No Weed For My Back, Man!PLUS: 30% More Readers!

Fig. 1 - Our Great Uncle,
Knackered MacVertebrae:
Aigh, me fookin' baack! Think
I'll just sit me'se'f doon an' read fer a wee.

Greg:

Ouch. Not just ouch - fuckin' ouch. I had an MRI done on my lower spine because it's been bitching at me for quite some time now, and lo and behold I have a bulged disc between my L5-S1 vertebrae. So they says to me they says, "Hey - we got this stuff we can shoot in there that'll make the pain in your spine go away. I'ts kinda like weed for your back, man!" So I said, "Groovy!" But then I decided to get a second opinion and the other doc said, "Don't put weed in your back, man! You're old and it'll dissolve your chi! Bussides, just because you got a bulged disc, man, doesn't mean that's the source of the pain, ya dig? What you need is for me and my crew of saddhus to put you in a full nelson and torque you until you scream 'Nirvana'!" So I said, "Far out! Sign me up!"

I know you have had lower back problems, and our Dad had 'em. And probably everybody else in our family had bad backs stretching back to the day when our first Scottish ancestor, Brannoch McForeskin or whatever his name was, broke his ass on a rock when he landed in the Hebrides. (Okay - I know it wasn't Brannoch McForeskin. That was actually my friend Jim McForeskin's ancestor. It was Gunnar Olafsen, son of Olaf the Black of Norway, and more specifically, William Gunn who was Gunnar's son. Oh yeah, and whoever that Pictish woman was that Gunnar "married". Great thing about Scottish ancestry: tall tree, but not too many branches.) Even your wife Marie has had a really serious back problem. Hey, do you think she caught it from you, man? Trippy! Anyway, I wonder whether the whole spinal thing is a genetic issue, or whether it's a neurotic issue, or whether it's a karma resonating down through the ages and jamming itself right up my bum. I may never know. And even knowing might not make it stop.


Fig. 2 - Our Great Grand Cousin,
Aiken MacEverybone:
Aigh, me fookin' baack! Mebbe
if I scratch me arse on this menhir,
it wi' prrovide soom rrelief!

So I'm thinkin' that this is probably a good time to reflect on the first thing that introduced me to the dharma, which was something in the book The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama. It was the notion that pain was something that comes with the territory if you have a nervous system, but suffering was an emotional choice that you make about your pain. That idea right there was the bell that woke me up to the Four Noble Truths, even though it wasn't being presented as part of them at the time.

The bad thing about pain is that it freakin' makes you tired, man! Tired! Even when I make an emotional choice about it other than freaking out, I still get tired. Cheebus H. Rice, it's a lot of work to hurt all the time. But just like The Big D said, pain can also draw you closer to others who suffer. When I'm in pain, more and more often I find myself thinking about kids who have had their L5 shot right the hell off in Afghanistan or Iraq or wherever. And it's not that it makes me think, wow, I don't have it so bad. It's that it makes me understand life on the whole as something other than just what's happening inside my head and my body right now. Just moving my pain into that greater context goes a very long way to reducing it. So yeah, more empathy, no weed. Bring on the wrestling saddhus.

Meet Tami Fairweather!


The Fairweather family reunion, c. 1952.

I used to work with Tami at AtomFilms during the dot com boom. We were both intoxicated with the belief that yes, you really could make millions of $$ by playing short films on the InterWeb for free. And we also believed that we would one day cash in all our stock options for solid gold rocket cars and fistfuls of really expensive candy. Man were we way off. So at the "It All Went In The Shitter" party that we had at the end of Atom's heyday, I explained to Tami that no matter how good a person's intentions might be, former co-workers simply never get together when they said they would, they eventually lose contact completely, and this would probably be the last she ever saw of me. Six years later, I still sign all my correspondence to her with "Goodbye Forever".

What do they call you back home? Stormy, Tamilicious, Ms. Forkwrangler, Stormfront.

What do you...uh...do? Lately I've been keeping slightly under the radar, only exposing myself to the peeps that mean something special to me. (I'm honored! -Ed.) And those that I won't see ever again, like Thaddeus. (Whoah! Excellent burn! -Ed.) I think this is due to the fact that career-wise I have to be really nice and social all the time, so my off time is more of a muted color palette. However, I'm a helluva lot of fun and very loyal to the important people.

What would you like to know about Greg? Do you have any baggage (good or bad) from being raised in the mysterious Gunn family? (Oh sweet Jesus, don't even crack the seal on that one! -Ed.) Also, is the current Thaddeus your favorite? As a witness to all past versions of Thaddeus, if you could bring one of them back, which one would it be? (Please not the one with the hair. -Ed.)

What would you like Greg to know about you? I'm really excited that The Electric Company is out on DVD.

Isn't it ossum on a hot summer night when you put your arm underneath your pillow and it's still all cold under there, like some kinda "coldness magic"? It's not only ossum on a hot summer night, it's ossum year-round. I'm not a fan of the way-to-fuzzy (whether t-shirt of flannel) sheets that serve like roller-skate brakes on various body parts as you toss n turn through the night. (Flannel chafing is the #1 cause of death among Canadians. -Ed.)

Meet Your Sister-In-Law Teresa!


Small but mighty! This woman can kick your ass before you
even stand up.

What do they call me at home? (Honey let me answer this one. I call her a lot of stuff that 't'ain't even English. Nor is it Togalog or Basayan or Illacano. It's all loving, mind you. But other than that it just ain't. -Ed.)

What do I do? I get paid to break stuff. Honestly! (She's a software breaker...uhh...tester. -Ed.)

What I would like to Greg to know about me - Don't slap my face - just a friendly warning. (Even if he's challenging you to a duel? -Ed.)

Isn't it ossum... - Just as long as the temp doesn't drop down below myaccepted temp range so that I don't have to wear my scowl insurance to bed. (Since she spent most of her life in California and Hawaii, Teresa can withstand a wide range of temperatures, like from 68F to 71F. -Ed.)

Meet Mark Keeney!


That's not the "mahalo" sign he's making.
It's ASL for "I've broken both my legs and
my ass is freezing".


Fresh from the monkey farm: Keeney's offspring Alex (L) and
Griffing (R).

Keeney works over there (he said, indicating the other side of the floor over by where I could hit Tyler Hill with a stick, were my arm mighty enough to blast it through four walls of concrete). What he does over there I have no idea, other than it partially involves asking me to write stuff, and partially involves a small flask of tequila that disappears bit by bit every day. Oh yeah, and he does stuff with math that makes my head whirl so I try not to look. You can't tell in the picture, but he's like 6-foot-a hundred. If the Space Needle were a hoop, he could still dunk.

OTHER VERY IMPORTANT NOTE ABOUT KEENEY: Were it not for the fact that he once said "you oughtta have a blog" (after which I asked him "what the hell is a blog"), this blog would not exist. He is Keeney the Kreator.

What do they call you back home? Keeney…if you called me by first I wouldn’t know to turn around.

What do you...uh...do? By weekday I propagate more grey hairs in my mane by performing in a reality show sans the cameras. At night and weekends I construct elaborate railways on the island of Sodor, investigate the subtle differences between a Pteranodon and Pterdactyl, construct forts out of pillows, crank up the Gorillaz and do the funky chicken (er Tofu-Chicken), plant the seeds of passion for Husky basketball, and sit back and watch my two monkeys grow before my very eyes. (It's true. He's a monkey farmer. But not real monkeys - the hairless kind that humans give birth to. -Ed.)

What would you like to know about Greg? What accent do you have? Coffee or Tea? Ale or Lager? Dairy or Soy? Do you have a sports franchise obsession like your brother? If so, what team/sport? (Only if the sport is tuba, and only if the team is the London Philharmonic. -Ed.) If you had to pick one type of cuisine to eat for the rest of your life, what would that be? (Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! I know this one! It's peanut butter, banana and mayonnaise sandwiches! It's like a heart attack between to slices of bread! But what a way to go! -Ed.)

What would you like Greg to know about you? I once saw Jethro Tull perform at Ephesus, Turkey. (Not really a fan at all, but how often do you get to see an aging 70’s rocker jam on a flute on one leg like a flamingo at the supposed birthplace of Mary?) The real bummer was James Brown was supposed to perform but at that time couldn’t leave the USA on account of a little PCP, outrunning cops, and socking his then wife.

Isn't it ossum on a hot summer night when you put your arm underneath your pillow and it's still all cold under there, like some kinda "coldness magic"? When have we had a hot summer night? (He has a point. We are in Seattle, after all. -Ed.)

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

A Whole New Way In Which I Suck. PLUS: Meet More Readers!

If I were the 20-year-old Pablo Neruda,
it would be almost impossible for
me to suck.

Greg:

If there's one thing I shouldn't do, it's read. Reading only uncovers new and multifarious ways in which I suck. Take the book I picked up this morning, A Gentleman Pens A Note by John Bridges and Bryan Curtis. It's part of my collection of writing references. I'm a writer. Did you know that? But I'm not just any kind of writer. I'm a copywriter. I get paid positively scads of money to write compelling two- and three-word directives that get consumers to snap up things they probably don't need. Hell, simply writing the words "download now" nets me about $12.50. I've got the sweetest gig in the universe.

Now back to what I was saying about how I suck...

Bridges and Curtis, through several excellent examples, get across a very simple point. Good note writing lies in thinking about the other person. For instance, if you forgot to send a thank you note for something you got last year, their rule of thumb is that it's never too late to say thank you. "Every time I pick up the 'Kats R Krazy' mug you got me for Hannukah '03, I always get a laugh and think of your smiling face..." You don't say, "Man, I'm so sorry I'm late sending this. I'm such a douche. You're so generous - and me? Well, I don't deserve to draw a breath." The latter is about you, you and only you, and not just that, but what a dunce you are. It's as though you're trying to let everyone know that life is an unfolding drama with you as the central character. That's no way to say thank you, now is it?

Which brings me to this blog, which is about me, no matter how much I'd like it to be about you. Ergo, by the aforementioned standards of etiquette set by Mssrs. Bridges and Curtis, I suck. Although this blog is called "Dear Gregory", at a glance one can see that it's mostly about how I suck at Buddhism, how ghey I am for the football, and how I'm a hack who spends his ill-gotten wealth on overpriced PataGucci hiking schwag.

Forgive me. There should be more in this blog about the person who inspires it. It's worthwhile to note that I write these letters to you because I know that you "get it", not because we're related, but because you and I have a unique attunement and understanding others might describe as "shared comorbid neurotic eustress". I must also say that I shy away from bringing up things that you may or may not want out there for public consumption, like details about your brilliant invention [understandably classified], or your address [transient], or your bass-playing acuity [wicked!] which is currently being rented by a country western band [harsh!].

Most recurrent among comments that I have received while writing this blog is the question of whether you're a real person or not, which only underscores the fact that I don't write enough to you, and write far too much at you. So drop me a note, wouldja, and let me know what's fair game and what's not.

In the meantime, dig your crazy readers, man!

Meet Peter Darchuk!


Darchuk is not a unicorn, but he plays one on TV.

Peter Darchuk currently does something or other for Disney, a job for which he can scarcely conceal his loathing. Given his druthers, I'm sure he would sooner skin cats in a Mexican rendering plant (without the benefit of union representation, even) than continue doing whatever he does for The Mouse.

Alas, his job does supply him with a "connection" to the "industry" which he "milks" for all it's "worth". He's a writer, but not the bad kind like me. He's the good kind, the kind that creates works both authentic and unique, that - speaking of egregious unfairness - do not make him dime one. See for yourself.

Darchuk is also the auteur who brought you "Danny Nutter's Tips For Livin'" and The Idjit's Bible.

Meet Tyler Hill!


L to R: Tyler Hill, Tyler Hill, Sara Hill, Tyler Hill.

I could probably hit Tyler Hill with a stick right now - if he were sitting at his desk, and if my arm were mighty enough to blast it through four walls worth of concrete. Perhaps it is, come to think of it. I'm going to shut up and let him talk while I go out and try to find a stick.

What do they call you back home? Tyler, or Ty (if they are feeling monosyllabic). College buddies refer to me by a wide variety of names ranging from Spongeboy to the General.

What do you...uh...do? I'm a graphic designer and occasional illustrator. But, generally I ramble about the board game I'm designing, or how I'm going to make a comic book one day.

What would you like to know about Greg? I think its important that I remain ignorant about Greg.

What would you like Greg to know about you? Recently, I put my quarter-life crisis behind me, and kicked off my third-life crisis by getting a tattoo of a bee. I'm boarderline phobic of both bees and needles, so the event has tons of symbolic meaning that I don't like to focus on too much for fear of it moving from "symbolic" to "trite."

Isn't it ossum on a hot summer night when you put your arm underneath your pillow and it's still all cold under there, like some kinda "coldness magic"? (yes/no) Definitely "cold magic." My wife and I just switched the sheets at our apartment from Winter Mode™ (flannel) to Spring mode™ (cotton), so its all about the cool sheets these days.

(And speaking of Cool Sheet, you should go read Tyler's blog! -Ed.)

Meet Elizabeth Rogers!


L to R: Elizabeth in Australia; Another sign of the impending
apocalypse; Elizabeth at 6,000 ft., above Lake Angeles.

What does Elizabeth do? Well, in her own words she: "...wrangle(s) a bunch of highly intelligent, energetic and crazy people with very short attention spans.

What?

I said I wrangle a bunch of highly intelligent, energetic and crazy people -

Ice cream! Ice cream! Ice cream!

- with very short atten -

Look, birds! I have a dirty hand!

- tion spans.

Can you roll your tongue like this - llyyaaaaayyyllyyyaaaaahhhh?

Thaddeus! Settle down!

Okay, I will. Now what was that first part?

I wrangle a bunch...

Do you like busketti?

LET ME FINISH!

...ok...

Ahem. I wrangle a bunch of highly intelligent, energetic and crazy people with very short attention spans. You know, creative types. During office hours I am their leader which means I mostly channel the collective energy and creative tidal wave towards good instead of evil and remind people to go to recess and write blogs when things are leaning towards the dark side. When I am not at work, I basically hole myself up with lots of sharp tools and yards of fabric. Occasionally stopping to cook and run amok in the great outdoors.

What would you like to know about Greg? What is it like to be Beethoven, Napoleon Dynamite, and Thomas Edison all at the same time. AND how in God's name is that combination possible with the massive amounts of weed you are reported to have grown, refined and ingested over the years? (CLARIFICATION: Greg was not the weed-growing brother. In high school, he only smoked his tuba. She has you confused with the brothers we refer to as "John" and "Tom". -Ed.)

Coldness Magic? YES.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Meetez-Vous les Readers, Part 3

Thich Nhat Hanh is probably not reading your mail.

Greg:

So I'm goin' through some things - life stuff, existential stuff, anger stuff, try-not-to-choke-the-living-shit-out-of-person-x. stuff, knowwhatI'msayin'? - and my wife gets me a book by Thich Nhat Hanh (you know him - short fellah, Vietnamese, spiritual behemoth, Nobel Prize nominee) which is titled The Heart of the Buddha's Teaching. She thinks that given my current psuedo-crisis it might contain something that might do me some good. Long story short it's supposed to be a treatise on the Four Noble Truths and how they can be applied to human suffering. You know, some light reading. Or so I thought. In truth this book makes the Principia Mathematica look like Go Dog Go!

So homey-san breaks open 84,000 dharma dams and tries to flood my white ass with oceans of the nectar of enlightenment, causing me to gurgle a resounding "whuh the fuh?" He cross-references so many Buddhist texts both modern and ancient that I have never even heard of that I just throw my flippers skyward and bleat like a manatee. I figure this book will go down in my personal history alongside precalculus, women, microwave ovens, the square root of negative 1, and Every Other Thing I Will Never Understand.

I am as dumb as a trout, I swear. Either I have to circle back to lesson 1 in Buddhism for Dharma-Tards or I have to read a lot more. Or I have to go to the Zendo in Tacoma. I hear this "Zen" thing has a lot of "nothing" in it, so how tough can the required reading be, huh?

Anyway, I'll let you know how that all works out. In the meantime, enjoy three more heapin' helpin's of your public.

Meet Randy Hughes!


A Google search for "Randy Hughes"
returns the image of this rather
dashing fellow, who is not the
Randy Hughes I know. At least I
think not, unless he's putting 10W40
in his hair nowadays.

Hughes consistently wins Best Teacher In The Universe accolades each year from the Gunn Institute. And he shall do so until I cack. He was my history teacher in high school, is still a high school history teacher (with a brief hiatus in the Iowa legislature), and to this day has not flown into a single murderous rage over the neverending shenanigans of his herd of adolescents. I cannot say the same of myself. Perhaps I shall tell you where the bodies are buried in a future correspondence.

What do they call you back home? Among the many things I am called are: RJ, Randa, Scooter, Baby Doll, Mr. Hughes, Huge, (Mr. Huges is not large, by the way. -Ed.), Current Resident, Sir, and The Old Guy Who Introduces The Wrestlers.
What do you...uh...do? Pretty much whatever I want. (It's true. I saw him give citizenship to a hobo once. Naturalized him right there on the floor of the legislature, in front of Gawd and everybody. -Ed.) Additionally, perform all manner of nutritional functions, share-cook-clean perform other household tasks, walk-run-jump -roll over-irritate the sox of most authority figures; live vicariously precariously, tread gently, cry at Field of Dreams and I mean every time, wish that Jeb Bartlett and his staff ran the country.
What would you like to know about Greg? How is he?

Meet Sally Hamshaw!


Sally's got sauce - and she's not afraid to use it!


Pictured: the shack where she stores her excess
sauce in the winter.

Whether you call her Sally or Pony or Who's The Girl With That Certain Jeanie Say Kwaz, she's got sauce. Buckets of sauce. Way too much sauce for Silverdale, WA which is where she now lives with her (no doubt long-suffering) boyfriend. She wants to know where you live, if you're like me, and if you're gay. Regarding that last part, I don't know if she means gay as in jovial, gay as in homo, gay as in heaumeaux, or gay as in Thaddeus, when did you go all ghey for the football? I suggest you ask your wife.

In her own words: I'm a Seattlite, born & raised with a few living stints in Bellingham in a feminist house that didn't allow men, meat or cigarettes indoors, and I've also lived in Chelan 3 times ~ one of those times (the first one) provided me with my high school diploma and my first lesbian experience. And she had the coolest birthmark....oh wait, I've gone too far.

Meet Barbara Pritchard!


Normally a sharp and clear-headed
individual, Barbara occasionally becomes
befuddled and answers the stapler.

I've known Barbara Pritchard since the turn of the century, or Ought Ought as we old-timers refer to it. That's when I freaked out and realized that I had known Barbara since '87. She worked for the legendary C/Z Records back then, and I worked for KJET and had an 18-inch platinum blonde mohawk. It was a simpler time in Seattle. Lattes were only $17.50. Bill Gates had not yet moved to Medina. And you could still pee on or near the floor at the Central Tavern while getting drunk on or near The Fastbacks or The Young Fresh Fellows.

In all of that time, I have never once seen Barbara freak out. By comparison, everyone else I know, including me, has freaked out at least 36^5 times. This is impressive considering the fact that Barbara has done stuff like manage projects that involve having to motivate sluggards like myself. Sluggards exactly like me. Okay - me. She should also be canonized for helping me pass my programming classes. So when you think of Barbara, think of a giant slice of calm floating in a lake of serenity surrounded by a raging brushfire made of craziness. Nowadays she works for Smashing Ideas, a bunch of very nice creative people who continue to hire me for freelance work, regardless of the blazing mediocrity of my copywriting.

Her advice to you? In her own words: Please tell Gregory that it’s not the squirrels nor is it Bambi he needs to worry about. If there’s marmots around keep your boots on.

If John Muir had taken that advice, he'd be alive today!

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Meet The Readers! Part Deux

Greg:

I prolly oughtta explain that I started this whole "Meet The Readers" thing by sending out a list of four questions to the whole "Dear Gregory" email list. I thought I should "prime the pump" as it were and give people a place to start if they were going to tell me something about themselves.

Oh yeah. And I prolly oughtta explain that there's a whole "Dear Gregory" email list. Greg? There's a whole "Dear Gregory" email list. (There, I explained it.)

So anyways, here are two more honest-to-Church flesh-and-bone people who peep at your mail.

Meet Dave Crawford!


A Google search of the term "Dave Crawford" returns
this image, whereas...


...a kindly-worded email to Dave Crawford returns
this image.

Dave and I went to high school together in Creston, Iowa way back before the InterWeb was invented. If we wanted to surf porn on the InterWeb back then (and believe me, we wanted to), we had to do it the old fashioned way. We had to carve it ourselves out of birch. After graduation, he went and circled the globe and came back. I left and never returned.

I can't possibly top what Dave had to say on his completed questionnaire, so I'll just let him speak for himself - which he does, very well.

What do they call you back home? Crawdad.

What do you...uh...do? Drink beer, ride my Harley and shove Snopes down my relatives' throats by responding all. I lure young women to my hot tub and ply them with alcohol. I killed a gopher with a stick once. (And he also makes music, which you can listen to here. Not the dead gopher. I mean Dave. -Ed.)

What would you like to know about Greg? Why don't you ever write? PCs go both ways (as do some of the hicks here in Bumfuck --- so I've read).

What would you like Greg to know about you? (Please, I draw the line at descriptions of birthmarks.) I know a million jokes on almost any subject. Some of them are funny, like this one: Two muffins are baking in an oven and the first one says "Man, it's hot in here", to which the second replies "Whoa, a talking muffin". I used to be a yuppie but now I scoff at them. Life is too short.

Isn't it ossum on a hot summer night when you put your arm underneath your pillow and it's still all cold under there, like some kinda "coldness magic"? (yes/no) Yes; on particularly balmy nights I may flip the pillow several times to take advantage of the newly-cooled outer edges. The older I get the more appreciative of the thermostat I've become even though I have friends who are all "outdoorsy" and like to camp in the yard or keep their bedroom windows open even when it's obviously the wrong choice. You can die outside. I checked Snopes on that one.

Meet your brother Tom!


Not pictured: rocket launcher, murderously enraged hell-hounds,
beautiful daughters.

Long on brass, short on words, and more gold teeth than an Incan mummy: What are three things that describe our brother Tom, Alex? Ding ding ding! It's a Daily Double!

Your (or our, if you count me) brother Tom has a farm - e i e i o - on which he apparently raises opinions, then slaughters and butchers them for consumption on the Web. Think I'm lyin'? Take a look at his blog.

Now for his almost koan-like to-the-point answers to the questionnaire:

What do they call you back home? Define "Home" white boy.
What do you...uh...do? What do you ah do?
What would you like to know about Greg? What's "like" got to do with it?
What would you like Greg to know about you? (Please, I draw the line at descriptions of birthmarks.) Second verse, same as the first. (Readers: at this point, you fully understand Tom. You really, really do. Watch, he's gonna use the term "nukkin futs" pretty soon. I guarantee it. -Ed.)
Isn't it ossum on a hot summer night when you put your arm underneath your pillow and it's still all cold under there, like some kinda "coldness magic"? (yes/no) Are you nukkin futs? (Bingo! -Ed.) That's what they make AC for. Everybody knows it's cold under your pillow because that's where the ghosts live.

Man, this stuff is easy. It practically writes itself! And that's because it does!

There will be more soon. Much, much more. In the meantime, cheers and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Meet The Readers! Part 1

Greg:

A short while ago I wrote you a letter titled People Are Reading Your Mail (or something to that effect). Well to prove that point, I'd like to introduce you to a couple of flesh-and-blood humans who actually eavesdrop (eyedrop?) on your correspondence. And speaking of eavesdropping, one of these guys actually works for the government. Not our government, mind you - that other government, the one that puts the "B" in BBC. Now then:

Meet Luke Keen!


Keen - Before

Keeno, Dukester, Lukem Dukem or Scrote. This dashing young denizen of London answers to 'em all. Keen wins his bread from The Beeb (BBC), albeit only scanty handfuls of it owing to it being a government post. Therefore, he is forced to supplement his income by going down to the docks each night to participate in England's Arse for Cash program, which is considerably more popular than the US Food for Oil program. (Keen points out that the term "arse for cash" is also a euphemism for selling things on eBay, and that he unfortunately has no oil to trade to the US. Well, not much anyway, other than what's already in the kitchen. -Ed.)


Keen - After

In his own words: "I regularly disappoint myself and working for the world best broadcaster (the BBC) does little to alter that opinion. I think I'm a funny bastard, who's wasted talents strangle me and drag down into the deepest darkest recesses of emotional despair, and I'm too lazy/ lacking in self confidence to pull myself out of it. If I could get a job as Devil's Advocate, I would smash it! I live in London, and love the place to bits!! It totally rocksaws!"

Keen is the genuine article, a stand-up guy with real wit and talent (musical and otherwise) which you can get a taste of right here in his blog.

Matt Meat Lange!


Paging Mister Bag! Mister D. Bag!

Everbody calls Lange "Douchebag", which is the self-same sobriquet he distributes widely upon his fellow man. He is employed, if by "employed" you mean "freelancing" - and if by "freelancing" you mean "unemployed". He is a designer by trade, if "by trade" you mean "something to tell chicks in bars so they don't think they're gonna go home with an unemployed guy". He smokes and has at least two thumbs.

What else can I say about Lange, other than he left the writing of this mini-bio entirely up to my malicious caprice? He's the outdoorsy type - snowboards, hikes, pees in the yard - that sort of thing. He recently had a very heated conversation on the phone with his sister which I overheard. As I recall, it came up just short of "I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS!", and it was over something like "who fuckin' drank the last of the fuckin' Sunny Delite?!!". I saw them together after that on Chinese New Year. They were all smiles, and no one was dead.

He's from Buffalo, and is therefore and enormous Bills fan - which in turn means that he is filled with the kind of hope usually reserved for the people who maintain a constant vigil for the Escape Ships that will land Any Day Now.

That's all the introductions I have for now, but owing to my calculations (and the distribution list for this blog), I have about three hundred seventy nine more people for you to meet.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Hey! You Got Your Hindu In My Shamanism!

Greg:

Had an excellent day trip on Saturday. Went out to Whidbey Island, a long hunk of land floating in the Puget Sound just northwest of Seattle. It's populated by a strange mix of military families, stinky hippies, horsefawkers and the psuedo-wealthy. Yes, I know that's a completely judgmental and pejorative statement. I'm working on it. Or "breathing through it", as Buddhists say.

I went out there to check out a place called Earth Sanctuary. It's a sort of retreat center-slash-wildlife conserve-slash-meditation park-slash-religion blender. I met the guy who is the head silviculturalist, Dr. Dean Rae Berg, in the Tucson airport after I went to see the Dalai Lama last summer. He's a hardcore (soft core? empty core?) Mahayana Buddhist, and a real friendly guy to boot, and gave me the funky lowdown on the place. So naturally, when I got back to Seattle, I dialed it up on the InterWeb and promised myself I'd make it there someday. So on Saturday, I did just that.

Before I go sputtering on with my usual diatribe about how New Agey-ism, the world's first soft-serve religion, has diluted and shown disrespect to almost every world culture by attempting to take all the most entertaining bits of each and upsell them to the weird and the bored, let me first say this: the place has a really good "feel" to it. And I'm not being all woo-woo or anything. As biliously judgmental as I'd like to be about how putting a statue of Chenrezig inside a dolmen makes about as much sense philosophically as putting an Easter Bunny inside a butsudan... (Yeah, they did.) And "Tibet Tech" Prayer Wheels? I don't mean to be disrespectful or anything but what the shit are you thinking? If they believe the billlion-some prayers encoded on the DVDs inside these things (Yes! Really!) are going to get cross-universal airplay just by giving the wheel a whirl, they have WOEFULLY misunderstood digital technology.

Well, crap. I had a really great time, so tell me to shup up. It's an incredible place. I think there probably oughtta be a place like this that's dedicated to nature, prayer and meditation in the center of every city in America. If I had a beezillion dollars, that's exactly what I'd do. I'd make places like this as ubiquitous as Gideon Bibles.

Best part? No squirrels kicking my ass, for one. Beyond that, it's difficult to describe. It's like one of those places that you remember from youth that tickled your sense of adventure and discovery, like Uncle Gerald's farm, for one, or that incredible peat bog in eastern Michigan. Places that sparked your wildness. Places that begged you to build a seekrit klubhouse in them. Maybe that's what Earth Sanctuary is. It's a seekrit klubhouse for grown-up boys and girls whose child-like wonder has chosen to express itself as religiophagy.

And for my next vacation getaway, I'll be doing a Lord of the Flies weekend on Guam.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Squirrels Grabbed My Nut Sack

I know how you feel.

Greg:

I went and officially cracked the seal on Hiking Season '06 yesterday with an 8-mile round trip hike up Mount Si. I've done that hike a few times before, but this is my first time doing it during tit-freezing season. Nobody told me that it was still winter up at the top. I checked the freezing levels, which were at something like 5-6k yesterday when I went up, but again - nobody told Mount Si that, and it decided that freezing levels oughtta be well below 3k. No wait - it decided that I personally should freeze every single one of my teats off, and so endeavored to help me in that regard.

Other item of note: There were squirrels. But more about that in a moment.

The first three miles of the trail were unremarkable, save for the fact it was fairly warm by February in the Northwest standards - about 56 degrees. But the last mile to the summit was nothing but hard-packed snow and ice. Were I wise enough to bring along cleats and poles, I would've been just fine. However, I am anything but wise, and therefore spent a great deal of time falling on my ass and grabbing at the branches of saplings as though I were a soul of the damned being pulled from the lake of fire. My lug soles didn't do much on the ice except to turn me into some kind of spastic Hans Brinker, with my arms violently windmilling for all of nature to see.

So I sweat buckets for the first three miles, and then froze for the last mile. Luckily I brought along my wantonly bourgeoise fashion statement of a North Face parka (fully accessorized with North Face gloves) and some ice goggles that proved to be indispensible. Nothing sucks worse than snowblindness, and the weather was perfect for it - nothing but ice below and not a cloud in the sky above.

At the summit, I picked out a spot that was in the sun but protected from the wind, and got out my bag of trail mix and a Power Bar and sat down to have a snack and drink in the glory.

Then the shakedown started.

First it was the mountain jays who started eyeballing me. I made the mistake of offering them some nuts, which they eagerly snapped up straight from the palm of my hand. Then the squirrels came around, snapping their tails and barking. So I figured what the hell, I might as well give them a little something. Well, as you know with squirrels, it's "give 'em a nut and they take the whole sack". Suddenly I heard a shriek from behind me ("Nuts are for the people, man!"), and in a trice I had squirrels caroming off my back while the jays attacked from the air. So I did the manly thing, which was to scream like a girl and wrest my nut sack from the bushy-tails' grasp, and then scamper away flailing my arms. The hike down pretty much consisted of me tobogganing down the trail on my ass to the hoots and jeers of tiny rodents.

This reminds me of a quote from the movie "The Game", starring Micheal Douglas and Sean Penn, which is: "they [bleep] you and they [bleep] you, and just when you think they're done [bleep]ing you, that's when the real [bleep]ing starts!" - which is to say that nature is all fine and good until it starts to be all natural and shit. And by "natural" I mean when squirrels start kicking my ass. Bears I can handle. Cougars, sure fine. They got books on that kind of stuff. But squirrels? They're everywhere, man! What if a bear could break into a hundred tiny bears and grab your nut sack? Think about it. It's truly frightening. And what are squirrels but tiny, tiny bears? I rest my case.

So I went down to REI and bought a six-gallon tub of squirrel repellent. Hopefully that'll take me through the rest of the season. However, if I should be taken down by a gang of squirrels in the North Woods, please tell people at my funeral that it was a gang of tiny bears instead.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

People Are Reading Your Mail

Who am the Gregory? This basalt effigy,
recently unearthed in Mesopotamia, bears a
chilling resemblance to my brother Greg.

Greg:

It may surprise you right out of your ruffly under-drawers to learn this, but other people are reading your mail. And by "your mail" I mean this blog. And by "this blog" I mean this thing that I write on the InterWeb because I'm too goddamn cheap to continue purchasing Crane's 100% rag stationery ($1.80/sheet) and stamps (five shillings fuppence) instead of burning up 100% FREE photons that are my God-guaranteed right to consume. In other words, this blog costs me nothing, and I haven't lost a cent if you don't write back. Considering the cost effectiveness of blog vs. US Post, I'm perfectly comfortable with putting your correspondence on what amounts to flypaper for the world's eyeballs and letting the everyone know that you wear ruffly under-drawers.

Speaking of postal spies - it may interest you to hear what Christiaan van Vliet, a reader of your mail and Ween enthusiast recently relocated to beautiful Salem, OR (and who incidentally goes by the sobriquet "Glasses Bitch"), had to say:

I really can't wait for the Superbowl to be over,Thaddeus. I mean, when did you turn all ghey (sic) for the football? Sheesh. Every week I look forward to my copy of Dear Gregory for insightful and witty prose, not sports commentary. Although, you're better than George Plimpton, I gotta give you that...

Now I don't care that Sr. van Vliet (of the Zuyder Zee van Vliets) doesn't like the football or the commentary that goes with the football or the fact that I am ghey for the football. I am overjoyed that Mssr. van Vliet actually responded. Which is something that you do not do, save for using the 2-Way Telephonics Device. And I'm beginning to suspect that your story about losing both hands in a fluke accident involving an electric drafting eraser is just so much hooey. If you have a helper monkey like you say you do, then you should stop having it wax your bikini line and teach it to type instead.

So yeah, people are not just reading your mail, but are also submitting unsolicited (but not unwelcome) critiques of the content. Also of interest should be this comment from Tim:

Is Gregory a real person?

So yes, to confirm your existence, you should probably dictate a letter to your helper monkey which I will reprint right here in this space. This will prove to the world once and for all that this blog is an actual correspondence, and that I'm not just using my imaginary brother as a gimmick/motif for my rambling commentary on Buddhism, coffee, poetry, depression, and how ghey I am for the football.

Is your monkey ready? Begin!

-Thaddeus

PS: You must realize that your response may also predicate the existence of our older brother Sgt. Rock and of course our "tweener" brother John. Viz., you will no longer be able to claim that you are the dauphin, as you are so fond of doing at parties.

PPS: It should be pointed out that I am ghey for the football, but it's Teresa's fault. She made me watch the Super Bowl ecks ecks ecks vee aye aye back in ought two and I was hooked.

PPPS: Although you know that I can go on ad infinauseum about the football, there is no commentary on Super Bowl XL in this blog because it seems that every helper monkey on earth that has access to a keyboard is already doing that. I thought it'd be overkill.

P4S: Every time you respond to this blog, a Jesus gets its wings. -TRG

So Complete Was My Outrage...

Seahawks tight end #86 Jerramy Stevens plucks a pass directly
from the hand of God.

Greg:

I'm hazarding a guess that you haven't been following the hoopla (what little there is) surrounding Super Bowl XL. At least I'm pretty certain that you haven't TiVo'd everything with the word "Seahawk" in it, and then watched every single frame of it until you realized that you probably knew the players better than the team doctor by now. And then the words "obsession" and "professional help" crept into your mind. I'm guessing you haven't gone so far as all that.

So let me catch you up on this one little incident; indeed, the only incident of note that has bestirred the circus tent thus far. During press day this past Tuesday, Seahawks tight end #86 Jerramy Stevens made some remark about it being a sad day when Jerome Bettis (running back for the Steelers) went home without the Lombardi Trophy. Hijinx ensued. Steeler team psychopath-slash-loudmouth-slash-attention hound (and only incidentally outside linebacker #55) Joey Porter took a great deal of umbrage at this remark, and took it upon himself to swear hell and damnation against our Mr. Stevens. Since it was the only thing of note that had happened all week (save the fact that a hot dog had sold on eBay for $1,800), the sports press poured petrol on the whole thing, inserted a microphone into Mr. Porter, and recorded whatever rumblings his bile had to make.

Well I couldn't just sit there, could I? No no no. This was way too rich to pass up. So I crafted me a "letter" to Mr. Porter, I did, which - owing to the fact that I don't have his home address - I posted on the Seahawks fan site in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. (More surprising still was that a fan caught and understood the reference that I made to poet Theodore Roethke in the first paragraph. Man, Seattle must be well read!) Thought you'd enjoy reading it.

So here you go. Enjoy. Go Hawks!


Dear Jughead: Mister Webster called. He wants you to
stop misusing the words "wee", "dun", "axed", "foe" and
"respeck".


Mr. Joseph Porter
Motel 6 - Room 39
1471 Opdyke Rd
Auburn Hills, MI 48326

Dear Mr. Porter:

Allow me to get straight to the point:

So complete was my outrage upon hearing your untoward remarks about our Mr. Stevens that I nearly spilled my grande soy chai latte on my careworn copy of Theodore Roethke’s Words for the Wind. Such wroth invective will not be tolerated, sir. I am compelled herewith to defend the honor of our Mr. Stevens just as you felt it fit to defend the perceived social infraction against your team-mate, Mr. Jerome “The Auto-Bus” Bettis. Consider your challenge accepted, sir. And to you I say, en garde!

Let me be the first to say that you could have done much better with your epithets. For instance, you could have called Mr. Stevens a scalawag, jackanapes, or a ne’er-do-well (in order to prick at the tender point of his past legal imbroglios). To your discredit, you did not. You may have called him a rube, mountebank, cheese-peddler; or even a louche guttersnipe, doomed to scrofulae and all the trimmings of such an insalubrious estate - were you possessed of the brain-power to do so!

Indeed, I went there. Indeed I did. How are you enjoying my company now, Mr. Porter?

I understand that you intend to have a chat with Mr. Stevens during the warmups, and also that you intend to “put him on his back”. Let me ask you, at that time will you query him sweetly and discretely on his propensity for camping, fishing, marksmanship, and other skills of the Western chevalier? Let me put this to you as gently as I can, Mr. Porter. Don’t believe everything you see at the movies. Mr. Stevens is a married man, and does not ride sidesaddle, even when coaxed into places as idyllic as most national parks. Should you broach the Subject That Dare Not Speak Its Name with Mr. Stevens, prepare to be gravely disappointed.

Again – I went there. Mmm hmmm. Indeed. Indeed I did. And I arrived. Oh yes. Mais oui.

And finally, it must be said without reservation that your kicker is fat. In fact, so corpulent are his thighs, that the thunderous din of the galling spandex caught betwixt them will lead all Detroit residents to believe that they are attending a Grandmaster Flash concert whenever he takes the field. And his kicks? They shall all go wide - not unlike his thighs!

Touché, Mr. Porter. Point? Mine.

And to you I say good day, sir.

Thaddeus Gunn
Seattle, Washington

POST SCRIPT – To the person who reads this letter to Mr. Porter: Please ad lib your delivery with much gyrating of the neck, flaring of the nostrils, widening of the eyes, and articulated finger-snapping in a “z” pattern, if at all possible. Otherwise the impact – indeed the entire tenor of the piece – will be lost. Thank you so much. -TRG

Benchin' For The Buddha

Greg:

You're not gonna believe this. Back in October, when I started working out in earnest, I could only bench 80 pounds and do 14 push-ups. Check it out: I bench pressed 225 pounds this morning. That's three reps on a ten-Mississippi count, too.

No, I do not lie. And get that disbelieving smirk off your face. I crap you not. It was me. I benched two hunnert and a quarter. That's, like, thirteen stone, five ounces, six quid and tuppence. That's fifteen pounds more than I weigh. And if you want an idea of how slow my reps were, count to 10 Mississippi up and 10 Mississippi back while pretending to bench. Yeah, like tai chi slow.

"But Thaddeus," you sputter in disbelief, "you've always been a weenie-arm of the smallest magnitude. You even got knocked out by a girl once. And not even a very big girl. Plus, you represent the most effete of all God's creatures: The Middle-Aged Man. How did someone of your extreme weinertasticity develop such Herculean strength?" Short answer: the dharma.

Okay, so, you ever seen those guys who do feats of strength for Jesus? They bust baseball bats over their necks and break bricks and blow up douchebags like party balloons and all sorts of other meathead stunts to show people how ossum it is to be Christian? Okay, so, you've gotta be pretty well aware that I'm not a Christian. Twenty or so years of being a Christian pretty much cured me of Christianity. But I was reading an article in Shambhala Sun a while back about Buddhist athletes that really fascinated me. What was particulary fascinating was an interview with Jet Li. To say that Li is an accomplished martial artist would be putting it lightly. He's been studying Wu Shu since he was eight. He's also a hardcore Buddhist. And he's kicked enough ass to fill Wisner Stadium. So when they asked him if meditating improved his martial abilities, he told them that it was 't'other way 'round. He said he became an expert martial artist so he could meditate better. I don't know if you'd call that Kicking Ass for Inner Peace, but it was an interesting idea.

So then I was thinking, hey, what if I turned my workout into a meditation? Couldn't hurt. And it'd probably save me some time, 'cuz gawd knows that what ya really wanna do is hurry that meditation stuff up and get it the hell overwith. (I told you I was a bad Buddhist!) So what I did was to slow my movements waaaay down, tai chi-style, and to focus on my breath instead of the effort of moving the weight. I also decided to not get emotionally involved with the weight any more than I get involved with my thoughts when I meditate - just observe what is happening. And guess what? Boo yah, I'm Hercules.

Granted, part of what made my arms so weak was the fact that I had loose rotator cuffs. Both of my shoulders have been dislocated a number of times during the past thirty or so years. I did a whole lotta work to get those bad boys put back together, and I'm sure that helped a lot. But still, the meditation trick - pretty cool, huh?

Now for my next feat of strength, I'm going to go bench the Internet.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

We Are So Going To Beat The Steelers By 10 Points

Even the vaunted Mastodon offense was no match for the ancestors
of the Seahawks defense, shown here in a photograph taken during
Super Bowl 1.3 Million BC.

Greg:

Look I feel I should let you know that this letter contains more than just my ravings about football. If you slog your way through the first three-or-so paragraphs, you'll be rewarded with an intellectual treat. I promise. However, if you do not read the aforementioned ravings, the intellectual treat you so hunger for will be invisible! It will vanish from the page! Such are my HTML skills! They go beyond the paranormal!

So, that said -

Yeah, you saw right. I freaked out and made a Super Bowl prediction. My advice? I know you're not a wagering man, but you should consider putting one whole American dollar on the Seahawks to win the Super Bowl. Whether you want to take the point spread I'm putting up is up to you. Currently they're scheduled to lose the game by 3.5 points.

Which brings me to my next question: Whuh the fuh? The Steelers are a sixth seed; the Hawks are a first seed. So why are the Steelers favored over the Hawks? I asked all my friends in Tijuana and they just said yo no se. A load of help they are! So I sparked up the TiVo, assiduously reviewed both the Steelers/Broncs AFC Championship game and the Hawks/Panthers NFC Championship game back to back - play by play, even - and I can't find one single reason why the Steelers should be favored other than the bookies would really like to keep their money this time around.

I'm not going to talk smack about the Steelers 't'all because they're a really good team and I expect it will be a hard-fought battle. But the Panthers were a good team and you saw what we did to them. I mean everybody was "Steve Smith" this and "Steve Smith" that. "Oh but the Panthers have Steve Smith, and he has wheels, man, and that John Waters moustache that is the source of all his power!!" The Hawks D held Mr. Smith 33 yards, which is in football stats is about like smothering him with a pillow. So now everybody's like "Big Ben Roethlisberger" this and "Hines Ward" that, quoting all these stats.

Which brings me to my next question: Has any one of these nimrods ever heard of model breakdown? (It's a math thing. Have they ever heard of math?) Stats don't play stats in football. People play people in football. It's not like I've got a math gland larger than Kurt Goedel, but I know enough to not be so foolish as to say that the team with the higher numbers wins.

However, there are some stats that I will quote in my decision in favor of the Hawks. Every team in the playoffs that had three or more turnovers lost - except the Seahawks. Every team that got into 3rd and very long yardage more than twice (like 3rd and 25) lost - except the Seahawks. Long story short: we don't get rattled and we absorb our mistakes. I think that is more telling of who will win that simply comparing stats.

What's also interesting to me is this guy they call the Freud of Football - Dr. John F. Murray (Ph.D. Psychology, U. Florida 1996) - who uses some kinda psychological index to predict who will win. He did his dissertation on the Gators. He favors the Seahawks. By 5 to 10, no less.

AND THEN HE TOTALLY CHANGED THE SUBJECT!! Hey, did you get that email from Tom, you know, our brother? Seargent Rock? The one with that article from that one guy about how agriculture was the biggest mistake mankind ever made? This guy's down on agriculture! Talk about uber-Luddite! What's this guy's credo? "If it ain't on the vine, it's none of mine!" Usually Tom sends us stuff about how we oughtta build a bomb shelter to save ourselves from the flesh-eating Republican zombies who will take over the Earth come Thursday next - but this! This was good stuff. And by "good stuff" I mean that it reflects my personal hunter-gatherer bias. As far as I can see, all we got from agriculture (besides not having to battle one-on-one against giant rabbits to secure our dinner), was obesity, tooth decay and intraspecial aggression. (Even Konrad Lorenz agrees with me on that last one. Go here to let him bore the shit out of you with his "short" autobiography.) Man, if I had more back hair, I would be so outta these jeans and down on the railroad tracks pickin' blackberries without a care in the world...except maybe that I live in Seattle and it's ass freezing cold right now. And there are no blackberries in the winter. But you get my drift.

Okay, so my final word on the subject is this: the Steelers - who represent the post-agricultural world, obviously - will lose, but not drastically. And the Seahawks, whose very totem and symbol represents the Tlinkit hunter-gatherers of the Pacific Northwest, will prevail.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

...And By "Very Narrowly" I Meant 20 Points

#33 Marquand Manuel prepares to ascend into heaven as two
Carolina sinners prostrate themselves before the The Lawd.
The Ubiquitous Zebraman gives an "amen".

Greg:

First of all, thank you for calling to let me know that you were watching the game. I'm concerned that you don't get enough football, and so your call was a great load off my mind.

So besides the obvious - obvious meaning the whacking we gave the Panthers on Sunday which led to the Seahawks Super Bowl berth - Seasonal Affective Disorder seems to be kicking me in the crack. This is in spite of the fact that the Seahawks are going to the Super Bowl, an event so seemingly unlikely (if you believe the press) that one would think Jesus H. Christ Himself would be appearing at halftime. (As it is, the Rolling Stones are appearing, who are only slightly younger and better known than JHC.) I tried to distract myself by scouting the tape of the Steelers/Broncos game (that I TiVo'd, wisely). But after discerning that the Hawks have not much to worry about from the Bloated Spawn of Andrew Carnegie, even that pastime lost its appeal. Yes, I said it. Even football isn't lighting a match inside the dungeon of my cranium. Damn this accursed Seattle wintersogged greyness! Everything has lost its tang, even complaining. I was even beginning to think that having my liver pecked out each day then grown anew each night to be pecked out again the following day might be a pleasant diversion.

So imagine my surprise when, just shortly after affixing a freakishly accurate homemade bakelite beak to my shnozz and baring my own midsection, I stumbled upon an Internet mystery that dispersed the clouds from the sky and rekindled my will to bitch about stuff. Here's the short version:

A guy named Tucker Darby from Newton, Iowa finds a painting of a crop circle that was left behind when a mysterious character named Benjamin Stove abandoned his family farm in 1988. It's a pretty nice piece of kitsch, he thinks, until he finds out on closer inspection that it was painted in 1915. (That places its provenance well before the 1970s, when entire fields of alien-worshipping nutters sprang up nationwide in response to the crop circle phenomena - FYI.) To help solve both mysteries, he creates a blog that details his search to find out exactly Who Is Benjamin Stove. No, I'm not going to tell you any more. Yes, you actually have to read it. Why? Because I'm lazy and depressed. All I can muster is the will to continue reading about this mystery. And even I started at the middle, so when you read it, please call me and tell me what happened at the beginning. I could do it myself, but I'm hopelessly pinned under a pile of ennui and can't get up.


Definitely not the work of Grant Wood.

Now it could be a true mystery, or it could be complete shite. If it is shite, my hat's off to this Tucker Darby fellow because it's pretty damn clever shite. I'd hate to find out that this was some ploy by Artisan Pictures to recoup the leeching they got from Blair Witch 2: Book of Shadows. I want it to be true because it involves one of the Scariest Places On Earth - Iowa - and a nutjob of the first magnitude who is either at large as we speak, exsanguinated by the Chupacabra; or standing in the shadows, ready to pounce as soon as you stop reading this and turn out the lights. Good stuff. Go read it.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

We Are So Going To Very Narrowly Beat The Panthers

Our QB and their QB are friendly with
each other. Andre Dyson (SEA) and
Steve Smith (CAR) were college room
mates. Ken Lucas(CAR) is a former
Seahawk and still has a lot of friends on
the team. In short, both teams admire
and respect each other a great deal.
So howcome Skip Bayless, who isn't
on either team, gotta hate so much?

Greg:

We've been over this before. I know you don't give either one or two rat's asses about football. That's okay. I don't expect everyone to be as obsessed with certain things as I am. However, I would like you to set that peanut butter sandwich down just long enough to suspend the notion that you're not listening at all whilst I rave briefly.

We will beat the Panthers. Even renowned Hawk Hater Skip Bayless says we're gonna beat the Panthers. (My reply to his column is included below.) And - here's a shocker - I like the Panthers. I was all over 'em in Super Bowl XXXVIII. They're a swell buncha guys, a team that no one believed in. They're all the players the other guys passed over. I think their QB Jake Delhomme is a player any team would be lucky to have. And this ragtag buncha scrappers made it all the way to the Super Bowl, and were narrowly defeated by those media darlings, the New England Patriots. That was a skins versus button-down shirts game if ever there was one.

But that's the beauty of this Sunday's game. It's the Good Guys vs. the Good Guys. Neither team is a media darling. If you stacked up all the press that both teams got last year, it wouldn't reach, say, that rat's ass that you care so little about. And yet both of these teams are a stone's throw from the Super Bowl. It takes a lot of heroic tales to come to a crossroads like that, tales that many a douchebag journalist doesn't have the grapes to tell. Why? Not a big enough eyeball draw, hence not "important" enough. Brett Favre (who had a dismal year) cuts himself shaving, and it's headline news. Two also-ran teams scratch and claw their way to the top, and nobody notices.

Okay, so just to prove to you that I can talk about something other than football, let's make some small talk. Ummm - Well. I had a cup full of little cookies after lunch. They had nuts in them, I think. I went to the Seahawks Pro Shop and - no wait! That's football. My bad. Okay. So - yeah. How 'bout that Mozart? Two-hunnert and fitty years old this year. Dang. That guy rocks like Dokken. Ever heard that "Rock Me Amadeus" thing? Ossum.

So how's the real estate thing going in Nevada? (Do they still have real estate in Nevada? Or do they call it something else, like Arroyo Cayuse Longhorn Flintcraw Saddlecock?) Real estate - now that's mostly dirt, right? Or is it something fancier? Like dirt with cheese in it?

(By now your katana-sharp intellect has seized upon the fact that without football, most interpersonal conversation is a rather grim and sugarless affair - is it not? I believe I speak the truth.)

'Kay. So. That's about it for now. Goodnight and Go Hawks! Or if that's too gauche a phrase to pass your delicate eyes, then I say Geaux Hacques to you!

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

My reply to Skip Bayless' column:
Skip, you're still welcome in Seattle as far as I'm concerned, regardless of your opinion of our team. Seattleites welcome dissenting views. I'm a true blue Seahawks fan, I admire the Panthers, and I'm looking forward to a very good game. I have no underhanded jibe or thinly veiled putdown to insert here, either. All I can say is that I'm sorry you feel the way you do. I can't see how such vehement negativity could possibly increase anyone's enjoyment of The Greatest Sport Ever Devised By Man any more than me insulting you for your low opinion of my team would ennoble me. I love football and I support my team, win or lose. I wish you the best of luck in all your future endeavours, whether they include a trip to Seattle or not. -TRG

Poetry & Football: Together Again For The First Time

Poet Megan Grumbling:
Probably not a huge Seahawks fan.

Greg:

Look, I know that you've had it up to here (he said, indicating a latitude about 4'10" from the floor) with me going on and on about football. The season will be over as of the night of February 5th, so at least you may take some comfort in the fact that there will be no more fuel for my obsession. After the Super Bowl, my interests will no doubt return to the introspective - Buddhism, poetry, coffee, dysthymia - you know, the standard Pacific Northwest leisure pursuits.

Speaking of the Pacific Northwest, here are some quick notes on life in the Big Wet One:

• As of this morning, we are on our 27th consecutive day of rain. As of Friday, our annual precipitation is 4.10" above average, a fact that I find 99.9% less than ossum. We don't live in a state. We live in a leaky basement.
• Humorous sign seen on a house during a recent trip to Portland, OR: HIPPIES USE SIDE DOOR.

And speaking of hippies - Arrrrgh! Body - strong! But - will - weak! Must talk about football!! Jake Plummer, the quarterback of the Denver Broncos, has either ceased all forms of personal hygiene for the duration of the playoffs, or is appearing in an off-Broadway revival of Jesus Christ Superstar. His exceedingly beardacious and hair-riffic appearance caused me to dub him Jakus Christ Superstar while the Gunn household was enjoying the Patriots/Broncos game yesterday. By the way, Jakus Christ and the Broncs beat Tom CryBrady and the rest of Coach Bill Bitch-A-Lot's Patriots rather soundly - 27-13. Undoubtedly, the Patriots will attempt to file a nuisance suit in civil court claiming fraud, robbery and battery by a crazed band of hippies in tight white pants. ("We was only there to goes and does some skiin', which we hear is wicked nice in Colorader this time of yee-uh," the plaintiffs said.)

Which brings me to poetry. Had a rather nice discovery in the last issue of Poetry magazine. (Yeah, I'm a subscriber, so what? Shut up!) A poet with the unfortunate name of Megan Grumbling (adolescence must've been hell on her, no doubt obviating the career choice) has a book out titled Booker's Point, a series of poems written around and about an old Maine coot named Booker. Poetry magazine has a selection from it online, the poem Raking Near The Great Works. (Please go read it before they update the page and the link breaks.) It might remind you a lot of the autumns we had in Michigan. Now that I live in the Land Of Two Seasons (and those would be Unbearably Shitty and Fawking Gorgeous), I miss those true autumns something ferocious.

And one final note, since you probably haven't been following the playoffs much-if-at-all, the Seattle Seahawks won their first playoff game in 21 years. And they did it despite 3 turnovers and the loss of their NFL MVP running back in the second quarter - which of course prompted me to write the following truly awful (and probably the first) Seahawks football haiku:

You heard us knocking / Now the door is coming down / Cold pond overruns

Cheers, and give my best to Marie.

-Thaddeus

Like I Said

Andre Dyson, Marquand Manuel and Bryce Fisher make juice out
of the Redskins' Taylor Jacobs.

Dear Washington Post:

Shut up.

Sincerely,

Thaddeus R. Gunn

We Are So Going To Cream The Redskins

A local family prepares to grant custody of their child
to Seahawks Wide Receiver Bobby Engram as a special
"thank you" for a particularly ossum season.

Greg:

I know that you look forward to my letters as a source of deep discussion of salient matters and gleamingly unprejudiced discourse. Or perhaps you just anchored my blog to your F10 key so you can instantly launch it to obscure porn when the boss walks by. Either way, I appreciate your oblique references to it in your phone calls so as to maintain the illusion that you actually read it.

My half of this delicately balanced charade is to continue in these epistles exactly as though you were interested in what I have to say about that Grandest of All Sports Ever, American Football. [Insert fanfare.] So without delay, I shall deliver my completely unbiased forecast for this Saturday's NFC Playoff game between the Seattle Seahawks (I'm from Seattle - did you know that?) and those other guys with the unbelievably un-PC team name, the Washington Redskins. (Apparently the Alabama Battlin' Klansmen, the Texas Wetbacks, the New York Dagos and the Louisiana Stepin Fetchits were already taken.)


Seahawks Wide Receiver Joe Jurevicius demonstrates his technique
for giving the opposing team a pigskin suppository whilst Tight
End Jerramy Stevens looks on, chortling.

Here's my scientific forecast: we cream the 'Skins by about a bazillion points. Yeah they beat us in the regular season by a field goal. But that was only because I wasn't wearing my Lucky Underpants. When I was wearing my Lucky Underpants at the 'Hawks/Giants game (and the wind was blowing from the 300 level directly down on to the field), their kicker missed 3 field goals. See? Cause :: effect. And lemme tell ya, the Giants' Jay Feeley looked like he'd been cuttin' onions by the time that game was over, so I know he was catching a snootful of the magic. This time I will be wearing my Lucky Underpants again, but I won't be at the game. Since I'll be wearing my Lucky Underpants at home, that means that Teresa will probably require me to also wear a Lucky Lemon-Scented Urinal Cake around my neck, so that means - yeah buddy! Double-plus lucky!!

A lot of naysayers, yahoos, nabobs, and poo-prattlers will say that the Seahawks are going to win this game because they're good players. Yeah, whatever. So Shaun Alexander has practically every award in the NFL plus a jillion yard rushing record. So what if we have the top-rated offense. So what if we have pro-bowlers out the wing-wang. What-everrr! Any brainless pecksniff will try to sell you on "stats" and "facts", but I say Mike Mularkey! It's all magic! The team who rubs their rabbit's foot the hardest wins. And this year, the magic is on our side! Chief Seattle is doing the wave in the Happy Hunting Grounds for the Seahawks. Mark my Lucky Underpants. Oh wait. I already did.

Okay, so, your turn. How's your invention thingamahoolio going? Yeah? Oh. Hmm. Geez. You don't say. Wow.

Hey, wouldja look at that. It's 5PM and time to leave work.

Cheers, and give my best to Marie. Go Hox.

-Thaddeus