Why would you want to be...

...Cool?

What’s the definition of cool? Does anybody really know? Is the definition in common usage the same as the definition in the dictionary?

At dictionary.com there are 28 separate definitions of Cool. Here’s what comes closest to how we use the word every day: Cool: adjective, slang, a. great, fine, excellent, b. characterized by great facility; highly skilled or clever, c. socially adept.

These definitions are highly informative and educational and they answer so many questions, while leaving one important question still hanging in the air, namely: huh?

If those definitions are true, then where do Ugg boots fit in? What about wearing a skirt with leggings underneath? How can any of that jazz be considered cool? What about The 40/40 Club, or 9:30 Club? What makes those places cool? And Dave Chappelle? Brangellina? Are they cool? Says who?

Are you cool? If so, how do you know? Did somebody else tell you, or did you tell yourself?

I’m not cool. In absolutely no sense of the word am I cool. In fact, Cool, has a restraining order out against me. When Cool, sees me at a party, it hops into its H2 and drives away in panic and fear. It wasn’t always like this. There have been times in my life when I flirted with coolness. Times when Cool and I would hang out after school or whatever and have a nice healthy snack while watching Tiny Toons, or some such nonsense. But then I must have done something heinous, because Cool and I don’t hang out anymore. Am I bitter? Nahhhhhh. Better to have been cool and lost it, than to never have been cool at all.

So what makes a person cool? Is it a sense of humor? Nope, a lot of cool people wouldn’t know a good joke if it gave them a discount at Bergdorf’s. In fact, it sometimes seems to me that people must have had to turn in their sense of humor when they were given their powers of coolness, because they laugh at things more because they have the potential to be funny than because they are funny, (i.e. ever go to the movies where some people in the audience laugh during the set up of a joke, prior to the punchline? Well, those people are either Cool, or mentally retarded. The two are very similar.)

I refuse to believe that wearing the most hip and current clothes and clothing lines makes a person cool. After all, those people have to switch up styles depending on what’s currently “in.” They have no style of their own. They just have to take what they’re given. And even though I’ve said it before, it bares repeating: just because a clothing style is “in” doesn’t mean it’s right for you. A lot of people don’t comprehend that aspect of the equation, they think that they have to wear something because everybody else is doing it, completely ignoring the fact that they look like rejects from The Wiz. I bet that if I went up to Paris Hilton with swimming flippers, a beanie cap, a fake beard and a list with the names of four people, (whomever Paris Hilton thinks is cool*) I could convince her to dress like a diseased, bearded pirate prostitute or something. Think about it.

Why does our society celebrate cool people so much? Do we think that they’re better than us? I’m sure that if we all knew precisely how many hemorrhoids J-Lo has on her ass at any one time, she’d lose some of that popularity. After all, we all saw Brittney’s disgusting excuse for a vagina and she’s most assuredly not considered cool any more.

On the other hand, there are people who go out of their way to being the complete and total antithesis of cool. They dress in weird ways, have a vague sense of personal hygiene, bad hair cuts and socially questionable hobbies. There is one big flaw in this plan however. If a person takes too much pride in being anti-cool then they start to develop self-esteem and a strong sense of self. If the rest of society catches a glimpse of somebody enjoying themselves while not killing themselves trying to be cool, then society, (being the evil, soul-destroying thing that it is) will automatically make that person cool. Once that happens, everything that person stood for is wiped away, leaving that person with nothing. One can adapt by trying to change the game and offer new interpretations of the basic theme, (which has worked so far for hip-hop) or they can say screw it and decide to redecorate their apartment with their brains, (which, I guess, worked for Kurt Cobain.)

There was one person on t.v. that I’ve always thought was cool. And that person is Kramer. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about Michael Richards, just the character he played on television, (much like I am able to separate Michael Jackson the insane person from Michael Jackson’s music.) Kramer didn’t take shit from anybody, he didn’t try to cool, nor did he try to be anti-cool. He was just himself. And though who he was as a fictional character was scary and would probably cost him several ass-whuppings in real life, he was always true to himself. Which worked for him, (though I’m sure having a hot tub didn’t hurt things either.)

I could go on for pages about the whole concept of Cool. But I’m not gonna do that. I’m just going to leave you all wondering just what makes a person, place or thing cool. And then wonder if that’s what you really want. If you decide that being Cool is for douches, then come on over to my crib and we’ll hit up some Tiny Toons, while chowing down on some Count Chocula. Who’s down?

*Which brings me to another point, the people that we consider to be the coolest in society; who do they think is cool? When you’re at the top of the coolness pyramid, who’s left? I bet that the cream of society’s crop secretly think that the goofiest people in America are cool. Which would mean that William Hung, Rosie O’Donnell and George W. Bush are all on Jay-Z’s two-way address list. How weird is that?

Happy Birthday Eighty-Four Glyde!!!

It was a dark and stormy night. I had just taken a creative writing course.

God I love that line. As far as I'm concerned it's one of the best opening lines I've ever heard. Too bad I didn't write it. And too bad it has absolutely nothing to do with today's entry. So, let's just start over, shall we?

Today we are here to celebrate the one-year birthiversary of Eighty-Four Glyde. The blog to end all blogs. The blog that started off as one thing and completely got out of hand, tossing its leash aside and scampering freely in the warm sand and surf. A blog that began while I was still a soldier and which continues today to stand for the very same ideals and principles upon which it was founded: Loyalty, Honor, Duty, and Boobs.

Today we will dive into the long and convoluted one-year history of Eighty-Four Glyde. We're going to see what makes it tick, what makes it run and just what the hell Eighty-Four Glyde means. And by the end I think we'll all leave a little wiser, a little more experienced, and if we're lucky, with hearts full of love, (and bellies full of gas too, probably.) And, as an added bonus I'm going to change my profile picture in honor of this day. Below you will find a bunch of different pictures, because (in theory) this is such a great and free country I'm going to allow you wonderful readers to decide what ridiculous picture I shall use to represent myself to the rest of the world. Sounds fun right? Yeah, I didn't think so either.

Eighty-Four Glyde was born January 24, 2006. But that was not the date of its inception. It first started off as an idea in my head in the beginning of that month. I had deployed to Iraq (again!) in October '06. By December I was back in D.C. for leave. It was at home that I was introduced to Myspace. I returned to Iraq after having joined the site, and like the Johnny Appleseed that I was, I spread the word about that site to everybody out there. But that's all back story.

Eighty-Four Glyde was created because of a girl. Yeah, pitiful, I know. I found this girl on myspace and I wanted to impress her. It just so happens that I was a journalist in the army, (a pretty decent one) so I decided to display my writing skills much as a peacock will display his regal and august tail feathers. I've worked for a few newspapers in my day, and at each one I wrote some sort of humor column. I figured that a blog would be the perfect medium in this internet-addicted world. I could write a humor column without fear of it being edited and destroyed by an editor who just didn't get what I was trying to say. Thus Eighty-Four Glyde was born.

Did it work? Did I impress her? Ehhh, not really. I talked to her for a few months, to pass away the long, monotonous hours in Iraq, but then things petered off. She wasn't really feeling me, and she really wasn't worth all the wasted effort I put into things*.

The hardest part for me, when first starting to write was to figure out what I should name the damn thing. I wracked my brain for a whole day trying to figure it out. Finally I decided to go with Eighty-Four Glyde, (though it was touch and go for awhile, I almost called this thing Josh's Blog for Big Booty Hoes. Which I think is just as catchy.) I know you're all dying to know what it means, sadly, when I tell you, you're just going to feel super gypped. But I'll do it anyway.

When I went to college in Springfield, Ohio I used to make the 600-mile drive back to D.C. for holidays. Every time I drove on I-70 I would pass a sign. The sign simply said Eighty Four/Glyde, with an arrow pointing to an exit. Each time I passed that sign I would be gripped by curiosity. What lay beyond that exit? What would I discover if I took it? In the end I never found out because I never wanted to know the truth. Eighty Four/Glyde sounded like it could be anything, and I wanted to let my imagination tell me the definition of that odd phrase. It wasn't until after I started the blog that somebody finally told me, (yes, somebody had to tell me what it meant) that Eighty Four and Glyde are simply two towns in western Pennsylvania. In fact anybody familiar with 84 Lumber has already heard of Eighty Four. So now you know, Eighty-Four Glyde is part fantasy, part location.

Over the past year I have written dozens of entries, (and lost a few when a memory stick I had was accidentally blown up by some Iraqis) tackling topics that I wanted to be universal so that we could all relate. School, work, holidays, movies; I wanted Eighty-Four Glyde to be something anybody could read and say "oh yeah, that happens to me all the time!" Or something similar. Other than to tell people when I was getting out of the army, (which I did, months ago, but still I appreciate all those people who have sent me their love and blessings because they thought I was still over there. America knows how stupid this war is, but they'll never stop loving the soldiers who are over there doing a thankless task that they might not understand or believe in.) and about the time I was homeless, I really haven't talked much about myself or my life. Because I'm not important, I'm just the writer. It's what I write that should affect people, not how I live, (not to mention that my mother, father and sister all read this blog, so I keep shit pretty P.G.-13 rated. Do I have to? Nope, but they don't need to know what I've done until my autobiography comes out. If I wrote blogs about me, Eighty-Four Glyde would go in a completely different direction.)

In the end, my ultimate goal, (besides being rich and famous) was to write something funny that people will like. That's it. Pretty simple. And if you do enjoy Eighty-Four Glyde, then please tell your friends and spread the word. Repost my bulletins when I mention that I have a new entry, put my banners up on your page. Anything that will put people onto this. Not for the uber weird blog popularity contest that is going on on myspace, but just to introduce people to a new voice, one that has something to say. The question is, have I been successful so far? What do you think? Wanna hear something funny?

And now, as a gesture of thanks to everybody who has subscribed to my blog, each month I'm going to give a shout out to everybody who subscribed that month. This month has been both the first and last month I've written, so there shouldn't be too many names. I'd like to give a special shout out to the first person in this list, Lea, because she was my first subscriber ever. From day one. I'd also like to thank, in no particular order, Diane with the stars in her eyes, Manda – a Diva like no other, Fukendrinkin, Nunya/Ashley, Kristen, ~angel~ is it really???, Jennifer, Keith, Kanielle, Hillbilleechick, Reddz Voice, Mark and He who hits stuff.

I would again like to thank everybody who reads my blog. Sorry this entry was so long, I tend to ramble at times.

And now for the pictures. There will be a number above each one. Please leave a comment with your number choice. I warn you, these are pretty scary!

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Yes, they are all extremely scary and no I have no sense of decency. Enjoy!

*She is subscribed to this blog however, though I doubt she reads it anymore. Just in case she does read this I want her to know that my nickname for her is Lisa Simpson, because like Lisa, she's got too many opinions about things without considering their real-world application. She's got morals and ethics, but doesn't understand when to use them and how the world really works. It's not the people with morals and ethics who change the world, it's the people with money and power. If the rich people also have ethics, so be it, but it's money that makes the world go round. Sorry things didn't work out Lisa, I'm sure you don't even care.

The First birthday of Eighty-Four Glyde is at hand

Howdy.
For all two of you how might have noticed, (that's a lie, nobody noticed) there were no Eighty-Four Glyde entries last week. I didn't quit, I was just taking a break (i.e. I wasn't properly inspired. Either I had no ideas of things to write about or I didn't feel the desire to hear the clickity-clack of the keyboard while typing things out) which will end on Wednesday. Why you ask?
Because January 24 will be the first birthday of Eighty-Four Glyde! It's gonna be a party and everybody is invited!
Ever wondered what Eighty-Four Glyde means? Ever wondered how I get the ideas to write the shit I do? Ever wondered which came first, the chicken or the egg? (it was the egg by the way) Well, all those questions and more will be answered Wednesday with my special birthday entry. Everything you've ever wanted to know about Eighty-Four Glyde (and oodles of shit you never wanted to know) will be learned on that day. I will also recognize all of my January subscribers and even the very first person to subscribe to my blog.
So come one, come all and attend the one-year birthday of everybody's favorite time-waster: Eighty-Four Glyde!
Join me, won't you? I promise not to bite, (but I don't promise not to hump your leg uncontrollably.)

p.s. I'll also finally get around to changing that whack-ass profile picture. Too many people still think that I'm stuck in Iraq. Besides, since I'm not in the army anymore I think my picture should reflect that.

Age is nothing but a number

I feel that it is my duty as a scribe of these modern and horrific times to make everybody aware of the latest in Internet scams. After all, I want to help as many people as I can so they don’t end up like me.

What is this current trend? What is this scam that threatens me, you and everybody you know? Liars. Can you believe that there are actually people on the Internet, (Myspace especially) who lie about their ages? Why would they do that? What sort of sick, twisted fun do people encounter, what sort of perverted and deranged jollies can be obtained by such games and lies? I’ll tell you what kind, the kind that ends up with people getting their heads stomped in and their butt holes penetrated. But I get ahead of myself. Allow me to start this tale of woe from the beginning.

In my continuing search for a woman to spend my life with, who will love me, cherish me and keep my balls as a trophy on her mantle, (just like the girlfriends of all my friends! Yay!) I decided to take my search to this fabled and wondrous thing called the Internet. I figured that what better way to find a leech to suck all the joy out of my life than with modern technology? You’ve got your dating sites, you got your amateur porn and dating sites, you got you craigslist, you got your facebook and most importantly, you’ve got myspace. So I did what any decent, wholesome young American man would do. I went trolling for chicks on myspace. Makes sense to me.

Now, I’m no Tucker Max or anything, but I’ve had my share of the ladies. I know what my type is and what it isn’t. With all the problems I’ve had with women over the past decade I decided that my previous approaches and choices in women could stand to be changed. So I flipped the script.

Too often have older women been my bane and downfall, so I decided to switch to younger chicks. It wasn’t a bad idea. I figured that if I could get them young enough I would find a girl before some other guy messed her up bad enough to give her baggage for life*. Then I could mold her any way I wanted to. And with a plan like this I figured, the younger the better!

There were many girls for me to look through. Many I tell you. But finally I was able to whittle it down to one chick. She seemed nice, funny, genuinely caring, attractive and hella mature. Even though she was only 14 (according to her profile) she sure had a big vocabulary. She used words I didn’t know about at her age, that’s for damn sure. The weird thing is that our conversations always turned sexual. No matter what I was trying to talk to her about, she’d find the sexual aspect of it. It kind of made me wonder just how sex-starved a 14 year-old can get. Here’s an example.

Josh: So, how are you doing tonight? What’s new?

Internet Girl: I’m doing fine. I just had my period today, so I don’t have to worry about being pregnant.

Josh: Huh? Is that a big concern for you?

Internet Girl: Well, you never know do you? I mean, here I am, sitting at home, my naked, almost pre-pubescent-like body still wet from the shower I just took. Am I’m still shuddering from how I pleasured myself in the shower with the water.

Josh: Sounds like you really enjoy bathing!

Internet Girl: You know I do! Does that description arouse you? Does thinking about me taking a shower make you horny?

Josh: Yeah, I guess so, but right now I’m more concerned with this piece of fried chicken that fell down behind my couch cushion.

And so on. That’s usually how our conversations went. Until one day she suggested we meet. She sent me an instant message telling me that her parents would be gone the following night at a play and she’d have the whole house to herself. She suggested I come over and bring a tube of Astroglide. I liked where her head was at, so I agreed. Eight p.m. the next night we were to meet for the first time and I couldn’t have been more excited. She was the 14-year-old queen of my dreams!

The next night arrived and so did I. I showed up right on time and went to the back yard just like she told me. I waited for a couple of minutes, unsure of what to do. She had previously told me that I should just wait in the backyard until she came out to get me. Then I heard her voice for the first time. I couldn’t see her, because the area where her voice was coming from was behind some bushes, but I could hear her. She told me to come in the house through the kitchen door and that she’d join me in a second because she just wanted to make sure that she was ready.

So I walked in.

The next thing I knew I was blinded by several bright lights and surrounded by a camera crew. I was stunned, I had no idea what was going on. My confusion was complete. Then this guy came out from the living room area and introduced himself. He said his name was Chris Hansen and that he was with Dateline NBC. It seems that he’s the host of a popular segment and I was going to be featured in that segment. I was on Dateline’s To Catch a Predator.

Turns out there was no 14-year-old Internet chick. It was all a big scam to trick me and get me to come to the house. The police were there and the put me in a pair of handcuffs and leg chains. I didn’t really consider myself the dangerous type, but they said that they couldn’t trust a deviant, perverted, sexual predator like me. Then they hauled me off to jail, where I had to post a $35,000 bail. My trial is set for two weeks from now.

Lawyers’ fees, court fees, bail, the shame I brought my family, the stigma attached to me, the having to tell people I’m a pederast when I move to a new neighborhood, the fact that I’ll probably find another woman again. All of these things are in my future because I went looking for love in all the wrong places.

Don’t you hate it when people lie about their ages? Remember my story next time you go online to try to find your soul mate! And please, when I’m in prison, will somebody send me the good, soft kind of toilet paper? I’m sure my ass is going to hurt from all the anal raping that’ll most likely occur.

*A problem one often encounters. You meet a girl, she seems nice and a good match for you, then you find out some other guy did this really horrible thing to her (like throw her favorite shoes away or something) and she holds it against every man for the rest of her life. Which might not seem too bad until you realize that it really ruins the moment when you spend 20 minutes trying to remove shoes that have been securely fastened to a chick’s feet by eight yards of duct tape.

Man suffocates under pile of clothes

My life is a mobius strip of laundry soap, fabric softener, plastic hangers, (remember boys and girls, no wire hangers!) and dirty clothes hampers. Sometimes I get so confused I end up taking clothes straight out of the dryer and put them back in washing machine. Actually though, that’s pretty damn efficient. I mean, they’re going to go in the washing machine anyway, so why not cut out the middle man?

When I first realized this, I was so excited that I immediately decided to apply this technique to other aspects of my life. I rushed out to the grocery store, bought two weeks worth of food and sped back to my house to throw half of it in a nearby dumpster. The rest I shoved into the toilet. I felt so free!

I followed this up by going to my friendly neighborhood liquor store (motto: You know you’re going to get sloppy drunk anyway, so why not throw that money our way?) and gave them the money I cleared out from my savings account. They were going to get it anyway, and this way I don’t have to worry about hangovers!

Anyway, back to clothes. I have more clothes than any other straight guy I’ve ever met. Which is actually something I probably shouldn’t be bragging about. See, my problem (in this certain situation) is that I hate throwing things away. It’s how I’ve always been. I still have receipts from when I went to Chuck E Cheese on a date seven years ago, (yes a date, and no I’m not Michael Jackson or Woody Allen, I wasn’t there to pick up a new girlfriend).

Being an ex military guy, I’m used to moving around a lot. I’m never in the same place for more than a year, ‘cause I’m like the wind, blowing away and tantalizingly just out of reach. Yet I have to lug around so much stuff with me every time I move that I’ve considered having a fork-lift surgically attached to me, (or me surgically attached to the forklift, whichever is easier) but considering how big I am already I don’t know if I’d ever get to sit in a movie theater seat again. Soon I may have to pull a Tyler Durden and blow my apartment up to divest myself of my worldly goods, but I’m not at that stage quite yet.

But again, back to my clothes. Every time I buy a new shirt or pair of pants, (or plaid shorts. Plaid forever!) I bond with that item of clothing. And I know I’m not the only one. Who out there doesn’t have a favorite shirt? Or lucky underwear? Perhaps a sock that brings feelings of contentment and spiritual oneness with the universe? We all do it. With me all my clothes have names, personal histories and birthdays, (today is the birthday of four pairs of socks, a pair of jeans and an ancient t-shirt. As well as a day of remembrance for a pair of sneakers and a set of shoelaces) and though it’s not always easy to keep track of it all, I do my best.

So, being the loser that I am, I don’t want to lose any of my friendships with my clothes. In the spirit of loyalty I abstain from throwing clothing items away. To this end I own approximately 2 tons of clothes. All very near and dear to me. You can imagine how much money I spend a month on detergent. My days are spent in toil and laundry.

What’s even worse is that the washing machine in my apartment is of the dimensions suitable only to washing loads no greater than a single sock. My friends call me up, they say “hey Josh, I just won the lottery and I want to take you on a free trip to Tahiti where we will drink naught but fruity island drinks with great amounts of alcohol, eat naught but the most delectable of island foods and enjoy naught but the company of nubile, supple island girls with probably no more than two STDs!” And in response all I can say is “Sorry Kevin Federline, I’m doing my laundry right now. I can’t go with you. But have a good time and Po-Po Zow a chick or two for me.”

On the bright side, my hours spent imprisoned in my Dojo of Love have given me the opportunity to write to my heart’s content and make friends with the degenerates of the internet. So I got that going for me.

Listen to me and follow my advice kids. Limit yourself to no more than three full outfits, (hot women should limit themselves to one and a half). One to wear, one to wash and one to change into in case somebody spills a pitcher of Milwaukee Beast beer on your shirt. And for every new item of clothing you purchase, throw one away, (or donate it to the Salvation Army so that they can hold onto it in some warehouse for fifteen years before exporting it to Iraq for some underprivileged street urchin to wear. Because seriously, those kids over there are wearing the most out-of-date clothes I’ve ever seen. Can we get Joan and Melissa Rivers over there to help those poor kids stat!)

And most importantly, always remember to clean the lint trap.






(Here is a photo of a pile of clothes on my bed. It's not all my clothes just the ones I've washed over the past week. In front you can see me represented by an Alfred E. Newman bobblehead. Notice the scale difference between me and my clothes. There's too many of 'em!)

Another one bites the dust

It seems that I have a problem, (well, several dozen problems to be exact, but I’m trying to keep this simple) yet I’m not too sure what the problem is. Allow me to elucidate.

I’m 26 now. Yeah, I know, it’s quite the tragedy. I’m at the age where I can no longer just sit around in my boxers at nine in the morning and watch cartoons while drinking heavily and engaging in the consumption of various narcotics. And when I say that I can no longer do these things, it’s not because of any physical aliment, (cause I still do that stuff anyway!) but because at 26 society no longer looks upon such behavior with bemused boys-will-be-boys, kids-will-do-the-darnest-things look on its face. See, in college you can do that kind of stuff, in fact it’s pretty much required, but when you’re 26 it’s not so groovy.

I’m at the age where I should be trying to find a career. Not a job to pass the time until something better comes along, and not just something to pay the bills, but the thing that I decided I want to do when I was a little kid in elementary school and they forced us to decide at such a young and tender age the course our lives would take. Sadly, I don’t see myself becoming a ghost buster. Not that it’s not possible, it’s just that it looks like I won’t get to save the world and get the chick by doing that job. And my super powers haven’t developed yet, which is also a bummer.

I want to be a writer, but I haven’t yet gotten that sign telling me that it’s my destiny. So I’ll just sit around in my boxers, swilling cheap beer and watching the Cartoon Network until I get word that it’s time to fulfill my destiny and reach that potential my parents and teachers were always talking about.

Anyway, that’s not the problem I’m referring to here. I can handle that by not thinking about it, (a useful skill when dealing with problems, it’ll either help, or make things a million times worse. And if that happens I’ve got a few other tricks to help me get through things) so that whole situation is covered by a nice heavy blanket of apathy.

No, my problem lies in the more, how shall I say, “romantic” side of things. See, at this age, not only should I be trying to find a career, but I should be trying to find a women to spend my money (that’s right, I said it!) with (and mostly for) me. But I can’t do it. My heart’s not in it.

Not so for some of my friends. One by one they’re taken, grabbed and hauled into the net of “a committed and serious relationship.” While I sit here alone in my dojo. Having a beer and adding vital layers to my beer gut, (you never know when a famine might decide to rear its ugly head!) In my wise and world-weary eyes I see my friends becoming the testicle-free slaves of various succubae intent on changing my friends and making them decent, law-abiding, functional members of society. And it pains me greatly.

I wallow in the memories of hanging out with my friends and doing things that their current girlfriends would not approve of. I recall times when we could spend the whole night out without anybody having to call to “check in” with somebody. I mean, can a guy go for a day or two and not call his woman without her thinking that he’s either cheating or dead, (they never think that he’s having a good time because as far as women are concerned their men can’t have a good time without them)? Do all my friends need vagina-imposed curfews? I think not. But it’s the bed my friends have made for themselves and they’re prepared to lie in it without thinking about what their decision means for everybody else. For every two happy couples, there’s a best friend somewhere wondering what the hell happened and when he’s going to get to hang out with his boy again.

Which brings me to my problem. I’m not quite sure what it is, but I have two choices.

a) My friends are all busy going forward with their lives, trying to accomplish things and be happy and all I’m doing is holding them back. Or

b) I need to stop living in the past and find my own woman to suck out my soul and render me a barely living man, just like my friends.

So I pose it to you guys, the readers. I’ve got readers from every decade, from the teens to the sixties. Somebody out there must have had to deal with the same shit at some point. What were the results? What should I do? So I try to rescue my friends? Or should I follow the old adverb of “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!”?

And in the meantime, can anybody recommend some good cartoons at nine a.m.? I feel like I’m scrapping the bottom of the barrel!