And then we turned the TV off

We tried muting it and dubbing in words in crazy funny voices. We tried taking off our shoes so we wouldn't want to throw them. We tried talking back, asking about places like New Orleans whenever he talked about the Middle East or bringing freedom to blah blah blah or Americans being addicted to oil.

We're partial to Guinness, but you knew that. About 17 minutes in, we tapped out.

Is it bad that we got more joy out of folding our boxers than listening to this cliche-slinging ass clown? Is it bad that we'd rather sweep up the dirt we tracked into the ol' apartment on the way back from the laundry room than listen to this blood-pressure-raising motherf*cker? We can't even give you examples because we tuned him out.

Is it bad we automatically tune him out?

And back to Canadia we go. At least they have the Stratusfaction.

(Photo of the honorable, truthful, just and democratic President by Larry Downing, Reuters).

We want our money back

Most of the fives of you know by now that yes, we were a fat kid back in the day. It's why we go to the gym and row and appear red-faced and heart attack-bound at least twice a week. It's why we constantly monitor our "pecs" to make sure they stay spelled that way.

So this is a hoax if we ever saw one.

When we were 17, we hit a growth spurt. We also realized that "HEY! Running and eating less and running some more and maybe lifting a little" does a little for the psyche and the boy boobs.

But promising pizza and sex? We promised ourselves we'd have the sex when we were 17. We wished it so. We even made a bet saying we'd try it by the time we turned 18. Judgment day came and our friends even put a banner up proclaiming our birthday and congratulating us for the ultimate conq--

Well, the banner asked our friend for his 10 bucks. Seems one li'l not fat anymore 18-year-old with huge dorky glasses didn't get him some by the deadline. Girls, you know who you are. We forgive you. Sort of.

In our defense, we decided to do what God asks. We decided to save ourselves for true love and abstain from joining you evil sinners having this, this, this SEX. We made a decision, yes. And by God we stuck with it for at least another 17 long, awful, awkward God-is-it-me? months.

And f*ck pizza. We were content with other things.

And the Lions are sh*t, too.

One day, some day, we won't be surprised by this.

On Sunday, we as a nation will take pause for sport. We will take pause for gladiators made of Steel and gladiators made of, well, Seahawk. These gladiators will play a game dominated not by run or pass, or sneak or sack. These gladiators will do battle with commercials and performances and fireworks and anthems and jets and 15 hours of drivel on the airwaves.

Oh yeah. We'll so waste millions because that's what good li'l Americans do. And the game will be played in a city known mostly in a sh*thole. And like Art Lauderdale says in the article:

"They spend all that money on the Super Bowl ... but they ain't doing nothing for here."

Nice. Say. How's the Superdome?

Fish gotta swim

Interesting read. It ain't for the money, that's for sure.

Turn around, now

We need to tune in more to things that really matter in the world, we know.

This is especially true when Ashlee Simpson tells us in our dream to "turn around, now" and we wake up to see the clock read 6:59, turn on the Imus and listen to the top of the hour news. It's pretty f*cked up when your "pay attention" reminder comes in the form of a robed Ashlee Simpson, we know.

Contrast that to last night, when we scanned through 368 pictures posted on the Yahoo! from the Sundance in a blatant effort to *ignore* all the world's issues.

Granted, She's still hot, though, in a non-obsessive way. Like, smoking-can't-wait-to-see-Match-Point hot. But we digress as usual. Point is, things that matter. We owe it to ourselves to learn more about why the world is ending and when. Ashlee says so.

Now that we're hellaconfused about Ashlee and world politics and sleep and Scarlett, we might as well look back on the week that was and smirk cynically. Sometimes we cry because it's manly and the world is ending, but whatever, it also means the weekend is here and it's high time the band got back together. But more on that later.

Heroez
Katie puts the real in Real World, ya'll. "So basically you know we had to push the f*cking fake rock." Priceless.

Couldn't afford a car so she named her daughter Alexus. Kanye haters, shhhhh. He's just mixin' some dope rhymes, is all.

We like us some Scoops.

Better late than never. You go, girl. (Do the kids still say this?).

We stand behind his right to say this, and hope no one starts throwing rocks at the ol' porch. God forbid somebody say something the least bit inflammatory about our troops or this clusterf*ck of a war (and that's what it is, right? We're still there? Shooting things? Blowing sh*t up? And there are enemies doing these things, too?). OMS supports our troops, but Mr. Stein certainly has a point. It's a jumbled and HEY LOOK AT ME and kind of saying it just to say it point, but a point nonetheless.

Speaking of, the Dixie Chicks have an album coming out in April. We still stand beside Natalie and can't believe country radio f*cked them way back in ought-two. America is about a free voice. That's what makes us so the best country ever and the end all be all in this wacky world we call Earth. U-S-A, No. 1! Iran, Russia, hockphtooey!

Not so much...
The meek shall inherit the earth, Fox. So be careful of this making fun of the freaks. We remember Columbine and the trenchcoat mafia and how on April 20, 1999, a roomful of reporters watched the coverage and every single one of us, er, them, acknowledged they wore trenchcoats in high school. Meek. Freak. Geek. It's all the same.

Oh the irony if this is true-true, Hoo-Hoo.

Top Jimmy. He's the king.

Commies. Every single one of 'em (and no, we ain't talkin' 'bout them there protesters, there).

Money. 'Tis indeed a drag.

Katie. You were *fantastic* in The Gift. Why the splicing and dicing? We can't wait until the post-Tom comback. You're so covering Playboy in 2009.

Why the iTunes rule, part 1

We're a li'l behind on the ol' technology kick. We know this and accept this. But if we were to argue in favor of why the iTunes is the best thing ever, we'd break it down like this. Last five songs on the shuffle?

Lyle's If I Had a Boat. The Police's Wrapped Around Your Finger. Kathleen Edwards' 12 Bellevue. Dixie Chicks' I Can Love You Better. Ludacris' Growing Pains.

We skipped ahead and were hit with Cash, The Killers, Bob Weir, Mayer, Cash again, STP, Dylan, Counting Crows and Dov's Our Side Project.

Music is so not the devil.

If we only knew

Everyone, and sex. Go.

It explains nothing. But we're sharing anyway.

In 1984, we were cool.

So cool, in fact, that when Halloween roled around, we thought we'd take it to another level. We asked mom for a dress, a red dress. We asked mom for stockings and heels and maybe a boa. We had a wig, too. Don't ask.

We donned that sh*t and we worked that sh*t. We went to Brian Spratt's house up the street and knocked on the door. Nobody knew it was Young Confused Boy. The costume was perfect.

No one questioned why OMS V.84 would wear make-up and disguise his voice all afternoon (make-up that smeared when we found out our dad was in the hospital after he fell off a ladder while roofing, but that's another story for another day). And that afternoon, while we played dodgeball, Li'l Drag Princess took out at least 10 other classmates, all while wearing heels.

Why the fascinating story, you ask? Well, seems this 17-year-old is making himself a statement. Good for him. At 17, we weren't wearing skirts, we were chasing them. And we were sacking quarterbacks and throwing back 40s and other manly things.

Well, we were playing with our wrestlers and pining after Ada and sitting the bench in basketball, but whatever.

We were all man, beeyatch.

All right

He was only 40?

We spent Sunday afternoon watching All the Right Moves on the Wet. We call it the Wet because it's more manly than saying the Women's Entertainment Television. Why were we watching the Wet? Simple. Football hadn't started yet. And band geek Leah Thompson is hot.

But this clearly isn't about how the Ol' Man loves him some Wet. It's about Willard. We liked him on the big screen. A lot. And seriously: on Saturday, we kept thinking, "Huh, that Chris Penn played a good best pal back in the day."

Sad.

Flashbacks, part 2

So first we thought we had an Anna Benson sighting, then we thought, huh, she's kind of cute, and then we washed our eyes out with soap. Ban horse-drawn carriages because you saw something tragic, did ya?

Way back in 19-ought-nine-seven, we covered an accident in Freedon, Pennsylvania. The ol' scanner got us there with the "Horse versus motor vehicle" call on the airwaves. So Cocky Young Reporter raced to the scene to cover this oh so breaking news.

So we hopped into our ol' truck, cranked us some Dave Matthews, and headed out to the scene like the Duke boys on a whiskey run (the original cool Duke boys, not them ab-driven glossy photos). When we got there, the horse lay still, somewhat peaceful, with his legs -- and fighting spirit -- broken.

His Amish owner prayed in his buggy. The guy in the mangled 1987 Firebird talked to the cops. No need to give you the details of what happened next. We could play word association, though. State trooper. Gun. Vet. And. So. On.

And END SCENE.

Flashbacks

We were humiliated once, too.

See, our ol' headmaster visited English class once back in the oldern days of 19-eight-eight. "Snap," he grumbled, "What's a metaphor?"

"It's a comparison without using like or as," Young Fat Dork said.

"NO!" the headmaster yelled. "It's a place for cows!"

(Cue class laughter, suck-ups they were).

"Now Snap," the headmaster mused, "We'll try this again. What's a metaphor?"

"It's a comparison without using like or as," Young Acid-washed-jeans Mullet replied.

"No! It's a place for cows!"

(More laughter; cue predictable punchline now).

"One more time, Snap. What's a meadow for?"

"It's a place for cows," Young Defeated Double-chin replied.

"NO! It's a COMPARISON WITHOUT USING LIKE OR AS!"

And END SCENE.

Oh W

It's because you're afraid you'll catch the gay, isn't it? Admit it, Mr. President, Heath Ledger is a fine lookin' fella. And Jakeypoo, well, just gazin' into his longin' eyes makes us yearn for the ol' ranch ourselves.

Way to be open-minded, Mr. President. Again. We applaud you. Really. We do. Well. We don't. Really. At all. Daggum we hate us some cowboy presidents.

Current Mood: Soaked

So aside from waking up at 5:30 and thinking it was 6:30 and thinking SEIZE THE DAY MOTHERF*CKER and then thinking AW F*CK IT, IT'S MONDAY AND WHAT'S THAT RAIN SOUND? and now wondering why with the all caps, today is starting off splendidly.

Did we mention we think Mother Nature will end the world by 2010? It's f*cking January and we drove through a rainstorm, in January, this morning. Where's the white stuff? Where are the niveous conditions? Did we mention it's January?

Normally, we have a sense of humor about Monday morning things, like when we order a coffee at the Dunkin' Donuts and the nice li'l lady behind the counter asks us three times if we want a muffin.

Li'l Lady, if we wanted a muffin, well, you know where this is going.

We won't even riff on the CD skipping this morning. We were all fired up about the mix we made for turning 31 (not anytime soon, it's at least months, well, month, away). The only songs that wouldn't skip were Into the Mystic, It's a Mistake and anything Dead-related. So that's good, right?

We really wanted dreary, though. Like Smashing Pumpkins and Death Cab dreary. It's probably good, though, that we got Good Times Around the Bend not dreary. Huh. You really do have to get to the bottom if you want to climb to the top again. Music reminders help.

And don't even get us started on the Kobe. We'd ask if he had any assists, but then we realized his starting five is like our high school team, so we forgive him for not passing to scrubs.

Detailing stripper cars

Nothing says Friday fun like starting the day at the auto shop and listening to your new favorite mechanic brag about the broad he's going to bag when he gets off work.

We learned 19-year-olds are flexible and he likes to let his hair down, get all tanned up and wear his Guinea tee. We didn't understand this tee thing, but we nodded and played along anyway.

Our favorite moment was when we learned he details stripper cars. All we kept thinking was, "Man. That's it. That's the new f*cking band name."

Nothin'? Is this thing on? Right, then, on to the regular Friday staple that gets *no* feedback unless we post 18 pictures of Izzie. Good times. Ya'll know the drill. It's been a week. In this week, we grabbed the honorable and not so honorable and we point them out accordingly.

Heroez
Mmmmm. Beer.

Naitch, natch. The dude is ancient and he took a superplex off a ladder bump in the middle of the ring. He also slapped the figure-four on Lita. Not a bad night.

Jurevicius is the f*cking man. And he's overcome so, so much, too.

Not so much...
Who, now? Wait. He's still alive? But the President says we're winning. President Bush, we believe in you. You are our beacon and light and guider of eternal freedoms against the nameless terror that must extingui-- f*ck that. Motherf*cker has a name and it ain't Saddam, beeyatch.

Seriously? Reese, you're like so oh my God better than this.

Dumb Yahoo! viewers, for cancelling out all the Scarlett coverage for pictures like this. Stupid monkey. Although got idea with the sixty-- ALRIGHT.

Like wow this is so a buzzkill. Like seriously.

We'd love to find the punchline here. Not so much, though. We'd love to run the mother over with a bus. That's all we're saying. We won't get into the make and model of said bus, or whether it rhymes with sport.

A whole sh*tload of luck

HAH! Because there's seriously a sh*tload of bird crap on our hood in the garage! And bird sh*t means luck! Therefore the headline is hysterical! Why with the exclamation marks! We don't know!

Ahem. Uh. So. Yeah. We mean. Um. What we were saying is one of you out there in OMS readerland said recently that when a bird sh*ts on you, it's good luck. This happened to OMS once back in '99 in Ireland. As we waited to kiss the Blarney Stone, a bird in the castle shat on our head. We got good luck, alright. Well, actually, we didn't. But that's not the point.

A whole hood full of bird sh*t is so going to bring us luck. Right?

After further review

So the Ol' Man got hisself the DVD of his "performance" Friday night.

It kind of vindicates and validates, and it kind of doesn't. It's a great learning tool, this DVD. The Ol' Man doesn't make a lot of eye contact in the beginning. Well, also in the middle and the end. He also tends to lumber while walking to the stage.

He also does his nervous talking, self-deprecating thing to a tee. He is easily jolted by the audience, who as you know sang along several times. And he tends to keep his eyes completely shut, like Ray Charles shut, while singing.

Twice, he screwed up chord changes. Twice, he smiled and laughed it off. Once, he actually sang the words, "f*cked in Folsom Prison" by mistake, though it kind of can be written off as lyrical and poetic license. Because really, when you're in prison, you're basically f*cked.

The only time OMS looked comfortable was midway through each song, when he pretty much forgot where he was. He also slouches way, way too much. But Kurt Cobain used to stand and face the wall when he started, and Morrison, well, you know about that.

Bottom line is the Ol' Man has some work to do. But it's good work. (And enough about this. Ya'll need you some more Scarlett, we know).

Something about an almond, well, Allman

So the soundtrack is still playing. These songs just keep popping into the ol' man's thick skull. Good tune-age, though.

"I got to change my waaaaaayyyyy of living. Because the blues is all I seeeeeeeee."

Actually, it's quite the opposite. But more on that on another day.

Something about an eagle, an eye and a cherry

Ever wake up with a soundtrack to your life already playing?

Old Man Snap doesn't mean to sound too cryptic, but, well... "Save tonight. Fight the break of dawn. Come tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll be gone."

(And no, the ol' man isn't going to off hisself, though there's got to be a way. It's more the ol' man is, let's say, evaluating just what he wants to be when he grows up).

Wish him luck, fine readers. And in the meantime, goof on this accordingly.

Larry Bird never said sh*t

We had a parakeet back in the day. His name was Larry. He was a green and yellow li'l lad and he lived in a wooden cage. He used to chill out on our shoulders while we watched In Living Color and what not.

The thing about Larry Bird was he never really said anything. We mean, we'd work with him every day. "Larry Bird," we'd say. "Larry Bird. Larry Bird. Larry Bird. Larry Bird. Larry Bird. Larry Bird. Larry Bird. Larry Bird. Larry Bird. Larry Bird."

And nothing. Stupid bird.

Why are we telling our fives of readers this? Huh. Well, all we're saying is Larry Bird was no Ziggy. And even if he were, "Man I want more tastycakes" and "Wow that icing's good" isn't really on the same level as "Hold me, Gary" and "No no no oooh YEAH YEAH YEAH, Gary."

Our first time lasted longer

We made it about 45 seconds into the opening montage for the Golden Globes tonight, then we screamed, sort of like the way we do when the President gives national addresses. Ech. "Don'tcha" wasn't ever really our favorite song to begin with, but rhyming anything with "Russell's left hook" is, well, brutal.

But follow that up with a correlation between the dreams of a true leader and the so-called "Dream Factory" of Hollywood, well, oof. Hollywood, please get your d*ck out of your mouth.

The only reason the awards show is still on our TV tonight is we keep hearing words like Natalie, Portman, Jessica, Alba, Michelle, Williams, George and Clooney. (And Sandra Oh just won something! YAY!).

* Some things to clarify: 1) re: the headline, technically "Like a Hurricane" is a six-minute song on Neil Young's Unplugged album. Six minutes is a long time. So is three, come to think of it; 2) George Clooney is a hottie. Back off; and 3) We forgive Hollywood for fallatiating itself over and over again for at least one reason tonight. You guess what that one reason is.

(Photo by Lucy Nicholson, Reuters. Nice work with that, Lucy).

Turning the other cheek

We talk a lot about things we learned in high school that we didn't really appreciate way back then, but we do now. One such thing is today.

We have a shirt from 1993 that reads, "I am Martin Luther King Jr." We wear it often. It's not a goof or a statement of arrogance, it's more a simple reminder that we all, when representing ourselves and a human race, are part of Dr. King's legacy.

In high school, we had workshops on the teachings of Dr. King and the importance of diversity. It wasn't done because it was the right thing to do, or the cool thing to do. It was done because the people running this school recognized the importance of teaching a generation of kids three things: tolerance, acceptance and love.

As millions of politicians wear Dr. King pins today, and some assholes continue to rally against him and the message of tolerance, we pause to say thank you to Dr. King and the entire Civil Rights Movement for enacting change.

We'll end today's post with a letter to President Eisenhower from 12-year-old Leah Russell. The letter, written in 1957, appears in "Letters to the Oval Office" by Dwight Young. It's a fascinating read. Leah, by the way, is blind.

If I were president, I would have all the children blindfolded and send them to school. I was also send some of the colored children and have them blindfolded. I think that all of them would have a lot of fun and there wouldn't be any fights.

President Eisenhower's response? "She has already grasped one of the great moral principles by which we all should live."

The Aftermath

*yawn*

We spent pretty much all day on edge Friday. It's not that we were insanely nervous or scared sh*tless, per se.

It was more that we had a sense of, "Holy sh*t, you've been practicing and learning and honing and dissecting and playing and drinking and critiquing and doubting and screaming and drinking and strumming and singing for more than a year, and now you're, you know, doing something with it."

So, yes, we did something. And we killed (humbly speaking, of course).

See, Old Man Snap and his various personalities used to act a lot, and we've made a lifetime of living in a dream world while watching others do *precisely* what we wanted to be doing. We can't tell you when, exactly, OMS got fed up and said, "F*ck it," mainly because when it was time, it was, simply time.

But ya'll knew this.

So last night, OMS and his trustee geetar and pretty much the best moral supporter ever went to the Open Stage Night run by the Morris Folk Project. We went armed with three songs and a whole lot of holy sh*t. We also went armed with some words of encouragement from pretty much the best friends ever.

OMS practiced from 7 to 7:30 in his living room. He played Angel from Montgomery and Sweet Child O' Mine and Round Here, and then he took a deep breath, almost shat hisself, and drove literally two minutes down the road to the Minstrel Coffeehouse.

The slots were all booked solid, and OMS signed up for 8:45, fourth in the line-up. He looked at it as batting cleanup. He really couldn't bomb. What's the point of practicing and practicing and picturing and mulling and knowing if you're going to get on stage and suck ass?

Most of it's a blur. The nice MC said our name correctly, and we made a joke about playing for our living room plant, and how honored we were that a similar looking plant shared the stage with us. We also said we'd never done this before on a stage.

We played Dead Flowers first. The crowd, most of them former folk hippies who started the folk project before we were listening to Kansas albums with our mom in our old living room, couldn't wait for the chorus. Most everyone joined in unison.

From there, we played Babylon and remembered the words for once, in the actual order. We even let loose at the end like Mr. Gray does, and it felt really, really good to actually sing, "Feeeeeeeeel it nooooooow," and actually feel it, well, then.

From there, we made a joke about being impressionable and how marketing always gets us buying the next hot thing. It almost bombed, but at that point, we didn't care. We mentioned Walk the Line and went right into Folsom Prison Blues. We also asked if it was OK if we had a cheat sheet in case we had a momentary lapse of reason. Yup. That was about as funny as it sounded. As in, well, not really at all.

But whatever. That's not the point.

We became someone else, or maybe just us, as soon as we strummed the G. And we growled during the second verse -- you know, the one about shooting the man in Reno just to watch him die. When we growled, we smiled. We always liked evil. We growled during the third verse, too. "I know I had it comin. I know I can't be free."

And then it was over.

People clapped and honestly, the feedback was overwhelming. Musicians and audience members were very genuine, and we were touched, and more importantly, honored, to share the stage which such wonderful people.

We like this performing thing. A lot. And there will be more.

Open Stage Nights in general are fantastic, at least calling on this experience. We were surrounded by older folks who simply dug them some rock roll music. One gentleman had just turned 80, and he was clear, crisp and dead on for all three songs. Another, Robert, played a mean ass slide guitar, and a third, Tom, played his first set on stage as a high school student.

Tom brought some brutal naive honesty to the table, which is always, always good, this brutal naive honesty. "She punched me in the heart," was one of his lines. We dug this.

We were surrounded by nice people. What a way to start. We can't wait to do it again. We might even open our eyes more than just once.

***
Now that the lovefest is over, OMS will return to his normal anger and angst sometime tomorrow, when he is probably hungover and pissed at the Jolie-knocked up coverage.

Listen to this song

Is there a better song in musicland right now than The Perishers' "Pills"? Sarah McLachlan backs the live track and it's so the money. Listen to this song. Reflect accordingly.

Right, then. On to the only daily staple here prior to when the ol' porch allegedly jumped the ol' shark (Bear is still smarting from the callous lies and vicious rumors spread about him): Heroez and Not so much with the Heroez. It's a weekly Friday thing, where we bitch more than usual.

Today we have a theme, though, and it isn't necessarily a week in review. See, the fun game is figuring out all the Heroez. The Not so much... is easy, we think.

Heroez
Don't think twice.

And the sun don't shine anymore.

One, two, three, five.

Because Uncle John left the record out.

Just because we saw an old concert on the VH-1 last Friday and it reminded us of how much we wore out the tape.

Just because.

Come on, now. You know why.

This just about sums it up.

As does this.

And, well, this.

And, finally, this.

Not so much...
It wouldn't be a Friday without him, theme or no theme.

Wish us luck

Quickie horoscope for the day: Be your own personal pep squad. If you put yourself out there, you can really make a difference -- and make some very healthy changes in your own life. Remember, you can do it -- you can, you can!

And then...
PISCES: Your imagination comes up with solutions when others cannot. Used creatively, this talent could make your work, personal life and other matters easy and more fun. Let it all hang out. Tonight: ***** Romp to music. Enjoy.

Three things you never need at the gym

1. Who practices cheerleading on the ab mat? Seriously really, really gay/really, really ripped guy and your partner? You two were cute and all on the mat, with the loud talking and the almost crashing on seven different occassions into the glass separating the workout floor from the aerobics room. It was cute at first, then dangerous. General rule of thumb at the gym: don't hoist a hottie over your head at the gym and leave her dangling in the wind with the risk of face-planting on plexiglass. Ever.

2. Why, sir, did you insist on gulping down what we thought was a power drink in the locker room? Why, sir, was this alleged power drink a cup of ziti? Seriously. Ziti. It was free with pizza tonight for some reason. You ate it like a protein shake. Ew.

3. A plea to all men everywhere: please don't wear red bikini briefs and prance from the showers to your locker in plain sight of everyone. Please. Just don't.

And thus we conclude the three things you never need at the gym.

About last night

We never thought we'd say this, but we miss Emily.

Oh she of quiet ways and always with the rice cooking. Oh she of no carpets and one couch. Oh she of complaining every couple of months or so about noise.

We met her when we moved in last March. She looked harmless, this Emily. We assured her that we were the quiet type and she wouldn't be bothered much by our ol' man ways.

There were some issues nonetheless. One time, when we were particularly carried away with a riff that kept dancing through our head, she knocked on our door because of the noise. We didn't answer because we feared, you know, being shot, but we got the point. No geetar in our bedroom, which is directly over hers, late at night.

Another time, two of our best friends decided to challenge each other to a wrestling match in our living room at 2 a.m. Granted, we were asleep (i.e. "ate girl scout cookies in the kitchen, staggered to the bed and passed out with our friend Rudy," but that's another story for another day). Emily wigged out and shouted outside the door for them to stop the hip-tosses over the couch.

We left a note apologizing for Wrestlemania and we moved on. We learned to strum on the porch and early in the evenings. We learned to coexist.

Then she moved out two months ago.

Now, a smart ol' man would have taken advantage of the situation by hosting two months of keggers, because that's how long it took the complex to fill the apartment. Now, not so much with the keggers, but we delighted in late night jam sessions with ourselves, and the ability to sit down in our chair early in the morning without waking Emily up ("Do you lift weights early in the morning?" she once asked. "I hear lots of banging. Very early.").

So now we have a new neighbor, and here's what we've deciphered so far: he's a large lad who played lacrosse in college. We know this because he walks across his non-carpeted floors (and therefore, against complex rules, though we love us some hardwood floors) and he has a lacrosse sticker on his jeep.

We also know that he has a girlfriend. We learned this last night at 11, when we were settling into bed and heard the following:

"IT WOULDN'T BE THAT WAY IF YOU WOULD HAVE PICKED IT UP!"

"I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WANTED ME TO PICK IT UP! F*CK YOU!"

"COME HERE."

"NO."

(stomp stomp stomp stomp stompstompsto--).

"OW. HELP! HELP!"

(muffled voices).

And END SCENE.

Now, she didn't die and he didn't kill her. The clatter was swift, really. Though we stood in the kitchen in our skivvies, armed with our cell phone, peering out the window like an ol' hag and ready to call the proper authorities should our new neighbor kill his dame, silence became the night.

Boy do we miss us some quiet Emily.

"The way it was done."

We were going to riff on the insane amount of ribbon magnets smothering cars these days.

We mean, come on, we get it with the troop support, but do you really need to support the troops, tell the world you're a PAL supporter and that you don't like the autism all on one motor vehicle?

But then we read this.

Oh Lindsay, you poor, poor thing. Let's think about this for a minute: you talked to a reporter. That reporter wrote things down, and probably taped you. You said things. The reporter reported the things you said.

This really isn't rocket science. When you say things to a reporter, Vanity Fair or not, the reporter says what you say. Jesus.

You are so off our list, now. And we could have been something. Drats.

Speaking of porn...

Just caught the Ashley Simpson video for L.O.V.E. Um. Yeah. It was so the number one vid on TRL. Jesus what is this world coming to? And where the f*ck is Carson?

Hold up. Has it been that long? Wow. Now that we think of it, the last time we watched the TRL may have been, no, it can't be that long ago.

Oof.

Up, up and away

(Was: "Jenna makes us sad.").

So here's the thing about porn.

Go to yahoo.com today and look under most popular pictures. Out of 10, half are of porn legend Jenna Jameson. Old Man Snap's take on it is America loves her some porn, and finding SFW pictures on the ol' internet satisfies that craving for the day. So does writing about the AVN Awards.

Either way, porn is certainly mainstream, and OMS would put good money on this: if any of ya'll know any of these names, then you know you some porn, slightly: Jenna Jameson, Ron Jeremy, Peter North.

If you know you these names, then you're holding out and you know you some porn, for real: Jesse Jane, Stephanie Swift, Stacy Valentine, T.T. Boy, Mike Horner.

As for the rest of ya'll, who probably know Janine, Sunrise Adams, Isabella Soprano, Teagan Pressley, Nicole Sheridan, Ashley Long, Julia Bond, Cali Cox, Brittney Skye, etc. -- well, get you some help, maybe.

In the meantime, if Jenna gets any more plastic surgeries, we quit.

In case anyone forgot

We remember one time when we spilled water over all our music sheets and we immediately used a towel to dry them off, then we spread them out across the living room floor so they wouldn't stick together.

After that, we gathered them all together, put them in a pile and back in the folder they went. The cleanup, which happened yesterday, was, um, pretty easy to do. Granted, New Orleans ain't our living room, but can't somebody start cleaning that sh*t up?

(Photo by the AP's Ben Margot).

9.8 for difficulty, really

So in Old Man Snap's dream last night, he's on a rooftop. There's a guy on the ground setting up a step ladder, which he weirdly attached to an old school wood ladder to get OMS down.

The Ol' Man kept asking if the contraption was ready. But the dude at the bottom, who looked like one of the groundskeepers from the Desperate Housewives preview for next week (don't ask), wasn't paying attention and never answered.

So OMS decided to go anyway, uncertain of his immediate future. As he started his descent, he said, "Aw f*ck it," and jumped off the ladders and to the ground.

He survived. Not only that, but he nailed the landing, sandals and all.

But that Lachey kid on Dancing with the Stars?

The only "special performance" we want to see with ol' Daisy over there involves more carwashing, with a li'l help from her 'sis.

Just saying.

Wait. Lindsay. Let's take it slow.

So Old Man Snap is on a school bus. The school bus stops at a political rally. At this rally, Lindsay Lohan comes under verbal attack. OMS saves her with his sharp tongue (hey now).

Ms. Lohan gets on the bus to leave the rally and sits on the front seat. Old Man Snap tickles her freckled arm and she says, "You're so my new hero."

The bus stops in a vacant lot. OMS says, "Now are you ready?" Ms. Lohan says she's only 19, but that the age difference doesn't matter. "The way you touch me, you make me feel," she says.

Old Man Snap and Lindsay Lohan skip off the bus and, clutching each other closely, look for seclusion. Strangely, the paparazzi are nowhere to be found.

"I can't wait any longer," Lindsay Lohan says as she thrusts her tongue toward Old Man Snap.

Shocked, OMS may have audibly gasped. Next thing he knows, he's not with Ms. Lohan, but Brenda from Six Feet Under. We won't describe the next scene. Let's just say thank you, Brenda from Six Feet Under.

You bet.

We might have a new crush.

So Brokeback Mountain is pretty good. Heath Ledger, though he sounds a tad Billy Bob, is what all the critics have raved about. Though Bubble Boy is a li'l too well, realistically gay at times, Anne (NSFW) and Michelle both showed some *serious* acting chops (and smoking, well, Jesus with the hot bods already).

By default, they're the lead Heroez of the week. Heroez? You ask? With a z? Yes. It's Friday. That means in these here parts we reckon we eyeball the week and find us some Heroez and Not so much with the Heroez to recognize.

Heroez
Editor and Publisher. For trying to teach.

We do pray for their families.

We might try this. We like drunk things.

He helped lead us to a 10-1 regular season fantasy record. Sure we tanked in the playoffs, but whatever.

Awful, awful lede aside, God speed, Dick Vermeil. We like you on them Blue Cross billboards.

Not so much...
Hey, asshole. Just shut up. Stop talking. Christ.

Hey, asshole. You, too.

Who? Former what, now?

Oh, Howie. Sirius is going to tank. Just a li'l feeling we have. Tell 'em, Fred.

Um. Yeah. What, now? (part 2)

Elmo is one sick f*ck.

To the bird who shat on our windshield

Hey. We don't sh*t on your wings. A$$hole.

What made it worse was we cleaned our windshield right quick with our ol' windshield wipers, and then we promptly parked in the one available spot -- the one available spot that happened to be ordained with a plethora of goose sh*t. Bastards, all of you.

Policing their own

This. This is good. Anderson Cooper is probably the reason why we don't like us some TV news. Well, there are others, too. But that's another story for another day.

All we're saying is can't ya'll just confirm your sources? E&P agrees. We know. You do, too.

Apropos of one of our favorite movie quotes

Well. No sh*t.

(HEY! Name the movie and you get a free beer. And no, it has nothing to do with Ol' Fingersdownherthroatheywhat'sthatwhiteclumpinhernose).

Oops

It's an awful story, but you all knew that.

Three thoughts come to mind.

1. Public policy means you never, ever announce anything until you are 100 percent sure that what you are saying is 100 percent correct. Old Man Snap has experienced reporters who question the timing of public announcements, especially when the announcement is scheduled for a Monday and it doesn't happen for another two weeks. More often than not, it meant simply that the information wasn't complete or foolproof, hence the delay. Which brings us to West Virginia and the first oops.

2. Second oops. 24-hour media coverage. This incessant need to break and treat everything like it's the hugest news ever shoots reporters in the foot more often than not. Did the emergency people tell the townfolk that the miners were alive? Yes. Should the media report that? Yes. But should the media double check and make sure they report *exactly* what the emergency people think? Absolutely. Questions, questions, questions.

All too often in the rush to get the story up the ol' Web site update, what should be complete reports are whittled down to tidbits and hearsay. It's killing news credibility, and it makes Old Man Snap sad.

3. When the ol' Imus woke us up this morning, the first thing we heard was, "And the family members are planning on suing." Enough with the blaming others for trauma already. This is a tragic accident. Is it the local emergency people's fault that the miners died? No. Should they have held off saying anything until they were 100 percent sure? Absolutely, as we already said. But they were trying to help. They felt for the families and wanted them to hear the good news, when they thought there was good news.

In reality, all three of these points are defensible.

But we're just saying: please learn from this. "Message people," make damn sure what you're saying is accurate, every time. 24-hour news people, stop with the MUST BREAK THE STORY AND GET THE PUNDITS TALKING IMMEDIATELY cycle. And to the families, stop with the suing and the blaming and the "God Gawd I can buy me a lifetime's worth of Skoal" thoughts.

Whew. Now back to stuff that doesn't matter at all, only it sort of does.

Note to self, 2016-like

Dear Ol' Man Snap,

Remember that cold, dreary, rainy, nivious afternoon in January when you read about Iran and how the country is forging ahead with its nuke-u-lar agenda? Remember how you just knew in your heart of hearts that ol' President Nuke-u-lar hisself would take that as the easy in for declaring war on Iran?

Remember when you added this to the list of things you cry yourself to sleep at night about in that evil-genius mind of yours? Remember when you again thought Canadia was the answer, but then you realized the world would end soon enough?

Well, rest assured ya ol' bat.

Pergatory is fun, what with the great view of barren earth and all its toxic remnants. Hey! Look! I think that's the Statue of Liberty's head cracked along the sea floor! Pergatory rules! Bush is the best! Long live Nuke-u-lar War and dying!

Very Truly Yours,
OMS in the 1-6, b*tch

Um. Yeah. What, now?

On the where, now?

Jesus. We so thought 2006 meant the end of cryptic weird things happening, like hurricanes and floods and freak fires and miners and frogs.

Well, not so much with the frogs, but you get the point.

To the man in the blue hat, tapping

The WaWa line was enough to play in traffic this morning, nevermind the sore throat and the fever and the can't-talk-without-tripping-on-phlegm thing we have going on. But you, Mr. Blue Hat, you kind of actually saved the day.

See, we missed the whole Beatles invasion, with the screaming and the fainting and the panty-tossing and what not. But you clearly didn't, Mr. Blue Hat Guy.

We know this mainly because you seemed soothed by the soft sounds of the WaWa station. And whenever the chorus hit, you were quick to sing along.

"Love, love me do," you sort of whispered. "(You didn't know the words) ... (humming a bit, still no words) ... (and BIG finish) LOVE ME DO." All the while, your right foot tapped along like you were Ringo.

Instead of longing to shove out quart water bottle up your ass, we secretly sang along with you. In our heads, of course. Out loud? More phlegm.

Now if we were caffeinated and sucking down the coffee like most days, we'd still be b*tching about you holding up the line by counting out your change when you got to the counter instead of before, but you get a pass for bringing the Beatle cheer.

Haikus make the Ol' Man happy

And less sick.

Seriously? 2006 was supposed to be our year. Two days in and we've slept probably 16 hours our of a possible 24 of daylight. We wouldn't really call it daylight, either. It's more rainlight, with a perpetual drizzle.

When the highlight of your first two days is downloading Joni Mitchell's Blue on the ol' iTunes and getting ripped off at Jiffy Lube ("Uh, seems as if you need your radiator to be cleaned," they said), 2006 rules.

Although we feel like a sick ol' Big Bird, we thought Haikus would cheer us up.

2006, man
life is about to get good.
But our throat hurts. Sh*t.

Open mic night, please.
Sh*t throat. Sh*t. Sh*t. Sh*t. Damnit.
Where's the Halls? Where now?

Happy is the new
pink. So is calling our friends
sweetie on New Year's.

Oops with the sweetie
we think it's so endearing
maybe not really.

Sorry with sweetie
Enough with apologies
Let us drink more beer.

Much better oh-6.
We will conquer it all now
But The Job is on.

Joni is goodness.
We're still sad, but at least now
we want to go play.

Oof with the Dick Clark

Nothing says ringing in the new year like Hillary Duff "singing" and The Bangles bringing us back 20 years with Eternal Flame.

Nothing, that is, except a dose of K-Fed. Old Man Snap is making it his mission for the 2006 to score a record deal. If Mr. Britney can do it, well, pretty much anyone can. But ya'll knew that already.

We can't wait until 2016 when we're all, "Britney, didn't you know you'd meet us after quitting the Cheetos and getting back into kick ass shape for the 2008 comeback tour? Couldn't you wait to marry until you met a real (old) man (snap)?"

As for Mr. Clark, well, "Jesus, strokes suck" might have been our first three words of the new year.