hands rub my arms. At this point, I'm completely clueless, but kinda curious...

"...if you...."

...both of her hands meet both of my thighs. Now, at this point, I'm closing my eyes, because eye contact is not going to help the situation, or at least my situation...

"...could..."

...her right hand goes my thigh, and get to within a inch of where I could technically file a lawsuit. And now my brain is going nuts. I have no clue what she's going to ask. I have no clue how to react. And if, by chance she's cluing me in my this whole thigh rubbing thing... wait... I can't think that....

...

...a minute goes by, and I notice she's breathing deep too. And just when I don't think I can take the suspense any more...

...

"I was wondering if you could put some minutes on my phone."

...

At that moment, I felt something deflate. I don't know what it was, or where it was, but all that took over my mind at the moment was the sound of escaping air. And it feels like whatever deflated has yet to come back.

On the good side, that deflating noise in my head distracted me from saying the key phrase "You gotta be f*cking kidding me!" And I don't know if I should be mad at her for trying to seduce me out of my money, or should I congratulate her for doing a great job at almost seducing me out of my money.

I grabbed This Girl's hand, looked into her eyes, and spoke the truth. "What I've gotten to know of you is a very nice person, but I'm a little too selfish for someone like you."

I walked myself out.

There was only one thing I could think of when I hopped back in the car, and speeded off for home.

My blog Is not this important.

To help consumers offset some of the costs of sharply rising gas and a declining economy, your government has passed an economic stimulus package that has started going out to people as soon as yesterday.

Which means every poor soul, and rich ones too, will receive a check for at least $600, provided they filed taxes last year.

Wow. $600. I know I can't wait. Seriously.

To some, $600 could mean the world, while to others that same $600 just may be spit in a bucket. As for me, my grandfather taught me that it's not so bad to accept money from strange, old men, because one the old people leave, you still have the money.

So I, Mr. President, thank you.

In celebration of my newfound wealth, I've decided to "give a little back," shall we say. Either that, or I've just gone crazy.

Welcome to the fourth edition of the AMA blog.

Those who are familiar with it know how this blog works. For those who don't, I'll go through the drill again. AMA means Ask Me Anything. You create this blog and the discussion within it with your questions.

And no question is off-limits.

This is your opportunity to get to know me, ask me advice, ask about the blog, or come up with any other random, silly, off-the-wall question. And I have told you the good part? Here's the good part...

I'm paying you to ask these questions!

I'm not bullshittin' here, people. I want questions, so I'm willing to "pay" for them. I'll pay for every question asks that follows the rules.

These are the rules... read 'em, for goodness sakes!

You think of a question, or a couple of questions, or a lot of questions. You post a comment with a single question on it. I, in return, reply to your comment with the answer. If 50 questions or less are asked total, the creator of each question will receive one dollar, from me, passed over via PayPal. If more than 50 questions total are asked by the blog's closing date, then $50 will be split and distributed evenly to creators of each questions, according to how many questions are asked.

Now, there have been many questions posted in previous AMA's that I haven't really liked, and there are some answers that have been posted that haven't really been liked, so no hard feelings if either happens.

To make it easier for me to answer questions, and keep track of comments, one question, and only one, should be in a comment. Comments with more, or with long lists, will be deleted, and don't qualify for cash. You can post as many questions as you want, or even follow-up questions. Just make separate comments for them. You'll get paid for each, I promise.

This blog will take it's last question on Saturday, May 17th.

I've always loved doing these AMA blogs, because if gives you the opportunity to get to know me better, and it gives me the opportunity to share. And I'm a selfish person, dammit. So if you comment a lot around here, or if you lurk more than anything else, now is the time to come out and actually say something! And this time you get paid for it!

That's it! And like I always say, the longer it takes for you to ask, the longer it takes for an answer!

Ok, go...