Hot Pink?

The debate rages on...11 point type or 12?

If you use 11 point type, you have to have more content and that may necessitate using the phone book for pages 12 and 13. If you use 12 point type, you fill up pages too quickly and that costs money to print more page with the same number of advertisements...ie less profit margin.

But people want a thick paper, so the shift goes back to 12 point type. But people aren't stupid, they'll know if they paper is just printing bigger type in order to make more pages fill up. They wrote research papers in high school too, probably.

So, for no apparent reason as resovled above, I'm going to use 11 point type. Times New Roman.

I'll try to make tomorrow interesting. I'm deciding what color to paint the coin-operated newspaper boxes.

Well, first you get a hat with "press" written on it...

1 : a paper that is printed and distributed usually daily or weekly and that contains news, articles of opinion, features, and advertising
Hat Tip: Webster's Online Dictionary

The reason I offer this definition is that my eventual competitor is asking around, trying to get some information on what I'm planning on doing, although they already know I'm planning to produce a newspaper.

(which makes them my eventual competitor...which is why they want to know in the first place...don't they know what they do?)

Not neccesarily in order...

God
Family
Beef Jerky
Hormel Tamales
Skyline Chili
Gummi Bears (now that the secret is out)
Friends near and far
Dark Beer
Frank's Red Hot
Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet

and then my other list of make believe things to be thankful for...
Santa Claus
The Easter Bunny
The Great Pumpkin
and Global Warming

Final answer?

We've advertised on the radio, we've told people, wooed clients, hired a salesperson, got a distribution plan and have a facebook page.

I ordered a printer, interviewed a printer (to print the paper) and hired a photographer. We've done it as a news story on the news @ noon (even though it starts at 12:05) although I didn't interview myself or anything.

I've been working on layouts, finished the masthead (or banner), created a name plate and incorporated. I bought a camera. I've told people to send me columns and stories and they've done so. I've written my first column. I bought a flask for my desk drawer.

So I guess I'm going to do this.

A clean comfortable room for only $36...

The raising of a young child should, I think, contain all sorts of things...a respect for others, a love for God, and a knowledge of literature, science, math and Tom Bodette. Tonight it was the last one on the list.

The path to useless knowledge began when Gracie asked if she could leave the light on. I replied that she wasn't Tom Bodette.

"Who's Tom Bodette?" The guy that leaves the light on for you. "Where does he live?" I don't know. "What's his middle name?" I don't know. "Why does he leave the light on for me?" So you'll stay at his hotel. "Who is he?" A guy. "What does he do?" He makes commericals. "Why?"

To which I replied..."hang on, let me get the light for you."

Things you don't learn in journalism school...

I got a bottle of scotch and a flask to keep in my desk.

I've got an old sportscoat and a fedora.

I'm still working on a cigarette to let dangle out of my mouth as I pound away on my typewriter as my deadline nears, but I've got it narrowed down to Marlboro's and Kool's.

It's red and it's a chevy...

I finally have justified the purchase of a second pair of cowboy boots. I bought a truck.

I got hammered on the deal, all while being told I was getting a great deal, which is probably true (I'm just cheap and don't like paying) because my car really looked bad the day I took it over there.

That morning, I got an oil change for the car, which was stupid since I got NO credit for bringing in a car full of clean oil. Same thing for filling the gas tank.

During the queasy time of "getting my information" and while I was resisting the urge to run away, I was asked to go get the registration and insurance information out of my car.

When I got out to my car, I thought I had a problem...well two problems...I had neither registration nor insurance info. I couldn't prove I even owned the car.

But I was wrong. They didn't care. And (along with an agreement to pay for the car until Grace and John are close to driving) that's how I got a truck.

To this woman I legally bind...sign here...

I'm sitting here wondering whether the woman I offered a job to will take it. It's like being told, "hold on, the final jeopardy is about to come on," when you've just opened the box and popped the question.

But it could have been worse...at least when I asked Holli to marry me, she didn't ask me what was involved (until after the wedding and it was more like, "what do you mean you don't do yard work?"). She didn't ask me about paying mileage, about commissions on sales or what she would need to do to keep her job.

And neither did I spell out the marriage in terms worthy of a legal department nor did I ask her to sign a contract.

And I already knew if she planned to get pregnant, what religion she was and her views on gay marriage. All things that would get me sued if I were to ask them of a potential employee.

Draw your own conclusions...

I think it was Christmas Eve...

I was told I could come by and get my “stuff” which amounted to a weight bench and some weights and I don’t remember what else.

I tried to get a friend to go with me, but either he was busy or wise enough to know the climate over there was dangerous, or potentially so. He was almost right.

I pulled my Plymouth Horizon into the driveway and walked down the grass to the house.

I gathered my things from the porch and took them to the car. I looked back, hoping she’d come outside. Her father stood in the doorway, guarding the exit.

And then, I did the wrong thing. I walked back down the yard.

He scowled at me and slammed the door.

I lost it. I yelled, I screamed. I stood on their front porch and hollered they had no right to break us up.

The house was still. I opened my mouth, but with a suddenness that silenced me, he came out the door and lunged toward me. Her little brother, right on Dad’s heels, took a swing.

In a heartbeat I remembered he told me that he once shot someone who was drinking beer on his land…I remember that he got away with it…and as I remembered it, I ran.

I don’t remember much after that.

Step one, I guess...

I'm living a double life, sort of.

I love gummy bears. From the day I first tried one back in high school, I can't seem to get enough of them. The slightly-greasy Hairbo ones are my favorite. I've been known to buy a bag of them ($.97 bag) and eat them all on the 10 minute drive home, throwing the wrapper in the garbage on my way into the house.

Tonight, the urge hit me and I went to the candy aisle to score a bag. And then panic ensued. They'd rearranged all the candy and they weren't where they usually are. And there is no way I'm going to find someone and ask them "Excuse me Ma'am, where are the gummy bears?" First of all, it isn't very manly, and second of all I've never found anyone to help me in (like talking to a brick) Wal-Mart within 15 minutes of trying.

But through perseverance, eventually, I found them and went to the checkout...I usually try to strike up a conversation with the cashier so she won't notice I'm buying neon colored candy. Or I buy a pack of cigarettes so she will see me as an evil smoker of tobacco instead of someone addicted to something that is 97.6% sugar.

And I ate every single one of them on the way home.

But Cayenne Lemonade does...

I got a phone call today from “an internet advisor” who informed me a search of key words on Google* did not result in our radio station being found in the first 10 search results.

This surprised me because putting the call letters (radio lingo) into Google*, does, in fact, yield our website. I told him so.

Not, said he.

So, said I…but then I asked…”what search words did you use?”

His reply was “radio,” “radio station,” and “country music.”

I asked him (or maybe I just wish I had) if he thought a 3000-watt radio station in rural Tennessee SHOULD be one of the top 10 search results in the entire world when you put in “radio,” “radio station,” and “country music?”

He said he thought our website could use some work. I told him (or maybe I just wish I had) that his manners could use some work and that I liked my website just fine (actually, it's quite mediocre, but what do you expect from a guy who has a blog named after a made up drink?) and that I had to go now.

So I went.


*While typing this I discovered that Google shows up as a misspelling in Microsoft Word if you don’t use a capital “G.” However, God doesn’t. Draw your own conclusions.

Betting I'll live past 45...

My IRA is about to become MY RA. Now.

Now for those of you who think I'm crazy to flush my retirement, I plan to use it for something better than that (flushing that is). The World Series of Poker beckons. Well, maybe not yet. Maybe someday.

The laws says I can have this money (without penalty) when I’m 59.5 years of age….but I bought life insurance that runs out when I’m 62. So I’m betting (with my money) that I’m going to die before 2029, but I’m planning to leave other money in the IRA until 2027? And for the wad of cash I’ll supposedly have (if I leave it in there they tell me), I won’t be able to spend it all in two and a half years.

So hand it over.

All in...

To do list:
Incorporate
Call Broker to liquidate 401K
Get a bank account
Buy some business cards
Learn how to use photo shop
Call the printer and tell him it’s on
Get a camera
Pray

Deposition taken...

Pursuant to the complaint the defendant gave the following responses on the 10th day of November, 2009 to the charge that she wrote her name on the wall of the bedroom in crayon:

Mom: Gracie!
Grace: Yes?
Mom: Why did you write on the wall?
Grace: Mom, that was years ago.
Mom: Gracie!
Grace: Mom, that was years ago. Back when I was four!
Mom: Ok, stop laughing.
Dad: I can’t help it.
Grace: But that was years ago...Mom...that was years ago.

As the statute of limitations had since passed, the defendant was released.

Well, yeah, I guess it is...

He rummaged around and found it under a pile of leaves. He had to pull a few twigs off of it and some bark, but finally he got it perfect.

He ran to the edge of the yard and pointed it at a passing truck, yelling at the top of his lungs. He pointed it at things and slammed it on the ground. He made noises like a gun while aiming it.

He hit acorns with it. He swept the leaves off the yard with it. He beat trees with it.

He came over near me, swinging it back and forth. He started hitting the ground with it. I asked…”What do you have there, John?”

Without looking at me, he replied, “It’s a stick, Dad.”

Breaking News...

Out there in the World Wide Web Somewhere -- Children used to learn about reformed theology on the street – either from friends, those weird older kids who'd smoke behind the dumpster, or a friend's older and ostensibly wiser sibling.

But a study reveals that kids are now more likely to learn about the five points of Calvinism on the internet.

“It’s really exploded,” says Tim Jones, “Kids now can learn the Apostle’s Creed without leaving the privacy of their own home.“

What the study also reveals, likely without having been intended, is the existence of reformed theology that has developed in the mainstream search and social media sector. When a person searches “Unconditional Election” or “Perseverance of the Saints” they find concise answers without having to resort to looking it up in a book or going to church on Sunday.

Looking for a sponsor...

About two months ago I did something stupid…to be specific (as I readily admit I’ve done stupid things since then, but I am speaking of one particular thing)…agreed to quit eating beef jerky.

(I would have agreed to quit “cold turkey” but I don’t really know what that means…why is it “cold turkey” people talk about quitting and it being so hard? Were there no Twinkies when this phrase was coined?)

Anyway (the screaming in my head makes it hard to focus hence all the parenthesis) the craving for a Slim Jim has now reached critical mass.

This became apparent when earlier today, when I saw a lesser man (or at least a smarter man who didn’t agree to stop eating them) tear open the plastic at the top and bite off a huge chunk. I nonchalantly wandered over and asked him if that was the spicy Tabasco or the regular.

He must have noticed the drool on my lips because he indignantly told me, “GET YOUR OWN.”

If you really wanted to "friend me," you'd have offered to drive the getaway car...

The internet news teases you with the “Man/Woman arrested for…” and somehow I always end up clicking on it to see if it is someone I know.

There are 300 million or so people in our country, but I would figure someday I would be able to read up on an old acquaintance that did something terrible or wildly illegal and made the national news confirming my idea that “he/she never was quite right.” And maybe they keep checking to see if it was me.

I guess now that everyone (well almost everyone) is on twitter or facebook, it would be less likely to be a surprise if someone from your past got nabbed in heinous activity, since they would probably mention in a “tweet” or on their page that they were “standing outside the bank with a ski mask on” right before they took the note to the teller. During the hostage crisis, you could send them a “hug” or a “pizza” or write something encouraging on their wall. Your friends could start a “I sure hope he gets the helicopter” group. Also, your friends could make suggestions or tell you they “liked” the idea of trading useless hostages for a massage therapist or a good barber.

(where you’re going, both will be tough to get)

But so far, everyone has stayed within the law (at least enough to not make the Drudge Report). But I’ll keep checking.

In the dark, almost...

The internet is out (at the time of this writing that is – if it never comes back on you’ll never get to read this) and it seems like the earth has ground to a halt.

I can’t get email, I can’t get on the internet…it’s like I’m stranded on a desert island, although I do have phone, light and motorcar, so things aren’t that bad.

And through this grueling trial (it’s been out for about an hour now) it seems pretty apparent to me how the evil people are going to get us (you may insert your greatest feared group who might gain power for “evil” in the last sentence) in their grips…they’ll control the information. They’ll get us all used to getting our news, sports and weather from the net and then they’ll just

Confess your sins and get free refills...

I saw a coffee cup the other day that said, “If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”

Bad grammar aside, I think it’s great that you can pin down the specific type of co-dependence that makes up your dysfunctional family life with a coffee mug. A great way to start your day.

In this same vein, I guess it would be fine if you had a mug that said, “Dad likes to risk the mortgage payment betting on college football games,” or “Sister thinks twinkies are a food group,” or even “Brother is a kleptomaniac."

All of which would make momma unhappy, so I guess the “If momma ain’t…” mug kind of covers the subject...