Propaganda, wasteful debates, meaningless answers to the ad nauseum questions that never got truthfully answered and now we have to vote? On what? Jesus Krispies, I'm really confused on this one. Time for a write-in? How about Elvis? Hmmm . . .

All of us have moments in our lives that we repress; traumatic and emotional pitfalls, odd and complicated times - things we just can't look squarely in the eye. Occasionally, these moments are dragged out into the light for all to examine and mentally fondle. This past August we went to stay with my sister and her family for a few days at Hampton Beach in New Hampshire. It was here that one of these hairy little creatures of truth was revealed. And no one was more surprised than ‘yours truly'. One beautiful moonlit summer night, me, Pamela, my sister Maureen and my brother-in-law sat on their back deck sipping ice-cold margaritas while taking in the comfortable night. With the conversation flowing nicely, and my cigar smoking beautifully my sister said, "Do you remember in first grade when Mom dressed you up as a woman?" I looked behind me wondering who the hell she was talking to. My mother would never do something as hideously damaging as that to my then dormant masculinity. I figured my sister was talking about a brother I never knew I had. What else could possibly explain it? I had no recollection of it whatsoever. Holy crap, I wonder why. She was staring at me, smiling. "Me?" I said. "Yeah, don't you remember?" She asked. "Get the hell outta here, Mom would never dress me up as a woman," I said, scoffing at the mere thought. "Well, she did. In First Grade. It was a costume contest." Pamela and my brother-in-law were laughing their proverbial asses off at the hairy little critter my sister had just so casually released. "Come on, " I said, "You're kidding, right?" "Nope. And you won first place! You had on make-up and lipstick and you wore a dress. I think she even gave you some boobs, too!" Well, that explains . . . ah, nevermind. So, I guess I made a very convincing woman when I was in the first grade. This should eat up a few years of therapy. Thanks, Mumsy. And thanks to my sister for dropping that runny egg on my head. (you messed up my hair!) Time to go change these damn panty hose, too. Damn runs. They just don't make them like they used to when I was a little girl. Wonder if she had me wear a pair of her stiletto heels, too . . . Repressed memories? Yeah, that's one way to put it. Somebody, please shoot me. Just watch out for the pearls . . .

These are supposedly comments written on report cards by teachers from a public school in New York City. While I can't actually believe they are true, they are incredibly funny. Received these through an email from my buddy Henry. He never bothers to check the authenticity, probably why most of his emails are so damn funny. I have a few days off from work and will be somewhat absent from the blog. Not really going anywhere but I need some downtime. I really do. I'm going to try like hell to visit some folks tonight that I haven't visited in a while. Two blogs to maintain has left me speechless. Head over to Moe's to see a few interesting things from me. In the meantime, be safe and be well. Enjoy these comments. 1. Since my last report, your child has reached rock bottom and has started to dig. 2. I would not allow this student to breed. 3. Your child has delusions of adequacy. 4. Your son is depriving a village somewhere of an idiot. 5. Your son sets low personal standards and then consistently fails to achieve them. 6. The student has a 'full six-pack' but lacks the plastic thing to hold it all together. 7. This child has been working with glue too much. 8. When your daughter's IQ reaches 50, she should sell. 9. The gates are down, the lights are flashing, but the train isn't coming. 10. If this student were any more stupid, he'd have to be watered twice a week. 11. It's impossible to believe the sperm that created this child beat out 1,000,000 others. 12. The wheel is turning but the hamster is definitely dead.

Though I'm not exactly sure what's going on, today has been a very interesting day here at Smoke and Mirrors. I opened a browser this afternoon to see if anything was happening on my blog and *Kaaboom* 67 people were visiting. Yeah, I like that but what the hell are they reading? I clicked on my "Who's Among Us" icon and my mind almost exploded. The map for the US was actually glowing. Oh, great, I thought, now I may be responsible for WW3 the way it looked. Yes, it took my cheeno's to Browntown. Virtually everyone was reading THIS POST There's a party in my house and I wasn't even invited? I don't get it. My stats are absolutely off the wall. Closing in on 1,000 hits for today. I love the traffic but . . . Just plain weird, folks, really frickin' weird For everyone that visited, one brave soul left a comment. Ah, well . . .

Most of the time I'm able to let the daily bullshit and banter sift through the cranial grates inside my cue ball noggin but on occasion I get a difficult clinker that won't pass through. I have to take it out and look at it and figure out why I can't mentally digest it. Case in point: the other night I was surfing the net for the latest in the way of books on Alzheimer's disease; a simple and innocent task, right? Imagine my surprise (and horror) to find a book titled "Alzheimer's for Dummies". Needless to say, my searching was over for the night. I'd found a seriously incongruous clinker that fueled my rage against the literary machine. I was livid. This was a subject much too close to home for me and to see it reduced to a ‘manual for dummies' format personally devastated me. "Dummies" manuals cover a range of topics: Chess, Poker, MSWord, Windows Vista and Grammar, to name but a few. But Alzheimer's disease? Personally, it was unthinkable. Why not "Breast Cancer for Dummies"? How would that go over? Believe me, I know. I've lost too many friends to the disease and I would be outraged at the total lack of compassion and sensitivity used in publishing such a book. Never mind. What the hell is going on here? I must be losing my mind. I've checked out the contents of the AFD book and I've no doubt the author's intentions were good. But . . . So this is what's it's come to? Christ in a sidecar, I'm almost speechless here. File this one under "roll up that manual and insert forcefully into your keester, sideways". But maybe there's a "Dummies" guide for that as well. Hey, if ICHC can get a book deal, why the hell not these buttmonkeys? IMHO, those suffering from this disease deserve an apology from these inconsiderate 'Dummie' assholes. Do I know what I'm talking about here? Yes, I think I do. All too well . . . ~m

Alright, a guy comes into the store several months ago and asks, "Hey, can I try some pipe tobacco?" I say, "Yeah, help yourself." He proceeds to eat, yes, eat small handfuls of 4-5 of our blends. I shit you not. Yeah, I'm dying and no one knows but me because it's a Sunday and I'm working alone. "Which blend has more latakia?" He asks, while munching away. I show him and he asks for 2oz of said blend. I ask (and I can't help myself), "You want that for here or to go?" God, he looks confused. "To go," he says. I'm still laughing about it . . . ~m

newspaper shifting, a cough, smoky conversation, HVAC, swallowing, scratching skin, paper, face, construction and squeaky brakes, jet engine overhead, train rumble underneath, a possible shift in the Matrix; I am utterly surrounded . . . construction, machinery, car horns and moving earth, muzak, PA announcements, metal to metal <at 2K, wind and leaves, sniffles and sneeze, Treo ringtones and Blackberry blasts of email with water running and footsteps walking; I am not even at work yet

child screams on the train, and screams and screams and screams, animal, and I scream (silently), doors open as fast as doors slam shut, a kiss, a grumble, laugh and whisper, <my mind>bluebird chirp, dog barks and cat purrs, whistling</my mind>, humming, the envious sound of money, cash register bleeps and the phone rings, time perpetual; I am sonically losing my mind

saxophone, drums, cymbals and melody, bass, piano, guitar and violin all singing the blues, a fucking out of tune shithead soprano doing scales in a room next to a mystical piano tuner, trucks and buses, earsplitting motorcycles because "loud pipes save lives", noise, pinks and whites but it's fucking noise, noise, noise . . . Sometimes I just want it all to STOP and it does . . . ~m

A) Barry Manilow after a 10 day bender at the Copa B) Phil Spector after unsuccessfully trying to explain his signature "Wall of Sound", and how much chicks really dig it C) Mike Vick's lawyer leaving the courthouse gobsmacked after failing to convince the judge that, "Hey, Mikey don't smoke that shit." ~m

"There would be more of us here but, so many of us are in jail." - written on a sign held by a protester supporting the Jena 6 Quite honestly, I'm speechless. Kinda . . . Is life weird, or what? ~m

I've been promising my wife that I'd put together a cabinet for the kitchen. She bought it several weeks ago and everytime I'd walk through the kitchen I swear I could hear "baaaawk, baaaawk . . . "coming from inside the box. Its purpose was supposedly going to reduce some of the cabinet clutter and organize the pot and "pandemonium" wreaking havoc in the heart of our home. How hard could it be to put together a small and innocent antique cabinet? I'm no Norm Abrams, alright? Building things just isn't my thing (stop laughing, Laho). I consider myself a reasonably intelligent man but when an inanimate object begins making a monkey out of me, I have a problem. I should have known better when I spied the little gold oval sticker proudly proclaiming "made in China" on all 76 pieces. Assembling this hunk of shit (from the directions given) was worse than trying to comprehend quantum physics. I seriously think the Chinese are out to get us, all of us. Said directions were a series of "exploded" pictures; no words or explanations, just pictures . . . all 14 of them. Bastards. Does the term 3-D puzzle of wood mean anything to you? The cabinet was mainly black and I almost went frickin' blind trying to screw this thing together. The phone starts ringing, I spill my coffee, I gotta take a crap and one of the cats starts throwing up a hunk of the Styrofoam packing this thing came in and I'm only Step #1. I only have 13 more to go. Please shoot me. Point the gun at my brain stem and mercifully pull the trigger. End my pain. I think about throwing the damn directions away but err on the side of caution and instead start talking dirty to the sad looking unassembled pieces still littering the kitchen table. Things start clicking and I'm beginning to enjoy the dirty talk. By the time I was finished (2 hours later) I look Chinese, well, my eyes do anyway. Some people really have a talent for this building shit. Not me. I say pay another 20 bucks and let some other choad go Oriental. I'm an artist, damn it, not Norm Abrams. ~m