HAPPY CHRIMMAS!

Ychrome Alumni - Insomniac.mp3 - Solo by Seachris WessLEE

posted at 1:26 PM | 0 comments

Why yes, now that you mention it, I WAS this close to Allen Iverson:

This is Kyle Korver; he's tall. He can shoot the long three just like he's ringin' a bell:

Here's a really good shot of Allen that I think he should endeavour to purchase from me for millions, what with me having a copyright on it:

Actually, I'm not sure of the legality of copyrighting something like that, since I took the picture within the boundaries of the Sixers game. The Sixers probably own the picture, the camera, and my testes. So forget I said anything.

Matt's thoughts on Monday night's game against the Utah Jazz:

• Allen Iverson has the skinniest set of chicken legs I've ever seen. I mean, even skinnier than Kyle. They're like drumsticks, and not chicken or turkey drumsticks, but actual wooden sticks that one uses to bang a drum.
• Allen Iverson tends to be a LITTLE greedy with the ball. I'm no professional, but I'm just saying, I swear I watched the team run down the court probably 75 times, and he personally took 374 shots. Or something close to that, anyway.
• Aaron McKie needs to tuck his shooting elbow in on foul shots. (I learned that from a Tim Allen movie!)
• During the third quarter, Corliss Williamson got ejected because he and Matt Harpring got into an argument that ended with Williamson pushing Harpring into the expensive seats. Matt Harpring strikes me as a rather unassuming character, not the one that would incite violence from another player. Just a weird scene. It was like watching me pick a fight with a bouncer at the Stone Balloon.
• Allen Iverson became the 7th player in league history and the first in Sixers history to score 50 points on consecutive nights. Now if we could get him to pass the ball, that'd be so righteous.
• Kyle Korver hit a bomb from, I swear, Miami-Dade Airport for 3 points to close out the third period. It was the most incredible shot I've ever seen, and I've watched Rick Smith hit nothing but twine, shot after shot, from like halfway down his driveway.
• I also watched Kyle Korver drive to the basket, and he was remarkably unawkward in doing so. I'm surprised they don't let him do that more; he's a big guy, seems coordinated, he can dribble without looking at the ball, and he can hit outside shots from, apparently, anywhere on the floor. His passing could use some work, but then, the Sixers as a team had roughly 4,983 (give or take a few thousand) turnovers in the first quarter alone, so I think it might be time for Coach Jim O'Brien to arrange for some passing drills in this week's practices.
• Mad props to Milo for hooking us up with hell of good tix: Section 106, row 21. I'd never even been out on the concourse level seats before, and of course Milo then dragged us down to courtside to watch the shoot-around. I enjoyed that. Also big ups to Mikey for driving and buying me several glasses of fine hoppy beers.
• Oh, the Sixers lost by like 2 points. It was hell of annoying, but a great game to watch. I bet you wish you were there. HA.

posted at 7:02 AM | 1 comments

Things are a little frantic at the office today, what with me having to go shopping this morning and not getting in until close to noon, followed by the consumption of really poor Wendy's fries, and then I had to use the bathroom, and I'm trying to catch up on all my daily online reading, plus playing Silent Service on my Nintendo emulator. Plus what I'd really like to post are pictures from the Sixers game last night, but the pictures are currently stored on my camera, which is at my house, and I'm at work, so I can't do anything with them until I get home tonight, so I'll probably write a long post about how unbelievably kickass the game was, plus post the pictures I got of Kyle Korver practicing roughly 4 feet from me. (I know somebody.)

Meanwhile, the continuing adventures of the University of Delaware Ychrome Alumni:
Ychrome Alumni - Nebraska.mp3 - Solo by C. Christopher Wesley with backup from Ryan Case and Jared M. Smith the Poovy
Ychrome Alumni - Bouncin' 'Round The Room.mp3 - Solos by half of creation.

posted at 1:35 PM | 1 comments

Double-yoo. Tee. Eff. It is colder than a polar bear's ears (this is a family blog) outside. I left my house this morning sans chapeau so that my hair didn't get messed up, but unfortunately my ears immediately froze and part of my right one broke off when I accidentally brushed it with my seat belt. So the hat went on right quick. (As a result, my hair now looks like I coated it with Crisco and combed it with a whisk.)

It goes without saying that I'm stoked beyond comprehension, even though my wife is less than thrilled about the whole thing. My truck has a thermometer, and the temperature it reported as 9 degrees fahrenheit. Last night, it even snowed! I'm glad we took the truck up to Lancaster yesterday, because the roads were pretty frozen on the way home, and the four wheel drive came in handy 'cause I kept almost spinning out in third gear. Well, technically, we were in no danger of spinning out because of my superior automotive skeeeelz, but every time the rear of the truck shifted an inch to one side under acceleration, HW moaned a little and put her head between her knees. So I went with the 4WD to limit the chances she might blow chunks and ruin my upholstery.

Saturday we hosted dinner at our house for Sarah's parents and brother, featuring large amounts of Pork Chops a la Hearnwife, along with a mediocre effort at mashed potatoes from yours truly, and some green beans and macaroni and cheese. SuZann and Charles brought bread, and we made a skillet cake for SuZann's birthday, which we duly coated with butter and inhaled like a bong hit.

Tonight I'm heading to a Sixers game and hope to have my picture taken with Kyle Korver, as he is apparently hot. But FIRST:

Ychrome Alumni - Better Man.mp3 - This is the only one I really made significant changes to, because the left channel featured some horribly out of tune Tenor 1 that totally screwed the recording. I basically dumped the entire left channel to get rid of it because it was that painful. Solo - J. Rod Smith
Ychrome Alumni - Prayin' For Daylight.mp3 - Solo by DA HEEEEARN

posted at 11:42 AM | 1 comments

Okay, before I give you the links to some more tunes from last weekend's concert, I want to share the terror with you. My terror. Last night: total nightmare. Bad times.

Here's what I remember.

I'm in some kind of beach house, reading a book by Kurt Vonnegut. What book it might have been I don't recall, and it's probably irrelevant because in none of the Vonnegut books I've read do I remember the world coming to an end in quite the way this book mentioned it: at 6:20 pm on a Saturday in April. I don't remember exactly WHY the world was coming to an end in the book, which is frustrating because it becomes important when suddenly the dream shifts realities just a bit; I'm still at the beach house, but now the world is REALLY COMING TO AN END, and at 6:20 on a Saturday afternoon, however in October, not April.

Then I'm at my parents' house, except that in my dream my parents live at the house currently owned by my wife and me. I dunno where she and I live. Sarah's not even in the dream, as far as I can remember. Anyway, the world is coming to an end at 6:20, and for whatever reason Kurt Vonnegut wrote in his book. The fact that somehow he predicted this bizarre end of the world (I vaguely recall something about the world breaking apart in some way) and the time and place is discussed briefly.

Oh, and any time the sun's rays directly touch your skin they burn you. At some point I find myself outside working on something, and it's partly cloudy, and we have to keep our eyes on the clouds to make sure they don't open up and subject us to direct sunlight.

Then we're back in my house, where my parents live, with my parents and my sister, contemplating our imminent doom. We're pretty laid back about it. Then I woke up.

Very confusing nightmare. And I rarely get nightmares, and even when I do they're kinda like this one; I'm not really scared at all during the mental processing of the dream, but I still wake up suddenly and I'm all freaked out. Weird.

And now, in return for making you listen to that:

Ychrome Alumni - Pain Lies On The Riverside.mp3 - Solos by Chris Wesley and Matt Rickards
Ychrome Alumni - No Diggity.mp3 - Solos by Shaun Taylor-Corbett and DA HEARN (Billy Jean)

Oh, and yesterday's jam featured solos by Peterson Curt and Andrew Seff. I probably should have mentioned that. I did not. I am lame.

posted at 10:19 AM | 3 comments

Okay, I wasn't going to bother with any real update today, since I posted the link to Between Us, but I had to share with you some deep emotional trauma that I'm having trouble with.

Yesterday we had our office pot-luck holiday lunch. It was not exactly an unmitigated success; we had a few breakfast offerings, but the only thing that showed up for lunch was a Crockpot full of pulled pork. Anyway, for dessert, I supplied a blueberry pie. I have a recipe for fruit pie that you can make in about a half an hour, because the only thing you have to bake is the pie shell; for the filling, you heat that on the stove and just pour it in.

So I showed up with my pie yesterday, and as usual, few people actually touched it. The cakes went quickly, but CSC people just aren't pie people, I guess. I had 3 or 4 pieces of my own pie, and was looking forward to having the rest of it over the course of today.

This morning I got in to work, handled some bweeeeeznass (some bweeznass), and wandered over to the cafeteria refrigerator to snag me some delicious blueberry hotness, only to discover that the pie was gone.

Thrown out.

Half of a pie, completely thrown away.

My tears could not be stemmed. To add insult to injury, the pie appeared to be the only thing they had thrown out; some kind of nasty cranberry cake with the consistency of Crisco remained, along with a store-bought fruit bread of some kind.

I've been bitter about this all day. I really don't know how I'm going to be able to move on.

posted at 12:00 PM | 1 comments

Because I love you all deeply, hard, and rough:

Ychromes and Alumni - Between Us.mp3

posted at 9:12 AM | 4 comments

Sorry I've disappeared this week; I've been hoping to get some pictures uploaded from the festivities of the weekend, but kept getting roped into things (Jared was still in town Monday, so we hung out, and yesterday I helped The Maj pick up some Christmas decorations and a tree), and tonight I have rehearsal so it's probably not happening then, so who knows when I'm going to have time to get them edited and posted, and I know how much you all miss my run-on sentences when I fail to post, so I figured I'd throw something up today and get to the pictures whenever I have time.

::deep breath::

So here's what went down over the weekend after I stopped spraying greasy liquids from my posterior. Saturday night was the Ychromes a cappella concert, and this year is the 10th anniversary of the existence of the group, so they invited as many alumni as could make it to come back and be the guest group. So Friday evening we had a 2 hour rehearsal and ran through our set-list, realized that we sounded freakin' amazing, and rolled back to Hearndom II to get our drink on and our snack on. Hearnwife was kind enough to hook us up with sweets and savories galore, and we fired up the Karaoke machine and partied until we could party no longer, and everyone crashed at about 4am.

The next day we were supposed to have rehearsal at noon, so of course we managed to stagger back into Newark by about 1pm, and then rehearsed until 4. We made sure we had opportunity to sing in the stairwell, and drop red Trabant trays down the steps, and then we rolled to Iron Hill for some grub and brews. We had sound check at around 6pm, had a few swigs of Old Granddad, and sat down for the first part of the concert at 8pm. We went on around 8:25, did our set, sounded totally diesel. (Another thing I have to do is get the recording edited and uploaded; with any luck I MIGHT get that done tonight after rehearsal, but don't hold your collective reader breath.)

After the concert we kicked the Deer Park for a while, and then the after-party at Noah's which was so packed with people we could barely move, so we gave up and headed back to Hearndom II again where we stayed up until 5 am.

I got up at 8 and went to church. Singing on 3 hours sleep, following a weekend of singing and yelling and karaoke and parties, equals HORRIFICALLY BAD TIMES. I sounded like I'd spent the whole weekend getting punched in the throat. On the plus side, God forgave me all my sins, so I'm told I can get into heaven now, so I've got that going for me, which is nice.

Sunday afternoon we went to Courtney's and watched football until 1am.

Tomorrow: I may have pictures. I may not. We took like a hundred of them, so hopefully I can find 20 or so that are extremely highlarious. I may also have mp3s of the alumni set, assuming I can figure out how to get them all edited (I think I'll have to download some software, 'cause what I have isn't going to work) tonight after rehearsal. WORD.

(Of course, now Blogger is having router issues and I can't update my blog. Argh. Lovely. If you can read this, I haven't burned anyone.)

posted at 11:29 AM | 1 comments

CHRISTMAS CHEAT!

posted at 7:22 PM | 3 comments

So I've been sick for the last few days, staying home from work, alternating between shivering under 4 or 5 blankets and stripping to my sweaty skin to take cold showers and ease the hallucinations. Normally, not going to work would mean "good times," but unfortunately the aches, pains, and feverish delirium have negated not having to do work. Additionally, the modern technological age means I can still get voicemails and emails, and periodically R2D2 comes into the room to project a hologram of my boss giving me the evil eye. So all in all, I'd have to say the past few days have sucked like a Bissell.

And don't get me started on the explosive diahrrea. Oops . . . uh, be right back.

[15 minutes later]

Okay, sorry, had to um, I had coffee brewing. That's it, that's the ticket, coffee! Or tea. I don't remember.

Shut up.

Anyway, I've managed to catch up on most of my DVR viewing, and I really hope that HW already watched last night's "Scrubs," because I accidentally deleted it after watching it today. If she hasn't watched it, I should probably get out of town. Anyway, all the saved up episodes of "Family Guy," "The Daily Show," "The Simpsons," are watched and deleted, which clears out some space on the hard drive for tonight's episode of "Drawn Together."

Plus, I was able to watch one of my favorite all-time films, Miller's Crossing, featuring Marcia Gay Harden in her only hot role. (She's reasonably pretty, but she looks like she wears dentures and she has lips like The Joker. Look, I'm not being mean, I'm just saying, have you ever seen her and Jack in a room together? Or a Lakers game?) Lots of good gore and violence, plus a plot that's harder to follow than a fleet-footed Chinese intelligence officer in Shanghai. (I'm clearly too sick to come up with worthwhile analogies over here. Give me a break.)

Best of all, I've been able to catch up on sleep, in between replying to emails and listening to voicemail messages from people who may or may not ever get a call back from me, depending on how much I hate them. (I usually hate them a lot.)

Tomorrow: Christmassy pixtures! Yay for CHRIMMAS!

posted at 10:40 AM | 2 comments

Quick, very short update on my insane dream situation. Saturday night's dreams were shaped by a strong dose of Nyquil (I have a cold), and were brought to you by the letter L.

Dream #1: I am rehearsing the Mass of the Children, by John Rutter, just like I did in real life back in October, except that instead of being the baritone soloist, I am the conductor.

And have not prepared at all. (Hardly surprising, really.)

So there I am, trying to round an orchestra and massive choir, including a group of 30-40 small children, into shape, and I'm bollixing up meters and tempos and basically screwing the whole thing up irredeemably. After a while, one of the older children takes the baton from me and banishes me to the front row while he conducts the piece perfectly.

Dream #2: I am in Las Vegas with my wife, on a Sunday. Why I am there, I don't know. But we are scheduled to fly back home Sunday evening, but I haven't had time to do any gambling. This is unacceptable.

Luckily, just then Milo shows up (I don't know why he was there either), and it turns out he has an extra plane ticket for a flight back MONDAY night! Sweet! So we stay.

Those of you who are mathematics majors have probably noticed that my wife and I consist of two people, and yet Milo only has the one extra ticket. This does not occur to us until WHOOM the dream shifts to the next morning, and suddenly we realize that HW has no means of getting home. (In reality, I think we all know that HW would have taken the flight home with Milo, and my ass would have been hitchhiking east, but in the dream, that didn't occur to me.)

We frantically try and figure out a way to come up with the money to buy Sarah a short-notice flight home, while still leaving enough cash to gamble a good bit and not go too far into debt, and then I wake up 'cause one of my cats farted on my face.

What does it all MEAN, sports fans? WHAT DOES IT MEAN?

posted at 4:14 PM | 2 comments

Repairing my own automobiles is sort of a hobby of mine, precipitated by

1. the enjoyment of taking things apart, getting my hands dirty, putting everything back together, and discovering with great wonderment that everything works as it should,
2. the need to demonstrate to myself, my wife, and anybody who happens to walk by that I am a MAN, dammit, and more importantly an ENGINEER, unafraid of anything that technology might throw at me,
3. the overwhelming desire to not spend $300 on a professional brake job.

Over the past week or so, I'd been noticing a disturbing grinding sound that my truck made when braking, mostly at slow speeds, and getting worse every day. So I stopped by my local Boys of Pep and picked up a set of front brake pads for $36.99, and yesterday afternoon set out to cut my knuckles a little, curse a lot, and bang the hell out of my driveway with a pair of plumber's pliers.

Unfortunately, as much as I love my truck, Ford did not design anything on it with "easy repair by owner" in mind. For example: the oil filter is almost impossible to reach. It's hidden behind a variety of suspension parts near the front left wheelwell, and though you can get a ratchet wrench with a filter-socket to it, you have enough room to turn the wrench approximately 7 degrees, which is barely enough to engage the ratcheting action. So after 3 or 4 minutes of fitting the wrench to the filter, you get to spend the rest of your waking hours toggling the end of the wrench like a lightswitch, like you're throwing a rave under your truck and can't afford a strobe light. Once it's loose enough, you reach up in there and twist it off the rest of the way, usually pouring hot oil into your eyes. The brakes are marginally less eyeball-searing, but much more time-consuming and frustrating.

I started by attempting to jack up the truck, which is when I realized that my regular 2-ton jack doesn't go high enough to get the truck off the ground. I fiddled around for a bit with trying to use thick wooden shims to increase its height, and decided that I feared death a little too much to bother with all that, and got the regular tire-changing jack out of the cab.

After I got the front tires off the ground, I realized I should have loosened the lug nuts on the wheels first, since as soon as I tried to do that, the front wheels started spinning freely. (Yay for rear-wheel drive.) So I jacked the truck back down a bit and started trying to loosen the lugs. Unfortunately, they had been tightened with Jesus Brand Super Godly Impact Wrench Of All Times And Whatnot, so I tried everything short of a blowtorch (which was my last resort) to get the nuts off:

1. Using my largest ratchet wrench, and banging on it with first a rubber mallet, and then a heavy hammer (which resulted in little more than a bruised finger and a scratched alloy wheel)
2. Using a smaller ratchet wrench with an extender, which almost stripped the nuts
3. Looking for the wrench that came with the truck for road-side tire changes, only to discover it's missing, so in the event I have a flat, I better make sure my AAA membership is paid up
4. Finally putting my large ratchet back on and standing on it while bouncing

At one point I had to rotate the wheel 180 degrees, which of course necessitated jacking everything back up again, turning the wheel, lowering the truck, loosening the nut, and then jacking the truck back up so I could remove the wheel. By this point my frustration was so great that when a nice old lady from the down the street wandered up to ask if I could stop screaming the F-word at the top of my lungs, I replied that it might work better if I just beat her with a jackstand until she was deaf.

Speaking of deaf, remind me to tell you how I didn't get the rotor off later.

Getting the caliper (the part that contains the brake pads. Remember the brake pads? The things I was trying to replace?) off was relatively simple, though the bolts holding it on required some elbow grease in the form of violently beating on the wrench with a hammer and almost breaking my thumb. Once I got the caliper off, I hung it from the frame with a coat hanger (letting it hang by the brake line has the unfortunately result of having the aforementioned brake line, um, break) and set to removing the rotor.

On Sarah's car, a few taps with a mallet loosens the rotor enough that you can just pull it off and inspect/replace it as needed. On my truck, the rotor would not come off even after I sprayed it with WD40 and banged the hell out of it with a heavy hammer for about 10 minutes. After giving up on removing the rotor (it's not strictly necessary to do so to replace the pads, but it makes it a bit easier), I realized that perhaps having my head inside the wheelwell where all this banging was going on was not very bright, because all I could hear was my heartbeat and a high pitched ringing noise for a good 30 minutes.

I pulled the old brake pads out of the caliper and noticed that, indeed, the inside one was worn down to the metal, which was the cause of the horrific noise that's vaguely reminiscent of a dog dragging its ass on a driveway, if that dog was robotic and 37 feet tall, and your driveway was Interstate 81.

The next thing I had to do was compress the pistons; as brake pads wear, the pistons push out more and more so that the pressure needed on the brake pedal to stop the vehicle remains constant, so when you put on fresh (and obviously significantly thicker) brake pads the pistons need to be pushed back into the caliper a bit. The instructions I had from a website said I could, if I was careful, do this with a pair of plumber's pliers. So I got out the old Channellocks and went to work, discovering of course that they weren't large enough.

It was at this point that my frustration came to a rather significant boil. The truck, as it weighs almost 2.5 tons, needs some pretty strong brakes to stop. So the brake pads have something like 12 square inches of surface (compared to something like 7 or 8 for Sarah's 3000 pound Protege) each, and the calipers actually contain TWO pistons. I'm carefully trying to squeeze one of the pistons back into the caliper, at the same time as I'm twisting the whole caliper around so I can actually see what I'm doing, while also repeatedly banging my knuckles on the unremovable brake rotor, and trying not to chip the piston, which is made of some kind of soft composite material.

Good news: the piston finally compressed.

Bad news: the OTHER piston simply pushed out another half inch due to the hydraulic action. Additionally, I chipped the piston a little bit. Also, I pinched the bejeebers out of my finger. Worse yet, the pliers have been thrown through my neighbor's bay window.

At this point I wanted nothing more than a bottle of vodka and a large 8-ball of primo cocaine. However, without a functioning truck, I had no means of acquiring any of Columbia's Finest (even assuming I wasn't joking, which of course I was, since I don't much care for drugs that cause your nasal passages to melt away and your kidneys to bleed), so I either had to fix the truck or wait for Hearnwife to come home and share some of that quality heroin she stores in the hubcaps of her car. (The cops never think to look there. At least until they read my website.)

After squeezing a bit at the other piston (scratching its surface a bit), I finally hit upon a solution: open the brake fluid bleeder valve! Once I do that, it should release the hydraulic pressure that keeps me from pushing the pistons back into place, and then I can put the new pads in, reinstall the caliper, bleed the brakes properly to clear out any air bubbles introduced by the process, and go get a cold one.

Raise your hand if you think it worked out quite that easily. (Put your hand down, dumbass, I can't see you. It was a joke.)

Any attempt I made to try and get the brake fluid to go into a container was fruitless, as it sprayed all over me, my truck, my driveway, and my extremely weak dignity. I was, however, able to squeeze the piston back in enough that it appeared I would be able to put the pads in and fit the whole thing back over the rotor.

WRONG!

The pistons still being at uneven heights, the pads wouldn't fit in exactly right, and they still weren't far enough apart to fit over the rotor. I ended up having to stick various things (ratchets, ratchet bits, my wang, chunks of wood) between them to pry them further apart, and FINALLY managed to squeeze them over the rotor and bolt the caliper back in place. HW came home right about then, and she helped me bleed the brakes, and I went for a test drive: all was well! I am still a MAN, and more importantly, an ENGINEER.

Except, of course, I only did the driver's side front wheel. The other wheel will have to wait until I have more free time and have replenished my supply of Valium.

posted at 1:20 PM | 0 comments

Tonight: major Christmas decorating at Hearndom II!

Today: Poem about Christmas decorating!!!

'Twas 3 weeks before Christmas, and all 'round the house
Hearn and Hearnwife were working, with cursing and shouts.

The stockings were nailed to the walls in the den
While Hearn knocked back shots of a fine Scottish blend

The lights were all up, about half of them worked
Though the tree kinda stank like an old dirty Turk

The star leaned, precariously, off to the right
A few staples fixed that; it's now straight, tall and tight

The celluloid tree once had ornaments on't,
But the cats knocked them off as is always their wont.

There were odors of spices and food in the air,
Though still, a faint odor of cat piss was there.

Outside, lights were strewn on the poor dead tree/stick.
(They should rip it out, as it's far beyond sick.)

A cheap plastic reindeer with one broken hoof,
and "Inflatable Frosty" rest up on the roof.

At Walmart they purchased a small Santa gnome,
Like something you'd find by an old mobile home.

The neighbors from time to time can be a pain;
"That eyesore's a nuisance!" they call to complain.

They may whine and bitch, but someday they will learn
That no one does Christmas-time quite like Team Hearn.

And so, Merry Christmas! We wish you good cheer!
And may nobody call out the cops like last year.

posted at 1:34 AM | 4 comments

There's something wrong with my face.

(Oh, you'd noticed, had you? Smartass.)

And for once I'm not talking about my hideous acne issue. (I've had the pores of a 14 year-old since I was, well, 14, and the zits show no sign of clearing up after 12 years.) Folks who see me on a daily basis probably have heard me complain about this, but I am low on one of the more manly human characteristics: body hair. Except for what's on my scalp, and a prodigious collection around my wang, I'm largely hairless. Even what hair I have is totally lame; for example, the hairs on my chest all point UP. And don't even get me started on my nipples (the left one has all of 6 hairs of varying lengths; the right one is completely surrounded by a tuft of growth thick enough to be seen through tshirts). Also, I don't get any moustachio hair that's not thin and completely blond.

Some of you are probably somewhat grossed out. This pleases me.

Anyway, I bring this up to share with you a new project: sideburns. I can't technically really grow any, because my beard stops roughly 3/8" of an inch from my natural hairline, but I'm planning to grow my hair out anyway, so I'll just let it grow down over the part where there's no facial hair. I wanted to share with you my progress after approximately one week:

What do you think? I think I'm well on my way to a stylish new look. I'm contemplating the possibility of getting some Rogaine to see if I can inspire some growth in there, although I hear that steroids can have the same effect, and Lord knows I'd like the opportunity to get all buff and sexy and get the chicks.

I mean, get A chick. My wife. That's the ticket, yeah!

I'm gonna let these things grow for a while longer yet, despite protests from Sarah, who thinks they look pathetic. Although, this rather gives me an idea; perhaps I should grow some other insane facial hair until HW promises to let her bangs grow out. Ah, blackmail and bribery: the foundations of any successful marriage.

BTW: The guys at Free Range Human appear to be alive again. Those turds.

posted at 11:03 AM | 3 comments