Sunday in the D

OK, so last weekend was Memorial Day, and for the first time in recent memory, the Kelly-Girl was not relegated to scrounging up last-minute pity invitations to other families' BBQs. Nope I actually had something that, according to Wikipedia, is called "plans." I took Friday off, a decision that I paid dearly for all this week, and worked around Casa Chica. On Saturday, I had a blind date at an RV "Resort" (really) that apparently did not go as well as I had thought. Then on Sunday, I went into the D-Proper for a Tigers game with the Marine, his brother, and his brother's Army-buddy. Yes, my Lovelies, my weekend was chock-ful o' fun, so much so that I slept all...day...long on Monday. I may have been uber-busy, but I'm still a lazy chick at heart.

So yeah, we went downtown for the game, which was so fun because the Wings were also playing (albeit in Chicago) so the city was abuzz with excitement. It was a lovely day for baseball...

As you can see, my thrifty side was on full display, because we were seated in the 300 section, but hey, doesn't the D look nice from up here?? Plus we were right by the scoreboard, which is helpful to myopic-me, especially when this bizarro statistic hit the Jumbo-tron....

Does it really say that?? Yes, the Tigers' catcher's batting average is a whopping .100--how'd you like that purty little factoid displayed 3 stories high?? And then he struck out or something, because later in the game it got even lower. Ouch.

After the game we made our way towards Greektown...That's The Marine there in the orange, though I have to admit I looked twice at that fine specimen over on the left with the giant purple windbreaker wrapped around his mid-section. Bow-chicka-bow-bow!

Along the way, we passed the town dump...
To some Greek bakery that had really bad cannolis and was staffed entirely by Indian dudes...

Photo not available

And into the casino. Now I really did not want to do this, because my motto is "The Casinos are Everything You Hate About Detroit in One Convenient Location." Sketchy people, cigarette smoke, expensive drinks (FYI to prospective visitors-- Michigan law prohibits free casino cocktails), fat dudes riding Amigos, slot machines, and cigarette smoke. Did I repeat that last one? Well, it is warranted because there is soooo godawful much of it in there. In addition to missing the Gratis V & Ts, we are also lacking the Vegas-style ventilation systems.

But we parked there, so we had to go in. In the end, it was OK, because I found out that if you have Tiger-ticket-stubs you get $2 beer, which was a huge bonus, especially after drinking my car payment at Comerica Park. And then it happened. As I sat at the bar, nursing my sunburn, sucking down my deeply-discounted Labatt, I spotted the single most fabulous thing I'd laid eyes on all day long...

Yes, my Lovelies, this is my new boyfriend and I love him madly and truly. He was a vision in lavender, right down to his shiny purple wing-tips. I am sad that I did not ask his name, but I have heretofore dubbed him Mr. Louis Davis III. We will live happily ever after, and be well-accessorized forever more. So yeah, the Tigers may have lost, but the Wings won, and it was a really great day in the D.

Darwin on Hall Road

OK, so yesterday I was very nearly in an accident on Hall Road, and not because I was driving inattentively (see--there is a first time for everything after all). What in heaven's name happened? you ask, clinging desperately to the edge of your seat. Well, my Lovelies, I was almost physically harmed because there was an enormous traffic jam with subsequent gawker-delays, due to....wait for it...a Seat Belt Enforcement Zone. Really.

Now for those who have never seen one of these bad-boys, a Seat Belt Enforcement Zone is where the Po-Po create an area in which to identify and ticket drivers who are not wearing their seat belt as the law requires in the state of Michigan. In this particular instance they had 2 sheriff's cars in the Hall Road median with lights flashing right by the SBEZ sign--and the two sheriff's deputies were leaning on their cars, arms crossed, looking all menacing, just to let you know you are entering an area where serious, bad-ass police work is being done. So then they have about 143 other police cars from various agencies, cities and townships, all strategically placed along the road, in parking lots and driveways, all poised at the ready to issue citations. Macomb County also uses police officers on bicycles to drive along the cars stopped at the traffic signals to suss out these hardened criminals.

Now I am all for adhering to the laws of the land, and I for one always, always, always wear my seat belt. It would seem to me, however, that if The Man was really intent on keeping drivers safe on the roadways here in the D, they would be much better served to set up You Really Need to Stop at the Red Light Enforcement Zones, or better yet a couple of sobriety checkpoints on the Lodge after a Red Wings game. The SBEZ just seems like a lot of work for a $65 ticket that really only affects one individual. Personally, I firmly believe that the use of a seat belt really just comes down to Vehicular Natural Selection. If you are seriously dumb enough to not wear a seat belt,while hurtling through the air at 80 miles per hour, don't you kind of deserve whatever consequences might occur should you be thrown from said vehicle?

So yeah, I averted a collision, and worked late that night because the 5-0 on patrol made me late to the office. But it is OK, because I can sleep easy knowing that thousands of Macomb County tax-payer dollars were spent to give tickets to at least 6 or 7 unrestrained drivers. After all, I'm a Wayne County chick. Though it is slightly humbling to know that all those cops that drive past me doing a double-take, checking me out, are really just after one thing--my seat belt.

Ad Lib

OK, so it's a glorious Sunday morning here in the D. The screaming winds have stopped, the sun is shining, birds chirping, the whole freakin' shebang. I even have the windows open at this relatively early hour, and the sound of my typing is echoed by the gentle "plink" of helicopters landing in my gutters. And, shhhh, if you listen really closely, you can actually hear my grass growing ever taller, especially around the edges where the mower won't reach and since I still haven't actually purchased a weed-whacker, will most likely reach the top of the fence line before summer officially arrives next month, all of which has been duly noted, I'm sure, by the Hobbitt and his Council of Darkness.

The Chicas are nestled into the couch in their 3rd hour of Spongebob-induced coma, and things are relatively peaceful here in the Casa. We are heading down to A2 for soccer today, but that's not until 2:30, which means I have tons of time to goof around on the Internet instead of tending to my home and hearth. Priorities, people! I still spend an inordinate amount of time on Facebook, although not nearly as much as in the past. And well, there's this here little blog-venture, which I do not see as time-killing because I am providing a valuable public service to you, my loyal readers. After all, if I suddenly went away, where would you turn for deeply stimulating, daresay provocative social commentary on life here in the Motor City?

So while I was on FB today, I took notice of some of the ads placed on my profile page because, quite frankly, they are taking away from the stunning photographs of the Glory that is Me. Now, I'm guessing that these ads are generated based on keywords from the compelling details that I placed on my Personal Info page but my knowledge of how these things work is thin and sketchy at best--if you told me that there was one dude and an army of hamsters powering the Internet I would probably believe you. Well I should give myself more credit than that--I would consider it for a moment, and then dismiss it as farce after I successfully Googled and Snoped it.

So once I actually looked at the ads thoughtfully placed there by the Powers that Be, I was intrigued. There are a whole lotta dating sites trying to lure me in. There are your regular Harmony and Chemistry ones, but there are more specialty dating sites than I would have imagined. Like this one for Wealthy Men. Now, I would be all for hooking up with someone who makes more coin than I do, which actually wouldn't be very difficult, but check out some of these dudes. The Scorpio guy--don't believe for a second he is wealthy. The one guy's screen name is "quadlord" which automatically removes him from consideration--I would be constantly fighting the urge to throat-punch him. "Canuckchuc" has potential, but he looks a little skeezy, and he spelled his name wrong. I know he probably only gets 10 characters, but a spelling error is a spelling error, and I just can't abide it.

Now, judging from the classy chicks that posted their photos on the home page, I am not nearly inflatable enough to sign up for that site. Fear not, my Lovelies, there's more to choose from! There are sites for Singles who Love Golf, Single Chicks who Dig Big Men, Singles with Herpes (what?!) even sites for Catholic Singles. I found this one interesting, because they include us divorced Catholics in their ranks, when usually we are relegated to sitting in the corner like Baby, but hey a monthly fee collected is a monthly fee collected, right? I wonder if they ever considered that angle for their marketing--"I found someone I want to spend the rest of my life with, but her soul is forever damned, which is perfect because that means I don't have to spend eternity with her--thank you CatholicMatch!" Even better is the fact that this site extols itself as the "premier" Catholic dating site, and then gives the ratings to prove it. Really. Next week, I am so signing up for AveMariaSingles because I would just looooove to see the profiles of the edgy bad boys that signed up for that site.

So I get the singles ads. What I find mystifying, however, are some of the others. What exactly is included in my profile information that would prompt a link to this Gynecomastia site?? Now for those of you reading without a Thesaurus (not recommended, but hey, it's your life) this is the medical term for ManBoobs, or, as the home-page indicates, "Moobs." It's comforting to know that there is a fashionable-fix for this condition, but why the hell is it on my profile? I will freely admit that I have not been endowed with ample-breastages, but I do not feel it is appropriate to taunt me with photos of dudes that have a larger cup size than me. On my turf.

Then there is this very strange ad about immigrating to Canada. Perhaps it is my proximity to the border-lands, but I don't think I've included anything that would indicate I'm looking to jump ship and change flags. I had no idea that relations with our neighbors to the North had deteriorated to the point where "Family Reunification" would be such a hot topic in immigration law. Most interesting, however, is the page for people who are currently illegal residents of "another country." Now, obviously they are talking about us here in the States, so why not just call a spade a spade? Do they really expect us to believe that there is some illegal Belgian, currently living in Poland, who is just dying to make things right, and become a legal resident somewhere, somehow, then jumps on FB one night, and stumbles across the answer to his prayers--Canada?? Seriously.

So yeah, there's a lot of bizarro crap to see on the Internet. Lucky for me, I am not a motivated person, and there is not a lot happening here in the D, so I have all the time in the world to go looking for it. But enough for now. I probably should go, and at least give the appearance of mild-industriousness--maybe cut the grass before the Banana heads out for his afternoon sun-session and ruins the pristine landscape that is Casa Chica. But first, I'm going to look into a home CPAP machine--I look pretty hot in a mask--and register to win free laser-hair-removal for life. After all, if I have any hope of ever landing a relationship-minded-single-dude I need to be smooth and well-rested. Priorities, people!

Litterbug

OK, so now that I no longer have to schlep around the D in the ice and snow (I know, I know, I'm seriously tempting the weather gods by saying that--hope I don't jinx it) things have gotten a lot easier for me in the Commuting department. That would officially make it the only area in my life to see any sort of improvement in the last 13 months, but hey, I got all the time in the world, right? We have now entered the portion of the calendar year where my drive-time is shortened thanks to fewer cars on the road on Fridays and the occasional Monday, and were it not for the plethora of construction zones popping up along my major thruways, I'd be a happy, happy chick. So tonight I got to sit in traffic in the rain on the Southfield (my convoluted alternate-route to 696) and ponder my lot in life.

With all this extra time I was given to devote to deep philosophical introspection, I was struck by a penetrating realization. Here in the D, there is some really weird shit left along our area freeways. I mean, the people driving are strange enough--lately not strange enough to hand out another Random Dude Commuting Award--but the things they leave behind are totally bizarro. As evidence of this, I would respectfully offer the following:

Shoes. I would love to be with the dude who gets to his destination, goes to put on his shoes, and finds that he's missing one. Because you never ever see a pair of kicks on the side of the road, it's always just one. I wonder if he's just mystified, like "Where could it be....?" When I travel with footwear in the car, it's usually in some sort of bag, so if I lost one, I'd lose the whole nut. Well, except for my golf shoes, and if I ever lost one of those, I would suffer emotional devastation such that the location of the missing mate would be irrelevant. Ohhh, I can't think of it--it's too horrible.

Appliance Doors. Now this one kind of makes sense, because I think when you go to dump them, you have to take the doors off, yeah? Remember a hundred years ago when that was such a huge initiative? "Take your doors off your refrigerators so your little neighbor boy won't get trapped inside of it on garbage day and suffocate!" Man, whoever thought of that PSA never lived next door to Slouchy Kyle. I'd shove that kid inside a Frigidaire any day and never think twice about it.

Burning Cars. Seriously, this really freaks me out every time I see it. Because again, there is nothing else around, no sign of accident or other malfeasance, just a single apparently spontaneously combusting vehicle. Two words--WIL-LIES.

Stuffed Animals. Now I can only suspect that the grimy fuzzballs that I see are the red-headed-step-children of the stable of toys of the kids who lost them. Because I know for a fact that if it was a favorite guy, like the Littlest Chica's Ella, I would enlist the help of area law-enforcement officials and perhaps a psychic to launch an all-out manhunt to retrace my steps including scouring area freeway embankments, never tiring until that bad boy was back in her outstretched paws. Really.

Shopping Carts. This would make sense if these were found nearby retail areas, but they never are. And the Hobo pushing his cart full of returnables doesn't hold true here either, because there are no pedestrians allowed on freeways here in the D. Perhaps the wind blew it there, much like the gusty hurricane that blew one into my path on 8 Mile and Harper a couple weeks ago. It was from K-Mart. Most likely Corporate retaliation relating to my post from March. Yep, that's it fo' sho'--payback pure and simple.

Donuts. This morning I saw a pile of doughnuts on the side of the road. A little ways down was the brightly colored DD box. Now I am dying to ask--what was the sequence of events that caused an entire box of doughnuts to fall from a moving vehicle? I'm guessing big fat MDOT pothole meets a Dodge Neon with an open sunroof, and then the guy was like, "Well, there goes breakfast, I sure as hell don't need this box around reminding me of what I lost."

So yeah, in short, people are pigs, and there's a lot of crap laying around. I can honestly say that I have never thrown anything on the side of the road--at any given time I probably have about 13 lbs of Happy Meal Boxes, goldfish, and crayons rolling around in my car. I grew up in the 80's, so I Give a Hoot and Don't Pollute, I Always Put Litter in its Place, and to this day can't get the Native American with the single tear outta my head. Hell, my carbon footprint is still as big as Sasquatch, but I guess I'm a lot more green and eco-friendly than I give myself credit for. In case you're wondering, back in the day, I also loved to Be Kind and Rewind, but that ended when my Betamax crapped out and I tossed it in a landfill wrapped a plastic grocery bag full of batteries and lead paint chips. I'm just kidding--I'm no litterbug.

Word to Your Mother

OK, so today is Sunday and I am enjoying my court-appointed-bonus-day with the Chicas, aka, Mother's Day. Today, like most years, feels an awful lot like a regular Sunday, but that is the glory of parenthood--you are given a day that acknowledges you and all you've done for your family, but you're too freakin' busy to sit back and enjoy it. So once I'm done here, I'm off to cut the grass, do the laundry, and clean the bathrooms--you know, all the sexy glamorous stuff that makes dudes sit back and say, "Man, I gotta get me some of that!"

I still have to call my own mom, a task that I embrace, because if I have to call her, that means she is not here. Now don't get me wrong--I love my mom, I really do--it's just that our relationship seems to be getting more difficult as the years progress. We are still close, but she drives me crazy more often than not. I would feel tremendously guilty, but I am pretty confident the feeling is mutual. I also have to call my step-mother, which I kind of dig, because she always seems genuinely surprised and touched by the fact that we remember her on this day. She doesn't have children of her own, so she thoroughly looooves her grandmother status, and just can't seem to get enough of those Chicas.

Being a mom is something that I don't think about too much. I can't think about it, really, because if I take a moment to ponder on the enormity of the job I do and what is ahead of me, it's completely overwhelming. Deer in headlights, turtle in shell, paralyzing. I have been given charge of 3 remarkable human beings, when most days I am a hot steaming mess myself. I have to provide for them, nurture them, and help them to grow into the women I could only hope to be. I feel no different today than I did when I was 17, so how on earth can I be qualified to do something so monumentally important? There was no background check, no owner's manual, nothing--just here's your baby, good luck!! Seriously.

And when I think about the complexity and importance of being a mom, and how I genuinely want to do right by them, I cannot help but think about the d-i-v-o-r-c-e. People always ask me why, if I was so unhappy, did I stay so long? I honestly don't have an answer for that, but I do know that if I'd left when I initially realized I'd made a mistake by getting married, I might not have 2 out of 3 of the Chicas. Definitely the 3rd. So apparently, this is my journey, what the Big Man wants me to live through, experience, and figure out. I'm a single mom now, and on a lot of days it really sucks, but then I look at those Chicas, and see that they are healthy, and happy, and it keeps me going. One foot in front of another, one tiny step at a time, I'll get there. Chin up.

The past 10 years have flown by, yet on the other hand feel like an eternity. Someone once told me that when you're a parent, the days are long, but the years are short. Truer words have never been spoken. So yeah, I'm going to hang with my Chicas today, and make the dinner of my choosing that will include neither mac & cheese nor meat in nugget form. I'm going to put away my to-do-list, and take a moment to acknowledge what I've been given and what I've accomplished thus far. I am Kelly-Girl, I am a mom, and I rock. So there.

Star-Date 5-9-09

OK, so thus far, it has been an uber-trippy weekend! The weather is indicative of recent events--one moment sunny, warm, and de-lovely, the next moment gloomy, windy and drizzly. Or perhaps the weather is creating recent events? Hmmm...more credit than I'm willing to give a mythical mother figure, but 'tis the season to give mad props to Mommies, so perhaps she's workin' harder than I thought.

So last night, I was all snuggled up on my couch for a long evening of Tivo-lovin'--I even bought me a new Black Box for the occasion--when the Marine calls to see if I want to go out. Go out? On Friday night? Much like the Yeti or Snipe-Hunting, it is an often-heard-about-occurrence, but not much witnessed around Casa Chica. So I hoisted myself from my much-desired-horizontal position, and popped my contacts back in. I would say that I brushed my hair and put on makeup, but seriously. My aforementioned fabulous head of hair requires absolutely no maintenance (even at 9pm) and my face gets painted but once daily--any more than that would require a personal visit from either Mr. Clooney or Mr. Ritchie. Let's be frank, I'm lucky I'm smokin' hot, because I am far too lazy to put any effort into lookin' good.

We went to see the Star Trek movie. I will be honest and say that it was not my first choice. To be even more honest would be to admit that I balked and protested like I was being required to attend a Novena during Spring Break, but in the end it was all good. The movie was way better than I anticipated, dare I say entertaining, though I fear I am turning into my grandmother because not once but at least 4 times I caught myself saying "Oooh, its sooooo loud." Additionally, I now worry more than ever about flying out of Metro--I always thought there was something "off" about Romulus, and now it has been categorically confirmed by the creepy yet still somewhat dreamy Eric Bana on an enormous theater screen. After last night, however, I have made the executive decision to never again see a movie any place other than Emagine--how humans ever managed to watch motion pictures sans cocktails is beyond me. Really.

But the freakiest thing happened today. Mark your calendars my Lovelies, because today, Star-Date 5/9/09 (big shout-out to my b-day GF Holla) will go down in history as the day that Kelly-Girl met a.....NEIGHBOR!!!! And he was friendly and helpful. Shut up!! No lie, I couldn't believe it either. So here's how it went down. A while ago, I noticed that a limb on my big overgrown Maple tree (you know, the one in the front--no, that one in the back is a Pain in the Ass Walnut) was hanging a wee bit low. Upon further inspection, utilizing my supreme botanical knowledge, I determined that the branch was actually broken off and dead, and just begging to be pulled to earth. So naturally, I left it dangle there for another 2 weeks.

So the other day, the Marine was here, and said "Hey that branch is broken, why don't I pull it down for you?" and like a complete moron, I said, "OK, thank you so much!" which was so stupid because once it came down, I had to do something with it. When it was suspended above the ground, looking all sketchy and ghetto, I didn't have to do anything except avert my eyes and plan the perfect bitchy comeback like "Yeah I know it's dead, what're you gonna do about it??" or something along those lines--I hadn't really thought that part out. Once it had returned to being governed by Earth's law of gravity (and whatever other Star Fleet mumbo-jumbo would apply here) it revealed itself to be a horrifically enormous big-around-as-my-leg tree limb that I had no idea what to do with. So of course, it sat there for 5 more days.

Now I knew that the Hobbitt was laying in wait to report me to his Council of Darkness at the Township offices, so I was actually a little concerned. Not about the impending citation and subsequent monetary fine issued by the Hobbitt Lackeys, on the contrary--now that I've started cleaning up around here, I did not enjoy having an enormous tree limb taking up my entire front yard. And no, I am not kidding and yes, it was that freakin' big. I fully intended on taking care of what I could this morning, but with the Oldest Chica's soccer game, and a delicious nap inspired by a marathon of Make Me a Supermodel, I didn't quite get to it until roundabout 4pm. Me and my little pruning shears ambitiously began to take care of whatever branches were small enough to succumb to it's vise-like-chomping-grip. Which left over 75% of the limb still on the ground, and me looking completely clueless and highly pathetic.

Pay attention, my Darlings, because this is where the magic happens. I was out there, trying not to lop off my fingertips, when I heard a voice say, "Hey, do you need some help?" Now, I was no longer certain that those words could be used together in a sentence, so naturally I was stunned, and looked around like an idiot. That's when I see my across-the-street-neighbor coming at me with a chain saw--neither he nor the machine was running, so I figured he meant no harm, and did not run away in a panic. In about 3 minutes, he had hacked up that tree limb into tidy 2 foot sections, ready to be stacked neatly at the curb for yard waste pick up. Really!

How nice it was to exchange small talk with someone whom I've lived across the street from for 3 years, and only today learned his name (Derek). He and his wife Maria (another new fact) and their baby Desmond (one more) are doing fine. He asked about the Chicas, and commented on how big they've gotten. We weren't invisible after all...hmm...that's a mind-bender. Now don't be getting any ideas about me making nice with the Banana or Slouchy Kyle and his Very Loud Parents. No way. They still have a loooong way to go before they can be considered even honorary members of Team Kelly. Being friendly with my neighbors may enable me to live long and prosper, but where's the fun in that? Yeah, I can only grow so much in one calendar year, and it's much more childishly entertaining to think of putting the Vulcan Death Grip to the Hobbitt, so I'm-a-gonna stick with that for now. Kelly-Girl Out.

Hats Off

OK, so here I am, sucking down a V & T, shoving my pretty little head into a giant bowl of salad from Leo's , and scanning through my Tivo, debating whether I want to watch Housewives of New York or Daisy of Love, which can only mean one thing--it's Friday night!! Woo-Freakin-Hoo!! You have seriously ventured onto the wrong website if you're looking for inside information on happening night-life opportunities for Singletons here in the D.

So what to say about the week that was? Hmmm, well, the Red Wings scared the crap out of me--after Sunday's marathon 3 OT loss to Anaheim (and my new IB, the uber, uber-dreamy Ryan Getzlaf) they appeared to sleepwalk through Tuesday and the first period of last night's game. But they seem to have righted the ship, and summarily spanked those Duckies last night, so it would seem all is OK on that front. The Chicas went back to school Wednesday after the CDC announced that closing the schools only served to fuel the fire of paranoia in the face of the Virus Formerly Known as Swine Flu. Gee, that was such a big help. Oh, and Dave Bing was elected mayor of the City of Detroit on Tuesday, a mere 72 hours after I mentioned him right here. I don't want to take too much credit, after all, a whole 12% of the population turned out to vote on Tuesday, so clearly the immediate families of his paid supporters have made their voices heard. We have a little over 150 days til the next election, so until then, I have added his framed photo to the gallery of Famous Dudes Named Dave that graces my office.

But my favorite story of the week was this one, about how Aretha Franklin wants to be paid royalties for all the attention garnered for her Inauguration Hat. Now for those of you too lazy to click on that there link (it's OK, it's Friday, I get it) here is what it looked like

Now that is a chapeau with a bow! I myself could never wear something like that because I am not insane, and I have been a cursed with a little tiny pea-head that would be dwarfed by that gigando lid. I was actually surprised to read that Ms. Aretha Franklin paid for the hat herself, for it was my impression that celebrities rarely paid retail, especially when they were going to do something like, say, I don't know, sing at the Inauguration in front of billions of people? Seems to me that she needs better asssistants around her--folks who will strong-arm the designers into giving her free shit up front, rather than make the Queen of Soul come around the back door after the fact asking for royalties and/or additional headgear gratis.

If we're following the Quid Pro Quo formula, I would propose this question--If Aretha wants royalties for the hat, is she prepared to pay restitution to the designer of her 2008 Grammy dress?

Now you know that I am not one to take aim at the slow moving target, but Holy Hanna! I'm just glad she had the one wider strap and the shawl thing, because otherwise it would have been decidedly un-classy.

I'm not a big fan of the philosophy of "When Am I Gonna Get Mine?". Too many people these days have a sense of entitlement, that just because they are, they should receive. And that's not the case. I'm not saying that Aretha hasn't worked her ass off to get where she is today, but wouldn't it be more worthy of a Queen to provide a global stage for a designer from the D, and thank him heartily for enabling her to make a relatively understated fashion statement? I would think so, but then again, that's just me. At the end of the day though, all of this hubbub is about a hat. A gigantic bedazzled monstrosity, but still it's a freakin' hat.

So yeah, I'm going to forget about Aretha, hang out tonight and see if I can actually start to mutate into a vegetable form. It's all good, I really need to rest up before tomorrow morning when the tickets for the second Kid Rock show go on sale. And hey, if they sell out, he can personally thank me for mentioning it here. I will gladly accept his heartfelt thanks from one rock-star-resident of the D to another, but if he wanted to thank me in the form of free tickets and/or backstage passes, I would certainly accept them. I may have my principles, but I'm not stupid.