Maybe someday I’ll visit their offices too

Back in the pre-digital days, back when we had to (but often failed to) write things down, we got the magazine Your Big Backyard from the National Wildlife Federation. When we got a little older, we subscribed to Ranger Rick.

Cue you, the rapidly aging youth: “Oh yeah, I remember that! Or, alternatively: “I forgot about that!”

Thanks. It turns out both magazines are both still around and thriving. My friend is giving her niece Big Backyard for her birthday. It’s a great idea. No matter how much changes, some things stay the same. Like knowing your animals and picking up trash. I’d sure like to see my computer tell me what a pelican is! That’ll be the day.

Somewhat on the topic:

Is Ranger Rick anti-hunting?

Is Ranger Rick pro-squirrel?

The only connection ever between Springsteen and Ranger Rick

Also, an FYI for all the magazine majors at Medill: Ranger Rick circulation: 550,000. Boy’s Life: 1.3 million. Highlights: 2 to 2.5 million. Thar’s money in them thar Goofi.

This is a dream, not a political statement

In a dream last night, my roommate and I did not live in Evanston, Ill. We lived in sunny Florida. We did not live, either, on the third floor. Instead, we lived in a high-rise, somewhere in the upper parts. Living in a Florida high-rise as we did, our apartment was far nicer than the one we actually have. (Tracy, for one, would be glad for that.)

But all of this is just to set up why the Bush brothers had the apartment across the elevators from us. One day Amit and I were sitting in our living room with Nameless/Faceless Neighbor, just making conversation. Then there came a knock at the door! I went and answered it, and there were the Bush brothers. Jeb, George W. and another one.

They were chasing a dog around the marble and glass elevator area. Finally, remembering he had rung the doorbell, Jeb looked up and noticed me. “Hey,” he said, “we were wondering, you know, if you all wanted to go out and get something to eat.”

I went back inside to ask Amit and Nameless/Faceless Neighbor if they want to go. Jeb followed me in and went looking for a snack in the kitchen. The conversation went like this:

Me: Jeb Bush wants to know if you all want to go get something to eat.

Amit: The governor? Where is he?

Me: He’s here. He lives in our building apparently.

Neighbor: You mean those Confederate Bushes? Where are they?

Me: Hey, be nice, Jeb’s in the kitchen right now!

And that was the end of that dream. Presumably George W. and the other brother (Marvin or Neil) were still playing with the dog by the elevators.

This dream was followed by a shorter, less coherent dream that involved winning a 100-disc CD changer as part of a SPJ contest. The song Desperado was involved somehow. That’s the last time I eat Almond Joy Bites right before going to bed.

It’s that time of year

Ireland’s Greatest Hits in the CD player. Elvis’ take on Danny Boy on Winamp. Yesterday, dressed up in green shirt, green jacket, and Pat hat (pictured left — ugly, isn’t it?). Went downtown with Linz yesterday and saw the Chicago River dyed green for the parade. Stopped in at a packed Houlihan’s next to the river. Drank a green beer. It’s a good holiday.

If they can dye the river green today, why can’t they dye it blue the other 364 days of the year? — Dep. Biggs, The Fugitive.

A reply to Richard Myers

Richard Myers posted a very funny entry to my guestbook a few days ago. Mr. Myers is from Newcastle, England, where he is an Internet tycoon with Ethic Internet. The company seems like an interesting place to work, producing such sites as BBC Radio. Anyway, I just replied to Mr. Myers by e-mail:

Dear Mr. Myers,

I enjoyed your entry in my guestbook: “What are you doing with my son’s name?” To answer your question, I was given your son’s name nearly 22 years ago. Had you said something then, maybe I would have considering giving it back. Now, however, it is too late for me to adopt a completely new name. Unless of course you had a extremely good suggestion.

In the meantime, I have a question for you: What are you doing with my ninth grade English teacher’s name?

‘Donut balls’

Yes, donut balls, that’s what I call them. Not “donut holes.” And not “Munchkins” either, you Dunkin Donuts corporate lackeys. I don’t know why I call them “donut balls.” Public opinion leans heavily against me; our good friend Mr. Google finds only 70 mentions of “donut balls” on the Web, but uncovers 2,990 mentions of “donut holes.”

All I can say is this: How much dirt is there in a hole that measures two feet by three feet by four feet? None, there is no dirt in a hole. We all know that old brain teaser. But you know another thing about that hole? Ain’t no donut in there either!

Ryan Adams, Rock Star

Saw Ryan Adams Thursday night in Chicago. My review as posted to RMAS (the Springsteen newsgroup). A thought since then: In the last couple months, I’ve been listening to mp3s of both Adams and Pete Yorn’s most recent stuff. Neither really engaged me at first, but both steadily grew on me. Now, after seeing Adams, I’ve made up my mind.

I plan to buy Yorn’s musicforthemorningafter purely out of spite. I will go to a record store and pay full price for it. I may buy Adams’ Gold, but that will come from the good people of BMG Music Club — and their generous free CD offers.