I'm not saying these folks are in a cult...

I was walking through the skyway over 7th street this morning and saw a woman walking toward me who looked like she had some kind of smudge of dirt on her forehead. I was like, 'oh, how embarrassing, her pen must have exploded in her purse and then she smacked her head in frustration thus leaving a mark.' Then I noticed she was walking with a dude who was looking at her as he talked to her, and I'm thinking, 'why doesn't he tell her she's got schmutz on her punum?'

As I approached Cousin's Subs I noticed three more people with smudges right in the middle of their foreheads. Then, it hit me. It's Ash Wednesday. Which means the Easter bunny is busy hatching his eggs in preparation for his big day.

Here's what Wikipedia has to say about the actual meaning of the day:

"Ash Wednesday gets its name from the practice of placing ashes on the foreheads of the faithful as a sign of repentance. The ashes used are gathered after the Palm Crosses from the previous year's Palm Sunday are burned."

So they make crosses out of palms and then burn them - burn crosses - and then rub the ashes on their heads in the sign of the torture instrument used to kill people back in the day.

I'm not sayin'...I'm just sayin'.

Bad hair day

I'm feeling kinda like this little dude today. I need a haircut. Normally, I'd just zip over to Eddie's Barbershop. But a few months ago, the shop looks like it experienced some kind of fire. Now, considering the somewhat shady history of the shop as a place to make illegal bets on sporting events as well as get haircuts, I would not be surprised if the cause of the fire was not accidental.

In the meantime, I feel compelled to hang upside down from a tree branch and pick tasty grubs out the bark. mmmm...

My solution to the mid afternoon doldrums

If you walk the skyways of downtown Minneapolis at around 2:30 in the afternoon, you'll see a wave of cubicle dwellers stretching their legs carrying cups of coffee. It's the choice of many to cure afternoon sleepiness. Lucky for me, I work alone. So, I can actually lay down on the floor and close my eyes for a few.

But, sometimes I opt for a little musical pick-me-up on youtube. Lately, it's been this one.

Hail Satan, kiddies.

Toilet stories, part 1

(warning: this blog post contains kind of graphic references to pooping)

Every morning, after the caffeine does its thing and I'm on my way to the bathroom to do my thing, I say something like this to the toilet god:

'Please, just a few minutes of solitude while I purge my guts of the evil within. Amen.'

Six out of ten times, this works. I'm in - I drop a deuce - and whoosh - I'm out. My guts won't work properly with others in the bathroom. They're shy. Especially, when someone is parked in the stall right next door.

Last week my solace was breached when what sounded to be a silverback gorilla entered the next stall. And apparently this beast had eaten and was trying to pass a handgrenade. A series of guttural grunts and groans were quickly followed by several loud explosions and splashes. I aborted my mission and hastily exited before the inevitable olfactory fallout contaminated the room.

I waited an hour to retry the mission -- just to make sure the odor and the coast was clear. At first, the mission was a go. And by this time, the guts were beginning to get angry. But before the soldiers could deploy, there was a revisit by if not the same gorilla, another who'd eaten at the same munitions dump.

Throughout the day, I had two more failed missions before success.

My kingdom for a private loo...

Hey, snow

Ah, nature's way of doing a half-assed clean up job. Instead of melting away all that nasty, brown, crusty ice and sand and filth, she just covers it up with a pretty, white blanket.

Nice job, nature. No, really. I think it looks nice.

Sandwiches I have loved

Oh, sandwiches I have loved. I miss you. From the tasty muffaletta in New Orleans, to my latest love, the Mort's Reuben, you've passed through my intestines, but you're still very much alive in my heart. (Well, I probably still have some corned beef in there somewhere)...

Stuff white people like...

The Medicine Lake Art Shanty is like a cross between ice fishing and an arts crawl. On Saturday - Valentine's Day -- me and the Mrs. joined the crowed of cold-ass, (white) hipsters skooching carefully across the ice to keep from falling.

We managed to stay upright, while we visited just about every shanty on the lake. The shanties are like ice houses full of displays or activities or performances. The 'Dance Shanty' was bumpin Beyonce. The Word Shanty was full of old books. But the best was the 'Sauna Shanty.'

Very, warm.