The Godparents part II

I've been thinking about my Godparents a lot lately.  Janice recently died and Don died almost two years ago now.  I haven't really had a chance to mourn either of them because almost immediately after Don's passing I got involved with a ridiculous estate lawsuit that is ongoing.  Needless to say, such a lawsuit is not the proper way to honor such amazing people.  

Here they are, pictured in happier times somewhere in Alaska.

Don and Janice were loving, kind, generous and sharp as all get-out.  And they loved to travel.  As I mentioned in my last post, they enjoyed bringing me along on their trips, not only because I was good company but also because I was able to carry most of their luggage.  

A few months back, my sister Peggy found a big bag of my childhood at my parents place.  Included within were old birthday cards, my baby book and several hundred photos from my travels with Don and Janice.  These photos are hilarious on many levels.  

Not only does this collection of photos document a fashion era of my life that is best forgotten--apparently I loved, loved, LOVED neon--but they are also a sort of microcosm of Don and Janice themselves. 

Within this stack of Kodak envelopes, I could only find two half-way decent pictures of Janice.  Not because she wasn't photogenic; it was just because she didn't like anyone else handling her camera.  

Or maybe it was because Don enjoyed snapping pictures like this

However, her insistance on being the sole photographer is not to imply that Janice was Annie Leibovitz with a one-button camera.  Quite the contrary.  Janice was not a gifted photographer, which is how I ended up with dozens upon dozens of pictures like this:

Or this great one of Old Glory:

Or this picture of our tour bus window locking system:

Or this picture of, uh, you know, that thing:

Also, I must have been real young because I don't remember going to Jurassic Park:

 

To be fair, it wasn't all oddly framed shots of what appears to be nothing.  Sometimes she would successfully frame an interesting shot but there would be just something sort of off about it:

 

You know, like the pissed-off sextegenarian in the foreground.  

Speaking of something being sort of off about pictures, here's a photo of Don and me in front of the Forbidden City in Beijing, China:

Memories!

I can't quite tell, but I'm pretty sure those are Chinese people next to us. 

I'm kidding of course.  I have thousands of pictures that Janice took and most of them are wonderful.  She had a thing for landscapes and my only real complaint is that I wish we had more pictures of her.  Later on, as I grew older, I became the chief photographer on our trips so I have some great pictures of her in her 70s and early 80s but I wish I had more of her during my childhood.  

Fortunately, she very much loved her husband and me so she shot some downright amazing photographs of the two of us.  Thanks for that, Janice.  

Editors note:  I have no idea why that top photograph came out so large but I love it so I'm leaving it as is.

The Godfather x 3

I was lucky enough to have been given two Godparents who loved me dearly and I in turn loved them.  They were kind enough to come to my piano recitals and baseball games while also taking me along on their travels, allowing me to set foot on 6 different continents and roughly 40 states.  They also took me to Disney World 28 times.  Not bad.  

But the only way they put the "God" in "Godparents" was to drag me to about 100 cathedrals on our travels and just as many statues of Budda.  We rarely spoke of this "God" fellow and when we did, it was when Don said cryptic things like "You know where God is Michael?  He doesn't exist" while simultaneously cursing the Catholic church for destroying itself with Vatican II.  He was a mixed bag, that Don McCarron.  

My Godmother, Janice, was the far more consistent Catholic; she went to mass every Sunday and would complain incessantly between glasses of wine when she was unable to find a Catholic mass on a Sunday in, say, Hiroshima. 

To their credit, they never pushed religion on me despite being my Godparents.  Depending on your point of view, this made them either the best Godparents in the world or the worst.  I prefer to think of them as the former.

I miss them terribly.  

Why do I bring this up now?  Well,this past weekend Krishni and I were present at the baptism of Sheila Grace Harris--my Sister Peggy's kid--as we stood as her newly minted Godparents.  For those counting, this now makes me a 3 time All-Star Godfather.

"But wait, Mike," you interrupt, "Why do you even want to be a Godparent when, you know, you sorta don't believe in God?"  

Well, it's not that I don't believe in God.  While I don't necessarily believe in him, I also don't not believe.  Some people would say that I am agnostic but that implies that I've given God some serious thought.  The reality is that I haven't; I never think of God at all.  In fact, I'm going to stop capitalizing "God" from here on out.  Religion is only a blip on my radar anymore because I seem to enjoy mocking it. 

However, despite my treatment of the Catholic church in this blog, I'm not really anti-religion.  Religion seems to have done some amazing things for folks over the last couple of thousand years.  Who am I to argue?  Conversely, it's also been the source of many of the worlds bloodiest atrocities, a fact my beloved Godfather liked to point out (Don was awesome.  As such, while I may not be capitalizing "god" from here on out, I will be capitalizing "Godfather" because--even from the grave--I'm pretty sure he can kick our asses.  The man deserves our respect).

What bugs me is the hypocrisy of the self-righteous.  Isn't that a sin?  Well, it should be.  I hate it when people quote Leviticus as an excuse to hate on gays while ignoring all the other crazy stuff Leviticus spits out*.

Like how tattoos are forbidden by god

*Quick side note:  You know how people often put a meaningful bible quote on their wedding invitations?  One of my better ideas for our wedding was to put the chapter and verse from Leviticus specifically forbidding the consumption of shellfish and then serve scallops during the cocktail hour at our reception.  Sure, most people wouldn't have bothered to look up--or even notice--"Leviticus 11:10" at the bottom of our invite but I would have been telling the story for years.  Sigh.  Lost opportunities. 

I also hate it when politicians talk about god while spouting about family values...then get caught blowing a dude in an airport bathroom.  I hate it when priests live in lavish homes while they ask a homeless family if they are catholic/baptist/methodist before allowing them to spend the night in a gymnasium.  Also, I am firmly against child-rape. Biblical hypocrisy bothers me to no end. 

There was this guy that I hated in my fraternity back in college.  He claimed to be religious and would spout about god and how he was a better person than those that didn't believe...and then turn around and drink a dozen beers, grind on four or five girls on the dance floor at a party, bang one of them and then call his girlfriend when he got home to tell her how much he loved her.  All while wearing a little golden Jesus chain.  Man, even today, thinking about that little self-righteous prick gets my blood boiling. 

One night, he and I got into an argument about the benefits of religion and he dropped down something to the effect of "Fuck you, Jacklich.  At least I believe in something."  That set me off.  I ripped him down to the studs.  Not only did I give him a list of everything I did, in fact, believe in (myself, my friends, my family, pie) but I also called him out on his collegiate infidelity--he loved that--and asked how one can get so many different blow jobs from so many different sorority girls while wearing Christ's cross around his neck.  I followed that up by giving him a little one-two punch on the history of Jesus and Catholicism and how maybe, just maybe, Jesus wasn't the son of god.  Trust me, if there is one thing that I know about, it's history.  He walked back to his room in a huff, swearing the whole way.  I'm pretty sure I ruined his sodomy that night. 

Not gonna lie: it was a fun evening.  

***************

Ok, so certain religious people bug me.  You know how homophobes are always saying that they don't hate gay people, they just wish gay folks would "stop shoving it" in their faces?  As if holding hands is in any way "shoving it"?  That's sort of how I feel about religious people.  I'll respect your religion as long as you respect me for not giving a fuck**.

**Side note II:  You know who is an awesome religious person?  My old roommate Mel.  She went to church, volunteered to help the less fortunate, sang in her choir and truly believed in the "Do unto others" stuff.  In addition, she had the patience to quote "John 3:16" whenever I demanded it.  She also never brought up this stuff at home unless it was Christmas and even then, it only took the form of a nativity set or "Oh Come All Ye Faithful" playing on a constant loop.  In short, she is an honest, good religious person.  Sure, she is no saint but then again, she never claimed to be.  Which is sorta my point.  Every religious person can only hope to be like Mel.  

I wish we could talk about politics or touchdowns without mentioning god or Jesus or the bible.  But again, I'm not anti-religion.  Religion just happens to not be for me.  I would much rather believe in my wife than believe in god. 

So why do I continue to say "yes" when asked to be a Godparent?  It's an honor, I suppose.  Again, this all goes back to how devastatingly awesome my own Godparents were.  The two of them enriched my life and made more of an impression on me than I think they ever knew.  I don't think I could ever influence one of my Godkids lives the way my Godparents influenced mine.  But I will sure as hell try. 

So the question isn't why I keep saying "yes" when asked to be a Godparent.  Really, the question should be "Why on earth do these parents want me influencing their children in any way?"

It probably has more to do with Krishni. 

Explaining Home Alone

Here's a fact for you:  Home Alone is the greatest Christmas movie ever made.  There, I said it.  Wanna fight about it?

I strongly believe this.  Perhaps growing up in the 80's disillusioned me enough to not truly believe in the cheesy sentiment of It's a Wonderful Life.  Having never seen Miracle on 34th Street, I can't say if it is the best but since it is in black and white, I strongly suspect it is not.  Since I didn't grow up in the 50's, maybe this means I can never truly appreciate the gun-demanding obsession from A Christmas Story.  (Fun fact!  The kid that played Flick in A Christmas Story--the one that got his tongue stuck to the flagpole--later went on to appear in a decidedly different movie that featured tongues on poles):

True story

Maybe it's because Home Alone was right in my age-appropriate wheel-house when it came out in 1990 but it's been a little tradition of mine since then that whenever I set up the Christmas tree in my house,  it has to be on my TV.  I vividly remember my Godfather taking me to see the movie upon it's release in 1990.  I loved it so much that I came home and performed every scene for my Dad while he was raking leaves and then strong-armed him into taking me to see it again the next day.

Now, when I talk about greatness in this movie, I'm not even talking about the slap-stick, near-homicides of the burglars at the end.  I'm talking about the delirious joy of a kid doing all the things over Christmas I would have done had I been abandoned, a down-right beyond-his-years performance from Mac, a great score from John Williams, some surprisingly subtle direction from Chris Columbus and the best scene in the movie:  Kevin and Marley coming to terms with what Christmas means in the church.

I love this scene.  Krishni even stopped talking in the middle of a story the other night because she knew I wouldn't be listening to her.  From the "I had a friend who got nailed because there was a rumor he wore dinosaur pajamas" sequence, to the Christ, is this kid still talking? "Yeah" that Marley mumbles out, to the chorus singing throughout the scene, to the band-aid hand shake at the end...just awesome.

Krishni pointed out to me that this guy died in July.  Rest in Peace, South Side Shovel Slayer

If you don't already feel this way about Home Alone, you never will.  I feel that there is nothing I can say or do to convince you otherwise.  However, that hasn't stopped other people from doing so.

Ever been to www.imdb.com?  It stands for the "Internet Movie Database" and it is your one-stop shop for everything you will ever need to know about any movie.  Within, you will find the full cast and crew, sound track listings, running times, trailers, reviews and all sorts of fun trivia for any given movie.  Under the "Fun Stuff" section for Home Alone, there is a section called "Goofs".  Normally, this is where incredibly anal nerds who have scoured movies for continuity errors or anachronisms try to kill the fun of movie magic.  But I noticed something the other night that bothered me...not because of the previously mentioned anal nerds but because of anal nerds that had to explain jokes. 

For instance, there is a very funny scene where Kevin goes grocery shopping to buy milk, fabric softener and--because he's 8--a bag of army guys.  When the bagger swipes said bag, she gives him a knowing look and he justifies the purchase by saying "It's for the kids".  A normal person would say, "Ha!  That's a funny bit!"  However, someone at imdb.com felt the need to break the joke down for the reader (emphasis mine):

"When Kevin is at the counter of the grocery store, the clerk scans a bag of toy soldiers and looks at Kevin. He says 'It's for the kids'. But when the clerk asks, 'What about your brothers and sisters?' Kevin replies, 'I'm an only child.' While this seems that Kevin is stumbling over his lies, he is not. He is at the grocery store alone, buying 'grown up' things such as orange juice, milk, bread, toilet paper and laundry detergent. He is also reading a tabloid and discussing the quality of microwave dinners just as an adult does. When the cashier scans the toy soldiers she looks at him questioningly. Kevin makes a joke saying they are 'for the kids' referring to his own children. Obviously he doesn't have children, but his purchases and actions make him seem grown up."

WTF?  Did someone really feel the need to explain to the internet that 8 year-old Kevin McAllister didn't have kids?  Did this person feel like they were doing the internet a service?  Here's more internet nerd dickery:

"On the phone with the French operator, Frank yells 'I am looking for my son! Do you know where he is?' However, Peter knows his son is at the house, he just cannot reach him."

Really?  This internet dick pulled out one totally innocuous-to-the-script "error" (Is Kevin's Dad omniscient?  He knows Kevin is still at home?) and goes on the internet to bitch about it?  Also, let's ignore the fact that this internet nerd felt the need to fire up his laptop to type out this little inaccuracy while at the same time misnaming the character in the quote...it was Kevin's Dad, Peter, on the phone with the French operator; Uncle Frank couldn't give two shits about Kevin and was busy angering his sister-in-law by passing out her shrimp cocktail.

Wait...did I just do the internet nerd thing?

One last one, from Home Alone 2: Lost in New York.  The family is going to Florida for the holidays and Kevin complains at the very beginning of the film that "There are no Christmas trees in Florida."  This, of course, sets up Kevin's obsession with Christmas trees and allows his Mother to locate him at 30 Rockafeller Center at the end of the movie.  To any rational person, this line is called "foreshadowing".  To this nerd, it was something to complain about  (feel free to do so but don't bother reading the whole thing; emphasis mine):

"There actually are Christmas trees in South Florida. The Norfolk Island Pine is a tropical pine that is originally from Norfolk Island, east of Australia. It grows pretty much all over south Florida and has even been seen growing as far north as Tampa and even near Orlando, though it does much better farther south, especially from the latitude of the north shores of Lake Okechobee southward. Fully grown, it has a slightly narrower than normal pyramid shape with nearly fern like branches that grow in an evenly tiered pattern, and will generally make a very nice Christmas tree. Farther north, it is usually grown indoors as a potted plant. Usually, outside of the tropics, you will see this pine grown in most offices, especially next to a south facing window. However, Kevin, having never been to Florida, probably didn't know this and assumed there were no Christmas trees there."

Well, good thing you cleared that up, internet!

Sigh.  Sometimes, the internet makes me sad.

Halloween 2012 (and beyond!)

Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays.  Oddly, I was never that big on candy when I was little but I did always like to host Halloween parties and dress up in fancy clothing.  Maybe I was gay.

Or maybe I just liked to have Halloween swimming parties at my Godparent's house.  Don and Janice had a butt-kicking indoor pool and lived in a fairly well-off section of the west suburbs.  As such, my friends and I could roam the streets of Glen Ellyn scoring free chocolate and return back to the house to consume many, many Little Caesar's "Pizza Pizza" combos and try to drown each other in a pool that was always heated just a bit hotter than it needed to be.  Then we'd eat the shit out of our big bags of candy and, I guess, throw up somewhere.

As Don was a World War II veteran, I often dressed up on Halloween as an "Army Guy".  One year, Don found an actual (hollowed out, of course) WWII-era grenade at an army surplus store and bought it for my inevitable costume.  I gleefully attached it to my army guy belt and I can still remember that the pineapple part of the grenade kept unscrewing as my fellow candy hunters and I dashed around Don's neighborhood.  I was sad, upon returning to the McCarron homestead, to find that the only part of the grenade that was still clipped to my belt was the pin and trigger mechanism...which meant that some unsuspecting neighbor went outside the next day for the morning newspaper and probably freaked the hell out and called a bomb squad, all because Don thought it would be cool to get me an actual god-damned grenade to add that special touch of realism to my army get-up.  Good times.

Over the years, Halloween went from an innocent exorcise in calorie consumption to the more adult themed Halloween my generation has grown accustomed to.  Girls pour themselves into sexy outfits and seem to be in some sort of erotic competition to see who could show the most cleavage without ending up hand-cuffed in the back of a squad car for indecent exposure.  It really is "Straight Pride Day" and I welcomed this transition with open arms and groping hands.  In my years leading up to meeting my gloriously gorgeous wife, Halloween was my favorite bar night of the year, if only for the eye candy.  Really, if a single dude can't hook up on Halloween, it's because he's already passed out due to the Jagermeister shots the chesty bartender/French Maid was feeding him all night. 

Now that I am married, I've come full circle on Halloween.  While I still fully respect a woman's right to turn me on, I don't feel the need to go out every Halloween and try to make out with a girl that won't be slutty again until next October 31st.  Krishni appreciates this.  I can't imagine Krishni and I will do much tonight--other than pass out some candy in my hood--but that's ok.  We spent Saturday night having some wine at home and watching "American Horror Story".  That was spooky enough.  And then yesterday we made our way out to "Boo!  At the Zoo!" to spend some time with my nieces and nephews and sisters and brothers-in-law at the Brookfield Zoo.  Krishni and I dressed up as Pirates (typically, we like to be a bit more clever in our costumes but we're poor and we wanted to be something the kids could recognize...that eliminated anything "ironic" or "slutty" from our cache of costume ideas) and the kids were dressed as the Devil, Jango Fett, a princess and the worlds cutest Yoda:

This may be a bit sentimental but I had more fun playing with the kids in our costumes yesterday than I probably had at any bar or party during my drunken Halloween days.  Except for maybe that one Devo party at the Sigma Nu house, like, 12 years ago.  Ho-boy.  That was a good time.  Christ, that night...

I'm sorry.  I lost my train of thought there.  Anyhow, I'm looking forward to "Mike Jacklich Halloween Incarnation III".  Krishni and I will pass out candy to kids, play with my nieces and nephews dressed as Starwars guys and, of course, we'll dress up ourselves.  Never fear; I won't go totally boring on  you.  I'm sure I'll find myself at a party or bar at some point on Hallows-Eve-future and if Krishni and I ever have a kid--god forbid--I imagine I will have a little fun with that, too. 

I may be sentimental, after all, but I'm still an asshole.

I Got Assaulted!

I loved my dear Godfather very much.  He died about a year ago and most of the memories I have of him still bring a smile to my face.  For instance, since I lived in the city of Chicago he was 100% certain that I was going to be murdered. 

See, Don grew up on the south side of the city during the Great Depression.  He spent most of his (non-army) youth getting into all sorts of shenanigans, many of them illegal.  When he returned from WWII, he opened a blues club on the south side in a predominantly black neighborhood.  Some of the stories from this era are hilarious:  he once tried to buy out Muddy Waters' contract so he could come play at The Circus (his bar) and Mr. Waters politely declined this invitation...after lots of whiskey.  Another time, he got stinkin' drunk with Dinah Washington...after lots of whiskey.  Many of his stories began or ended with "after lots of whiskey". 

Anyhow, living in the city exclusively on the south side meant that he lived in a series of ever-changing and sketchy neighborhoods.  He witnessed his home turf--around Western Ave and, say, Pershing--go from German, to black to Hispanic in a matter of decades.  He viewed this change only through the eyes of a slightly racist, old-school Chicagoan who was concerned about escalating crime.  He then extrapolated the change in his neighborhood throughout the city and, in his older years, viewed any neighborhood in the city of Chicago as a death trap. 

He was not happy when I moved to Chicago and he spent the remaining years of his life attempting to convince me to move back "home" to the suburbs.  I called him on a daily basis as I left work downtown and since I work right next to the Northwestern "hospital district", he often heard ambulances screaming by as we chatted.  As a result, I heard lots of hilarious exclamations like "GOD!  We have to get you OUT of that damn city!" and "Don't walk down alleys, Michael!  DON'T WALK DOWN ALLEYS!" 

I consider myself--as I suppose many of us do--to be pedestrian street-smart...I know what areas to avoid and how to walk defensively.  One thing you cannot take into account, however, is the wild card.  For the purposes of the following story, that "wild card" was a "drunk, crazy, (perhaps) homeless guy". 

Marc and I had consumed many, many beers at Joe's on Weed for an intense college football Saturday.  Drunk on triumphs of Notre Dame, the Big 10 and $5 Coors Light pitchers, we took the Red Line up to my neighborhood and attempted to flag down a cab for the remainder of the trip home.  Immediately, a cab pulled up at Ridge and Broadway and a shaggy, flannel-clad guy got out of the cab and started to pay the driver.  To paint you a picture, on a very busy street, this guy was paying for his cab:

I hopped into the back seat and noticed that the guy above left his bag on the floor of the cab.  I crossed back over the seat and said "Excuse me, sir, you left this in the back seat". 

I should have known something was wrong with this character by his choice of beverage.  In his hand was a Natty Ice Tall-Boy that was sort of crumpled, as if he was crushing it as he drank.

"You can really taste the goat"

He sort of stared at me for a moment, as if he was trying to process what was happening.  I was still holding his bag out for him when he sort of snapped and said "Why the hell you got my bag?!?!"  I attempted to explain to him that I did not "got" his bag...I was attempting to return his precious cargo to him (for the record, within the bag was a bunch of napkins, what appeared to be a dirty shirt--god I hope it was a shirt--and another Natty Ice tall-boy).  The next few minutes were awkward:  an increasingly nervous cab driver was reluctant to do anything, this crazy dude was trying to climb into the back seat with me and Marc was forced to sort-of stand behind our homeless friend just waiting for his opportunity to jump in the back seat himself. 

Sadly, that opportunity never arrived.  This guy wasn't going to let Marc in so I got out of the other side of the cab, watched helplessly as our cab driver peeled away and Marc and I attempted to flag down another cab while this pissed-off crazy guy was yelling all sorts of slurs at me.  I tried to calm the dude down but that just wasn't happening.  He kept jamming his finger in my chest so I finally started asking him why he was doing what he was doing.  I don't think even he knew the answer at that point.  But he was getting really scary...I had even flipped open my pocketknife in my pocket by now.  Eventually, he grabbed me by the neck--hard--and I slapped his hand off me and said "You do NOT put your hands on me." 

Eventually, he just sort of wandered away, muttering the whole time and threatening us.  Marc and I did grab a cab and make it back to my place and we went to sleep behind the safety of my locked door.  But my neck hurt all the next day.  Not cool. 

I've lived in the great city of Chicago now for 10 years, almost to the day.  I've heard gunshots and witnessed some harassment going on but never have I had any direct experience in this type of thing.  I guess I can check that one off my bucket list. 

Don would have been happy about one thing though:  Crazy Drunk James Brown up there didn't assault me in a damn alley.

The Only 2011 Travelogue You will Require

People often ask me what it's like to work at the Rabbit.  The question most often asked is can I get the questioner free porn.  The answer is, of course, yes.  All you have to do is ask.  The second question I most often hear:  "Are there, like, naked ladies just running around your office?"  That answer is, "Not most of the time."  While there are occasionally scantily clad women in the office--for photo shoots and seasonal parties--I have to crush the fantasies of dudes everywhere when I tell them that this really is just an office.  My cube looks a whole lot like yours.  Only the top of my monitor is graced by one of my all time favorite Onion headlines:

It is my understanding that this is not allowed in many offices. 

Without further ado, welcome to my desk at work:

They say that a person's work space tells an awful lot about said person...by looking at my work area, you'd think I'm a sophomoric sports fan.  Can you even imagine?

From left to right as we travel across my desk:

Are you in one of these photos?  If so, drink!

No work space is complete without a series of photos of the ones you love.  Or the ones you love to drink with, as this case may be.  We have Mel and Panhandle up there sporting some nice bling after winning the Steppenwolf Gala King and Queen.  We have Brad and Nathan drinking beers at a brewery in stinkin' Boston.  We have Hank sporting a theoretical wooded spoon.  We have the last picture of my Godmother I own where she had any real dignity.  The 'Wolf softball team is present along with an underage drinking party on my Parent's back patio back in 1997.  Speaking of underage drinking...there is my sister Peggy contributing to the delinquency of a minor!  Thanks, Peg!   She's a doctor now!

I think it's important to have icons of your own personal heroes:

In that respect, I have a Geoffrey Rush action figure from the Pirates of the Caribbean, complete with sword, pistol and a juicy green apple.  He had a very nice hat a long time ago.  He (I) sadly lost it in the move from one office to the next. 

Speaking of figurines, I also have these happy little fellows that I purchased for $1 from a Michael's after Halloween two years ago:

I guess my shit job could be worse. 

You will also find a little shrine to Matt Groening:

Present and accounted for are all of my favorite Simpson's characters (Sadly, Milhouse had a full glass of ice water spilled on him.  Sniff, sniff) as well as the cast of Futurama.  Only the best show ever for nerds.

Below my cartoon friends, I have a list of dates that the Free Disney Meal plan is available at Walt Disney World.  Sigh.

I'll get back there someday...

Swinging over to the lower right hand corner of my desk, you will find a rather creepy selection of items:

That doll will murder you in your sleep.   It's why the Stormtrooper stoically stands ever vigilant. That, and he's sitting on top of a naked lady. 

I know what you're thinking and the answer is yes: those are, in fact, wind-up hopping lederhosen standing atop my novelty Benet Academy football.  Sharp eyed folks from Steppenwolf Theatre Company will also be able to spot one of those godawful oranges from that one Gala where we were apparently trying to blind our patrons. 

"But Mike," I hear you asking, "What about your gorgeous, super-smart and sexy wife?"  No worries!  She's here too.  With a pirate:

Arrrrrrrrr!

Bonus terrible fact:  the island where this photo was taken was the site of a horrific plane crash that changed the way pilots communicate to each other in cockpits across the world.  In a heavy fog, one pilot said "To hell with that tower!  I'm taking off!" and promptly flew into a taxing jet killing everyone aboard his plane and most folks aboard the other plane.

Whoopsie.

See!  Bonzer T's Home Skillet isn't just about moderately funny observances...it's also about history!

There are two diplomas I'm proud of earning over the course of my young life.  One is for graduating from Benet Academy, my scholastic home away from home.  The other is from the Taco Fu Master Program.  I graduated with honors:

Yeah, University of Tulsa.  You can go to hell.  

To achieve--according to my diploma--"Success in defending all that is taconess", you need to play this absurd game at the Taco Bell website wherein you must defend your plate of nachos supreme from a series of ginormous lucha libre wrestlers.  Seriously.  Try it out right now and print up your certificate so you can be as awesome as me (incidentally, when you go to the Taco Bell website now, there is a link that states "Made with Real Beef lawsuit dropped".  So we have that going for us.)

Posted all over my monitor, you will find a few Onion horoscopes that still make me laugh to this day.  Allow me to reprint them here because, come on, we all need a good laugh:

"While the directors of the Palomar Observatory admit the nebula had an unusual shape, they do not believe you caught God masturbating."

"When times are tough and the world around you seems grim, don't be afraid to turn to religion for a good, hearty laugh."

"Death by firing squad has a certain desolate nobility, but it will be ruined when the inept, drunken Australians fail to hit you above the waist with the first nine volleys."

"Your love of all living creatures will be on display this week when you open the world's first Animal Rescue Steakhouse."

And a new one that came off the calender today!

"Turns out your nightmarish descent into alcoholism and drug abuse will be a lot more fun than expected."

Finally, I wouldn't be a White Sox fan without some sort of way to taunt Cubs fans in the office:

Yeah, that's my 2005 World Series Champion Rally Sock.  Maybe if I started wearing those, Adam Dunn could get a damn hit. 

So that's that.  I realize that technically none of you asked to see what my desk looked like at work.  But that has never really stopped me before when it came to stupid shit like this.  Plus, I'm going to make an effort to blog a bit more seeing how my life has slowed down a bit after a frantic July. 

And not every post can be a winner. 

Tunes

These last few months have been a bit tough on me...not gonna lie.  Between the death of my epic Godfather and the resulting legal battle and the shockingly rapid decline in my Mother's health, it's been hard.  Plus, my truck died. 

Pictured here, apparently on its birthday.

In a strange sort of way though, it's been...well, not fun, but "fun in a reminiscing sort of way".  You see, I've been going through old pictures, memory boxes, and scrap books and just plain ol' remembering stuff from my past.  That's been the fun part.  My family has spent hours drinking wine and laughing as we told ancient, repeated stories and played with the newest generation of the Jacklich clan. Old, dear friends have contacted me while new friends have bought me surprisingly few drinks (ahem).  The reasons for trips down memory lane are sometimes terrible, but the road itself is often paved with smiles.

And yes, that was my attempt to write the worst/cheesiest line possible as a segue from the bummers of my life to today's fun topic:  tunes.

See, after the U2 concert, I've revisited some older and sentimental favorites.  I've listened to albums I haven't listed to in years.  To this day, there are certain songs or albums that can transport me back in time to the very moment I became attached to them; I don't think I'm alone with this power.  For instance: I can still smell my old bedroom and tell you exactly what level of Sonic The Hedgehog 2 I was playing the 1st time I cranked "It Smells like Teen Spirit".  I can describe to you my sister Peggy's ceiling and exactly how the post-it notes were arranged on her mirror whenever I hear the chime of the clocks in "Time" by Pink Floyd.  I can smell the fallen leaves in my back yard and feel the crisp snap of a late October wind whenever "Hey Jealousy" pops on WXRT.

Music is funny like that. 

But this has also given me an opportunity to question some of my more, um, questionable tastes in music over the years.  About a year ago, I bought a new computer which enabled me to digitize my entire music collection.  And just a few days ago, I moved that entire library over to my iPhone.  As of now, I carry every CD I own in the single coolest piece of technology I've ever encountered.  In his wildest dreams, 12 year-old Mike Jacklich could never have pictured a device that would hold 200 CDs, 5 phone numbers and could conjure photos of girls boobs whenever he wished. 

Because I made the command decision to put everything I own onto the iPhone, I can now play Def Leopard's Adrenalize whenever I never want.  Def Leopard, as many of you know, isn't just the best punch line of any joke, ever ("What has 9 arms and sucks?"):  they're also the worst band in the history of the world, non-Metallica division. 

I can also play the other 14 songs off of "Steppenwolf's 16 Greatest Hits".  I can crank all of REM's questionable albums since Monster.  Whenever I feel the itch, I can play the B-52's "Hot Pants Explosion".

It was a real thing.

Look, I never claimed to be cool.  In fact, I know I'm not.  Hell, my 1st concert ever was New Kids on the Block at the Rosemont Horizon (my second concert, however, was the U2 Zoo TV Tour which was the lie I used to tell people whenever I was asked my what my 1st concert was.  This was before I realized how hilarious it was that I heard "Please Don't Go Girl" before I heard any other live stadium music). 

 Indeed, Donnie; Drugs do suck.  Was I on any?

I did get one or two things right.  I took most of my early rock n' roll influence from my older brother Don.  Donny introduced me to the Beatles at a very early age and I can still remember the violent arguments I would have at the 7th grade lunch table over who was better, The Beatles or Poison?

 I win, John Schmadeke.

Pacific Scrimps

Last May, after our ridiculously fantastic wedding, my wife and I went on a Caribbean cruise for our honeymoon.  For 10 days we ate, drank and soaked up the sun.  It was glorious. 

Holland America Line, for those who haven't cruised, caters to an older crowd.  We're talkin' like "blue haired ladies" older.  However, the Godparents had cruised on HAL since the 50's and, as a result, I've built up a little bit of standing with the company.  Kids, you're looking at a HAL Bronze Medallion holder.  Bam!  Anyhow, I have my own personal "Cruise Coordinator", I get nice discounts on future trips and invitations to champagne toasts with the captain and such. 

My cruise coordinator, knowing that I didn't have a foot in the grave, set up my new wife and I at a dinner table with two other younger couples.  One was a pair of Denver cops a few years older than us who loved to drink and had some truly fantastic law enforcement stories.  The other couple was another set of newlyweds from Lawrence, Kansas whose names, jobs and faces escape me at the moment.  Seriously; I ate dinner with these people for 9 straight nights and I don't remember a thing about them.  Guess which couple we enjoyed more? 

The couple from Kansas was actually so forgettable that I couldn't remember their names while we were still on the cruise.  I took to calling them--both to Krishni and the super cops--"Jasmine and Steve" because those were names I could remember.

Anyhow, Jasmine and Steve were, shall I say, "large" in nature.  They, like me, loved to eat.  As a matter of fact, Jasmine was a "food blogger".  Each night, she would awkwardly take photos of her food with the arrival of each new course, provided she remembered to do so.  She lost more than one shot on the cruise because she started tearing into her meal before she remembered to take a photo of it.  I laughed internally because "The fat girl forgot to take a picture before she ate her plate!  Har!"

And I'm a dick.

Why do I bring up a boring story from 10 months ago?  Because last night I had the pleasure of experiencing the new Pacific Shrimp Burrito from Taco Bell.  And I forgot to take a picture before I ate the hell out of that thing.  So this will have to do:

I have news for you:  it was good.  Damn good.  So good, everyone thought, it should not have been from Taco Bell.  A few reviews:

Marc:  "It was light years beyond what I expected."
Krishni:  "I liked the taco better than the burrito." 
Kalena:  "I can't believe that the shrimp are so shrimpy."
Mel:  "It's like they used real shrimp."

Ok, ringing endorsements they are not.  All of the above just suggest shock and awe over the quality of the Taco Bell experience.  What cannot be argued is that this group of seasoned Taco Bell veterans really enjoyed their meal.

The shrimp were juicy and tangy, the crispy strips were, um, crispy and the burrito accoutrement worked just as those rich guys from the commercial said it would.  Seriously, I cannot recommend it enough. 

I have to believe that even Jasmine would approve.