He forgot to enclose my tinfoil hat

I love getting feedback on my column. Sometimes it's complimentary, lots of times it's not. But regardless, it's nice just knowing people are reading. But the absolute best is when I get the nutty letters, like this one (presumable in response to this piece):

"Dear Jim,

I liked your critique of king-maker Austin Rhodes. The shameful klan he fronts for are truly immoral freeloaders who want to raise taxes again when Joe Bowles said we had a surplus! Beware for municipal projects as they raise takes to pay local "investors" their interest rates/profit. All govt.s (sic) keep 2 sets of books: one for the sheep; one on their portfolios on Wall St. You're doin' a great job. :)"

Cause everyone likes mexican food...

I'm standing around after the Avett Brothers show a couple of weeks ago, waiting for the band to come out (cause I'm a geek). And Amy and I are talking with our friend Holly about the birthday she's planning for our friend Alice.

It's a surprise party, and the idea was to make it raunchy (it's a girls'-only party). So I feel a little weird even listening to the conversation, but whatever. Like that ever stopped me.

Holly: so if you guys have any ideas for what food to serve...
Jim: (half under my breath) I've got some ideas...
Holly: what?
Jim: I've got some ideas, but i'm not sayin'
Holly: c'mon! what?
Amy: Don't do it...
Jim: Well...how about tuna?
Holly: (snicker)
Amy: (hits me)
Jim: or tacos. how about fish tacos?
Holly: (surprisingly, laughter)
Amy: (hits me some more)

Apparently, I'm pretty classy.

Best. Petsitter. Ever.

Stacey is awesome. She's the bee's knees all wrapped up cozy-like in the cat's pajamas. Next to Amy, she's the coolest mom I know. The only reason I have to dislike her is that she's funnier than I am (damn her). So when we go out of town, she occasionally pet sits for us. I think she does it to get access to the Wii and all the digital cable she can eat, but whatever. She can come over whenever she wants, cause she pet sits like no otha'.

I had a friend, Dena, who pet sat for another friend once. Or at least allegedly pet sat, because when the vacationing friend came home, her house reeked like a poop factory. Cat crap in the bath tub, literally a urine-soaked carpet, and probably emaciated dogs. They needed doggie IVs and a whole-house remodel to get back to some semblance of normal. But that's not how Stacey rolls. Stacey takes pride in her work, actually feeding the animals (oh...and there are animals...lots of them). And looking for them when they either seem to be, or actually are lost.

So anyway...here's her account of her last episode with Porkchop, Sydney, Stinky Pete, the birds and a couple of invisible fish. Beware...hilarity ahead.

And thanks, Stacey.

Brokebike Mountain

SO I got a new bike, finally, to replace the one that was stolen from my garage a few months ago. And to be more precise, I got a bunch of parts that in the last couple of days came together as a bike. When I finally got it all assembled, I had a hard time adjusting the front gears (derailleur for you tech geeks). So I took it to Nate at Andy Jordan's, and when I picked it up--bad news. It wasn't the bike that was out of adjustment, but rather the frame that was, well, defective.

So yeah, that sucks. Especially since the guy I bought the frame from described it as "perfect." And not "perfectly defective," either.

So I brought the bike home, damned dejected and called the manufacturer to see if that bike had ever been warrantied before. It hadn't, but they had seen similar issues in "two or three" other cases. So then I fired off an e-mail to the seller, wondering if he had noticed the bent derailleur hanger when he had the bike. He hadn't, but he was really apologetic. Whatever.

So just to make sure that it was indeed the bike and not the derailleur itself, I put a different one on. And voila! It was fine. So I apologized to the seller for insinuating he had sold me a bad bike.

Flash froward a couple of days. I'm riding the trainer last night (that sounds dirty), and noticed that the front shifting wasn't working. Well, new cables stretch, so I get off and start adjusting...and I cant get it right. But then I notice it. See in the picture above, how the piece of welded metal above the front chainring looks bent? That's because it is. I'm thinking that it was bent slightly before, and the cable tension (again...dirty) made it worse and visibly noticeable. So I've got a call back into the manufacturer, hoping and praying that they'll warranty it. But I got voice mail, so stay tuned....cause if I'm gonna be stuck with a broke bike, well that's gonna be pretty gay.

It always comes to this

Thanksgiving at my aunt and uncle's house in Atlanta. A house full of people and alcohol flowing. Under these conditions, at some point, the conversation inevitably turns to "where I've peed." And, not shockingly I guess, this isn't about the small children.

Uncle Joe: sink at Macy's.
Aunt Nancy: Back of cab.
Mom: In chair, in middle of card game.

Lots of hysterical laughing on the part of my mom and aunt, and at some point, one or the both of them adds a location to the story. Mom: couch at her sister's house.

But this time, a new twist. After recovering, and changing of pants, the box of cold Krystal hamburgers is broken into.

Mom: Your dad always said if you eat Krystals you don't need laxatives. Your dad sure loved Krystals.

My dad. He loved his miniature hamburgers and poopin'.

Cajun skiing

I was born in New Orleans, and until I was about 5 and we moved away, I lived with my family at the Golden Key apartments in Metairie. It's funny thinking back on it now, with a daughter of 7 of my own, how amazing and kind of scary the amount of freedom my brother and I had. I mean, at least from what I remember, we had the run of the place. Me and my 3 year old brother. Like this one time...

I was playing in this vacant lot at the apartments, with my brother...I couldn't have been more than 5 at the time (I know this because that's when we moved to Florida--I'm smart like that). So anyway, I was barefoot, running around that vacant lot with my brother when I stepped on a 2x4 with a nail in it, and it went through and out the top of my foot. I screamed and stepped down with my other foot. Onto another 2x4 with another nail, that went through the top of that foot.

My brother left me screaming and went running for help and came back with the maintenance man who took a look at my predicament and said "you goin' skiin', boy?"

Make that a long-winded pot-stirrer

"Nice column this week, Jim."

"Thanks...kinda short."

"Yeah, that's good, too."

Tom Grant can talk your ear off, and that's a good thing, I think. I learn a lot from the guy every time I get to sit down with him. But when he's on deadline, the conversations are always to the point. So that's how it went down when I stopped by the office last night. Sometimes, you get the most out of the fewest words.

Yesterday, prior to that conversation, I submitted a grand total of 411 words for LotB, easily my shortest column in the 20 weeks that I've been writing it. Usually, I throw down a good thousand words and have to literally back away from the keyboard to keep it that short. So either there's a lot to write about, I have a lot to say, or I just haven't learned the sentiment expressed above.

And it's funny. Talking to me, at first glance at least, you'd never get that i had a lot to say. My MO, I guess, is to sit back and watch, to take it all in. My thinking is the less time you spend with your mouth open, the more you learn. Listening is a gift I've been blessed with, apparently, although Amy may differ (I'm really am *always* listening, baby).

By being a good listener (at least in my own estimation), I end up having a lot to say, when I get around to saying it. That's why I like blogging, I guess. It's a great chance to take five or 10 minutes and just get it all out. Blogging's kind of like beer to me--the switch for the floodgates of thought, and it comes without the associated hangover and belly, as added bonuses. And in this format, there aren't any editor-imposed limitations or restrictions. I can take my time setting up a punch line or developing a story. I don't feel like I have to strip out all of the adjectives just to make a particular word count.

But I suppose being a bit more concise is a lesson I could learn. I'm lucky in the sense that I write for a weekly, where I definitely get more column inches then I would in different formats. But there's always a limit. If I were to submit the 2000 or more words that I could easily write every week, Tom would quickly find someone else with a lot less to say. It's hard, though. Constantly I find myself feeling stilted by the constraints of the paper. How can anyone possibly get their thoughts down, and more than that, across to readers in so few words? It's learned skill, no doubt, and one I'm working on.

But until then, I'll always have you, my beautiful blog.

She's a little shy...

The last time the Avetts were in town ( a year ago), Nola got a chance to meet Scott after they sound checked. She was so shy then that she hid behind Amy the whole time we chatted. Something's clearly happened between now and then.

More of a pot-stirrer

Someone over on my triathlon forum posted that brilliant piece of photo editing in a thread I started about the Pat Robertson/Rudy Giuliani love-fest.

Wiseacre.

Scenes from Halloween

"Uggh...paparazzi."

Will work it for candy. Nola's friend, Jett. There should be a clown rule for Halloween. Like, all clowns must be eaten by zombies.

By zombie dogs, at least.

Scariest scene of the night: re-elect an Augusta commissioner! Ahhhhhh!

Which one of you is my daughter? Glen Ave. is a freaking madhouse.

No candy for mama!