Big money

The Powerball jackpot got up over a billion dollars before some jerks across the country won it. A BILLION dang dollars, as in a 1 followed by nine zeroes. Unless you happen to be a major corporation or a small country whose name nobody can pronounce, you probably have no real grasp of this kind of dough. Typically, when lottery jackpots get huge, you’ll have a certain kind of conversation. You’ll turn to your wife or friend or that engaging hitchhiker and say things like: “You know? If I win that jackpot, I’m gonna buy my parents a big house in the country like they always wanted. I’ll get myself a truck with a hemi in it and maybe donate a little bit to the Home for the Bald or something. Nothing fancy. It’s not going to change me.” With a billion dollars, though, you’ve got to completely alter your way of thinking. A truck with a hemi? Get real. You need to think about buying things like islands, entire city blocks or real estate on the moon. Me, I’d buy minions. I’ve always wanted minions. If you’re interested in this position, send me a letter of interest. I’d also buy Lewiston’s Kennedy Park – my minions gotta live somewhere.

The County

I’d also buy houses next to all my ex-girlfriends, tear them down and put up billboards reading “HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW?” (I shamelessly stole this joke from fellow journalist Duke Harrington. He could sue, but good luck fighting my team of minion lawyers.)

1984

In George Orwell’s great work, the common people paid no attention to the madness around them because they were distracted by football and the lottery. Ha ha! Where do fiction writers GET these weird ideas?

Click click click

Thrice this week the truck in my battery died. I won’t lie to you. I swore a little. And I always find it funny (in retrospect) how when we experience car trouble, we tend to turn our wrath on the steering wheel, beating it with our fists and calling it vile names. Which is kind of funny because the steering wheel is the one part of an automobile that almost never fails to do its job.

Winter is back

Don’t you hate it when you’re having a bad day and you bemoan the weather only to have some Pollyanna inform you: “Well, we really can’t complain . . .” What are you, the Complaint Police? Getta outta my way, Snow White, my feet are wet.

David Bowie

My weirdest Bowie memory: seeing “The Man Who Fell to Earth” when I was like 8 years old. Turns out it wasn’t about a warm and cuddly E.T. who charms his cosmic neighbors. I’m pretty sure that film is the reason I didn’t take my shirt off until I was 30.

Stop that dancing!

If you want to hang on to those fond David Bowie memories, for God’s sake do NOT go to YouTube and watch the “Dancing in the Streets” video. 

Sauntering in the Street

This is what happens when we get snow and the sidewalks are all filled up. Locals take to the streets and walk shoulder-to-shoulder, as slowly as possible, to protest . . . I don’t know, cars or something.

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