A bit down the page, you’ll see this post. In it, I describe, well, this:

Here’s a closer view of “Calvin”

I happened to see it again the other day and snapped a photo.

You can’t make this stuff up, people.

In the comments section of the last post, Sluggo said “Roundisgettinglaidagain” to which I say “Roundwishes.”

Sluggo, your comment is innacurate in two ways: A.) It suggests that I am “gettinglaid,” which I am not and B.) it speculates that I am “gettinglaidagain,” which suggests that I’ve been laid recently. Now, were I to get laid, I would technically be getting laid “again” as I have, in fact, gotten laid in the past. But, let’s not get bogged down in semantics.

How have you motherhunchers been, anyway? I’ve missed you guys! Me? Sure, I might have put on a few over the holidays. Yeah, yeah, I let the beard grow in. You look good! I don’t remember that sweater. Really? When? No kidding! That’s great. Glad to hear it. Oh, Lord, I haven’t seen that guy in forever. What’s he up to? No shit? Wow. No, no, good to see you, too! Let’s get together soon! It’s been too long! I know we always say that, but this time I mean it!

So, yeah. Between Thanksgiving and, well, now, there are all of those holidays, all of those holiday get-togethers, and damn near every one of my friends’ birthdays. That’s a lot of running around and gift buying and whatnot. This is probably what most people call “life.” Not me, Jack. I’m not used to all of this doing (and reeing. <–There’s a joke for about three people.)

On top of all of that, my editor insisted that the new Web site for work be launched before Christmas, so I’ve been putting in a ton of hours working on that. Or maybe I’ve been putting in a ton of hours thinking and worrying about working on that. It’s all a blur, man.

Snow. Sleet. Frozen rain. Wind chill. We’ve got it all here in the heart of Ohio. My fingers are only now starting to thaw and I’ve been indoors for the better part of an hour.

I’ve got no complaints, though. As I say fairly often, I’ll take the cold over the heat any day. To paraphrase Dave Attell (from when he was funny), there’s nothing more uncomfortable looking than a fat guy on a hot day. He always looks lost or as if he’s forgotten something. A fat guy on a cold day, however, looks prepared.

The cats have taken up new wintertime spots—Olivia in a corner in my office, Oscar in a box where I tossed a coat last winter, and Nelson amidst the folds of a comforter on the couch. I don’t know what makes them switch their hangout spots—probably nothing, really. Their brains are the size of walnuts. Oscar enjoyed warming his nutsack on the register in the bathroom last winter. He seems to have lost interest in it this year.

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Dear RiF Readers,

Please excuse John from blogging for the past few days as he hasn’t been feeling well. Please send any assignments home with his sister.

Thank you,

Mrs. John’s Mom

I am typing this from bed. I am completely wiped out–mentally, physically. I’ve got a million photos and quite a few stories to come.

Tonight, I saw greatness. Greatness of a people and greatness of a leader. I am still processing what I just witnessed.

Finally, I’d like to give a special kudos to Ohio for doing the right thing. You made up for 2004, Ohio.

It was twenty-five years ago and I can still picture it like it was yesterday. The summer of 1983. The jam of the summer was Def Leppard’s Pyromania. We blasted it through my friend Jack’s Alpine while we rode around in his Toyota Celica, imagining we were in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. We wore bandannas around our necks, checkerboard Vans on our feet (or, in my case, cheap, white, off-brand slip-ons on which I’d painstakingly drawn Union Jacks) and knockoff RayBans on our smarmy, seventeen-year-old mugs. We were young, dumb, and full of beans.

Of all of my friends, Jack was the oldest. He had a nice car and was able to buy us beer and liquor. Each weekend throughout the summer, we’d meet at Rider’s parents house on Friday night to plan the next two nights and days. The nights usually consisted of us drinking Goebel beer on Rider’s back patio until it got dark at which time we’d head to the Captain Kidd drive-in. Most of us weren’t old enough to get into bars, so we’d park toward the back, crank the car stereo, and drink. It never mattered what movie was playing because we never, ever watched it. It was all about getting hammered and yelling and screaming and chasing girls and playing grab-ass. Not much different than any other idiot American teenager, really.

Our Saturdays were spent sleeping in, lying around, recovering from hangovers, bumming around people’s pools or driving to Surf Cincinnati (a waterpark that predated another, far superior waterpark called The Beach.)

Saturday nights were dedicated to the drive-in or to parties people threw when their parents were out of town. Did anyone ever throw a party when their parents were out of town that went well? Something always got destroyed. Someone always puked on something. Things were always broken. There were always holes, stains and cigarette burns. Frankly, I never had the balls to throw a party at my house. First of all, my dad never went out of town. Secondly, if he had gone out of town, he would have psychically divined that teenagers were drinking in his house regardless of where he was at the time. He could have been in the middle of a lake and he would have stopped, squinted, and stared at the horizon, knowing full well someone was having sex in his bed or messing with his records. He was like the Dead Zone guy, only instead of knowing when and how people were going to die, he knew when and how he was going to kill me and why. I knew better than to tempt fate.

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Here in Pigspittle, the nights are more crisp and the leaves have begun to change. (Read that last sentence with a Mainer accent.) Fall is upon us and, as always, I could not be happier to see the ass-end of Summer. Summer can go fuck itself. (Read that last sentence with a Mainer accent, too.)

Let’s see–what’s been happening since we last spoke?

The magazine for whom I toil moved to a newly renovated gothic Victorian house on campus. We moved on “Patriot Day” (a.k.a. September 11th), which is apropos because the move would have been more organized if we’d loaded up a 767 with our things and crashed it into the new building. It was an epic clusterfuck. I’d like to rant at length about the barely-literate movers who caused the cluster to be fucked but you know what? I can’t. I don’t want to be a mover. I’m pretty sure you, the reader, don’t want to be a mover. These poor humps have to show up at the crack of dawn and carry file cabinets and desks all day. I don’t even like to carry pictures of file cabinets and desks. So I cut the guys some slack. They weren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer, but what should we have realistically expected? What was supposed to be a four-hour move became a two-day move.

Shortly after we’d begun unpacking our boxes and begun settling in to our new digs, we got hit by Hurricane Ike.

In Ohio.

Let that settle in for a minute. We got hit by the remnants of Hurricane Ike in Pigspittle, Ohio. That’s like not being able to make it to the brake plant outside of Urbana due to falling ash and lava.

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Anyone who reads the RRC forums or is a personal acquaintance knows I’m just fine. For the remaining six of you, here’s what I’ve been up to:

– I’ve been busy at work. I look at blogging as a luxury—something I do when nothing else is weighing on me. For the past few weeks, work has been weighing heavily on my mind. Not necessarily in a bad way, mind, but weighing nonetheless. My friend Spike and I had a conversation about this once. We both agreed that it was nearly impossible to blog if other matters were on our minds—even if we weren’t attending to the other matters. They just sit there, staring, like Poe’s raven.

– I’ve been sleeping poorly. There are six or seven pillows on my bed and I use at least three at a time. This is quite comfortable when I sleep on my side, which is most of the time, but when I find myself on my back, my head is at such an extreme angle that I “apneate” myself—I stop breathing! Now, being a fat fuck doesn’t help matters, I know, so the head-angle angle is only part of the problem. For the past several weeks, I’ve been exhausted due to crap sleep. Exhaustion leads to productivity loss, productivity loss leads to stress, stress leads to panic attacks, and the whole ball of wax leads to depression. Ugh. Things are looking up, though. Last night was the first restful night’s sleep I’ve gotten in a long time. I feel like a hundred dollars.

– As was mentioned in the LOLNOIR OSCAR comments, I have been dating a lovely lady. Thankfully, she’s been taking up a lot of my spare time. However, no one likes to read happy, sappy stories of romance, so I haven’t been blogging about any of our experiences. Not only that, but there is her privacy to consider. Think about it. Would you want people to know you were dating me? I know I wouldn’t. But we’ve been having a terrific time together.

– Other minor time-wasters: A trip down my back stairs which resulted in many bruises and a doctor’s spurious diagnosis of a “cracked rip or torn cartilage,” a sick cat—again—her semi-annual illnesses cost me several hundred dollars a pop, a major snowstorm during which Pigspittle County was buried under sixteen inches of snow, and a top-to-bottom apartment cleaning in anticipation of a visit from my ladyfriend. (I can’t let her know I’m a complete slob.)

So, that’s what I’ve been up to. It ain’t funny, but it’s true.