Now that's some good craic

The wearing of the green.
The drinking of the green.
The eventual puking of the green.
A special toast to St. Patrick and his crazy snake-banishing pagan-converting ways.

Die Schnappi Story

Because I can't keep him to myself any longer...
It's SCHNAPPI! On the left side of the page, you'll notice a little German crocodile. Download his song. I would recommend the .exe file, but what do I know?
If this doesn't make your day better, you are dead to me.

I wish I was a little bit taller

When I opened an "NCAA pools" email, I honestly expected a story about Olympic-sized swimming facilities.
Since I no longer live with avid watchers and players, I forget the important things like
1. lingo ("I kicked the bunny to Kim"),
2. what it's like to watch sports with people who care, and
3. how we fit an entire DIII team in our living room to watch games during this bizarre festival of high socks and pasty white skin. You could say I had forgotten about joining in the Madness of March.
I have attended only one basketball game this year; made it just in time for the last 7 minutes (I had Gilmore Girls to watch, people). I recalled
1. how my intestines twisted each game I went to in support of my college roommates (GO BLAZERS),
2. how the last 5 minutes lasted an eternity, and
3. how surprisingly small people will throw themselves in front of (wo)men the size of Mack trucks. ON PURPOSE.
Raise your glass to the men and women of the bball-a-thon. May your shorts be long and your fouls be intentional.

Shaking fists at the sky...Bonnie Raitt revisited.

Noooooo...! James Taylor live cannot be scratched!* I just had a flashback.
Years ago I neglected the charming songstress' (Bonnie Raitt, not James Taylor) album Nick of Time and got wrongfully blamed for scratching it (which I certainly don't recall having done). That was back in the day when my little sister used to beat me and because of my generally pacifist leanings, I refused to fight back.
That was before we invented a little game we called "Whip-ya." It was pretty complex: we chased each other around the house waving bandanas and shouting, WHIP-YA! WHIP-YA! (No, I am not kidding.)

*Author's note: it was just a real funky beat he was laying down for "Steamroller."

Now, a tribute to the Don:

I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse...
Read this blog or die.

Ok, that's a little more violent than I generally like to get. How about this:

Read this blog or your horse's head will get photo-shopped into your bed by my extremely capable gentleman friend. AKA, the family muscle. I like to call him Luka.

I'm officially in classic movie appreciation love with The Godfather. Last night was my first viewing EVER. I know, I know. But now I will be a devotee until I get nightmares. Then I'm out.

I want to adopt Marlon Brando (rest his soul) and his stuffed cheeks into my family. Not that I don't love my real godfather (big ups to Uncle Jim) but he can't do an Italian accent.

Tony "Freakin'!" Fly

During a conversation with Lorinda last night, we discussed a phenomenon I like to call Radio-Station Additivity Disease. It is a matter not to be taken lightly. I am ashamed at how callously we laughed at this serious disorder.
Evidence suggests that R-SAD evolves out of an obsessive need to append. Please be aware of symptoms which include, but are not limited to, sing song verse of
station name: "KOOL 108!"

location: "Twin Ciiiiiitieeeeeeees!"

what: "Cool '60s and '70s!"
number of upcoming songs: "8 in a row!"
when: "Starts now!"
You may report instances of R-SAD to the Board of International R-SAD Affairs in Brussels, Belgium at www.BoardofInternationalR-SADAffairs.gov

Recently Sought:

I just Googled "git yer hair did."

I'll take a wind room at the Ramadan, please

Perhaps it was the 90 minute drive with an incomprehensible Irishman. (An auspicious beginning, no doubt.) Or maybe it was eating my entire dinner (including salad and desert) in under 5 minutes.
Possibly, it was due to the well crafted, impecably timed production of The Foreigner. Or the remarkable ability of Sarah and Mary to create hilarity from the painfully mundane.
Maybe it was Norovirus.

But I think I laughed harder last night than I have in a while.

Brand names

All cymbals when played solo and in syncopation sound like the AMC movie theater pre-show cartoon where the popcorn and the Pepsi hold hands.
And now I want enough Junior Mints to give myself a tummy ache.

Another bout of important knowledge to follow

Apparently beer worsens a stuffy nose. You can imagine my surprise. And perhaps you can also imagine then, how positively necessary it was to wear a Breathe Right* strip at Friday's on Monday night.

My dear friend Cristen monogrammed it for me (to be safe; those things are always walking out of purses and into the hands of the young).
And I swear to you that as soon as I put it on, my nose literally expanded. My nostrils could have held Sharpies. Not that I tried. I'm just saying.

*Everything trademarked will be italicized until I discover how to do the small TM. It could be a while.