Mick yawning is the most accurate part in this picture

Let's get some air under this pig and make it fly, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers


Lindsay Lohan and her attorney appeared in court after violating terms of her probation. Instead of hiring an attorney, Lohan was going to act on her own behalf, but then Lindsay remembered she can’t act on anything.


An Australian zoo staff has contributed part of their own salary to feed the lions. They decided this was preferable to working around really hungry lions.

In addition, they have named the lion food donation trust in memory of Carl, the recently departed lion trainer.


A Colorado home burglar was identified by his tattoos on his face. That’s when you know you’re an idiot, when you’re not smart enough to rob houses.

The tattoo said “How am I robbing?” followed by his phone number.

Now the Nebraska guy who robs 7-Elevens with toilet paper wrapped around his head doesn’t look so dumb after all.


Dem. Connecticut Senate candidate, Richard Blumenthal, lied about serving in Vietnam. He claims he meant to say he was in uniform during the Vietnam war instead of in the Vietnam war. That’s like Bill Clinton saying Monica Lewinski had sex during the Clinton White House, not in the Clinton White House.


An Australian zoo staff has contributed part of their own salary to feed the lions. This generous idea to feed the lions was proposed by Stew “Lefty” McDougal, the one-armed lion trainer.


Supreme Court nominee Elena Kagan apparently is a huge New York Mets fan. Is it a good idea to nominate someone to be a judge on our highest court who is clearly such a poor judge of baseball teams?

It's a big day for Supreme Court nomine Elena Kagan, insiders say she will be voted in by congress and today she won the Kevin James “Paul Blart Mall Cop" lookalike contest.


Since you asked:
Tonight it is a hard work out and then grilling a Lex’s San Guido Escondido. A flatiron steak marinated in Chipotle and barbeque sauce, grilled medium rare, sliced thin and served on a French bread sandwich roll with mayo tomatoes and grilled onions.

And grilled corn on the cob with lime butter.

All while watching my beloved Cubblie bubblies pound the ever-loving living nose-batter out of the Los Angeles Doghairs.


More Stones drivel

Just watched most of the home movie film of the Rolling Stones 1972 US tour called “C***sucker Blues.” In the rock and roll pantheon, it simply doesn’t get bigger or better than the Stones during that 1972 tour. Cover of “Life” magazine, “The Dick Cavett Show” they had outraced even the Beatles by this point. Just mentioning you had a Stones album back then shot your coolness quotient way up, let along attending one of their concerts. If you knew somebody who went to a Stones concert, it made you cooler.

Besides the electric and amazing concert footage, my word was that world a sloppy, smoky, lazy, boozy, sleepy, sad, pathetic, sweaty, stinky, insanely schizophrenic and boring world of hangovers in hotel rooms and waiting, TV’s blaring and more waiting and dozing off on planes, limos, backstage and finally bustling about in cluttered and crowded dressing rooms before the show.

Drugs and groupies sound like they make up a glamorous world, but neither look at all appealing in this “CB” mess of a film. The drugs and groupies just look sleazy and skanky. How great does sex on the Stones private jet sound? In “CB” it was this unattractive fleshy wrestling match in front of a bunch of detached voyeurs, Mick and Keith, keeping time with hand held percussion instruments and then walking away nonplussed.

Picture a handsome, healthy, happy, fit and affectionate and loving family living and surfing in Hawaii or California as one way to live, being on tour with the Rolling Stones in 1972 is the exact opposite of that in every way. No exercise, no sun, crushing boredom, no morals, cigarettes dangling and smoking, needles pricking the skin, lousy greasy room service food, short, pale, skinny English dudes sprawled on beds in tightie-whitey underwear drinking watered down drinks in cheap glasses listening to Excedrin commercials blaring on the black and white TV.

Part of the problem was the time. 1972 was bad hair and polyester and there is plenty of both in this depiction. Believe me, I was there, it was a depressing time in America. At the time I thought the Stones’ excitement and exotic world would have been exempt from that stench of depression, but it wasn’t. Even their own recording of “Happy” on “Exile” skipped with a scratch, like mine did.

Again, apart from the wildly exciting concerts, there seems to be nearly zero joy in that world. Some giggling, lots yawning and scratching. Clearly the Rolling Stones are completely and totally different people off the stage as on it. Other than being able to play the songs and sing them and baring a strong resemblance, the two sets of people, the onstage Rolling Stones, have almost nothing in common with the offstage Stones; they don’t dress the same they don’t talk the same, they don’t move the same. Onstage, they are clearly playing a part in a play.

In the real world, Mick Jagger resembles far more of a mumbling, slouch-shouldered lazy and shy teenager than he does that preening, cocky and satanic master showman on center stage.

The Stones resurrect their roles once they’re being filmed or interviewed or besieged by adoring fans. But then, as soon as they turn the corner and are alone on a limo or bus or plane, they are just some skinny, short English blokes bumming a cigarette and trying to write a song about it.

The good news I’ve gleaned from all of this bored perpetual adolescence, unromantic and not-sexy lives of rock stars is that, not only am I glad I didn’t live that life, if a magical chance at going back in time and being a rock star were offered, I would turn it down flat. OK, sure, Eric and Keith and Don Felder can play a mean guitar, that would be cool. But I play a mean harmonica. And I didn’t have to go through all the endless boredom and mental and physical destruction to enjoy making my music.

This revelation that life of being a world famous rocker actually sucks is both disappointing and a relief.

Maybe I am an idiot, blame it on being brought up with “The Monkeys” and Beatles movies, but I guess a stupid part of my brain wanted to believe rock bands really do lead funny and exciting lives and drive around in convertible jalopies solving capers and having adventures. Nothing is further from the truth.

Unless bugging a backstage security guard for a Marlboro is your idea of an adventure.