At least that's what Tricky said.

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It wasn't Mulberry Street, but that thoroughfare as described by Dr. Seuss was a favorite of mine as a child. Marco's imagination runs wild with zebras and sultans and such on an ordinary walk home from school. Marco had Mulberry Street. I had The Iguana.

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One of the more memorable characters whom I've come across was Michael, a diminutive Englishman who was one of our staff at a record store where I worked for several years. He was twenty years older than most of us twenty-somethings and, because of his age and demeanor, had our respect like few other grown-ups. He was akin to that one peculiar uncle we all seem to have.

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Today’s the fourth of July
Another June has gone by
And when they light up our town I just think
What a waste of gunpowder and sky
- "4th Of July," Aimee Mann

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The other day, I made an airport run to pick-up my fiancee and as much as I loathe flying, I love airports, so it was hardly a chore for me to make the trek. Part of the allure of airports to me is the sense of possibility. One minute you're here and, in a given amount of time, you can be somewhere else - possibly somewhere far, far away. It's why I used to always keep my passport on hand.

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Oh how true that statement is and due to a fortuitous bout of insomnia that had me channel surfing in the early-morning hours, I can now rebuff anyone that uses that line as a selling point. Of course, the fellow that writes reviews for slasherpool.com might be the only human in the history of humans to state the titular quote.

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When Sally Struthers isn't acting as a living, breathing juxtaposition as she waddles among starving children in Third World countries, she sometimes appears on the television screen to inform me that we all want to make more money. It's why some people have found their way to this site. However, aside from discovering oil (a la Jed Clampett) or sitting on the board of Haliburton, there seems to be one thing that would make someone wealthy beyond their wildest dreams...

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The following events take place between August of 1993 and April of 1994. Had these events unfolded in a slightly different manner, it's possible that few people outside the world of cycling enthusiasts might know the name Lance Armstrong. Conversely, more people outside of my living room might know mine.

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I woke up this morning thinking of Wilford Brimley which is hardly the image I prefer to have lodged in my groggy noggin' so early in the day (or even late in the day, for that matter). While this confession could lead one to believe that I am a deeply troubled individual, there are far better examples from my psyche from which to draw that conclusion.

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One of the joys of traveling is the opportunity for chance encounters with folks that you might never meet if you remain on your couch, smoking cigarettes, eating Cheetos, and watching reruns on Nick-At-Night (which is, in actuality, the career path of my neighbor). Without venturing into the world, I would have never met Krishnan the Bicycle Thief or the most famed wigmaker in the UK.

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It has absolutely nothing to do with hardware stores, bankrupt MCs from the '90s, or stupid people (as in "dumber than a bag of hammers"). Today is a Hammer day because of the atmospheric and meteorological conditions that exist outside my window as I sit here babbling into cyberspace like a game show host doing bong hits.

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It seems to be true. As evidence, I submit the fact that I have been mistaken for David Lee Roth, Axl Rose, Anthony Keidis, Andre Agassi (before he shaved his head), Andy Gibb (before he died), and some kid from some MTV show. And that is a short list.

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A recent blog enlightened me regarding the insidious presence of The Canadian Tire Guy, an abrasive hardware chain spokesperson wreaking havoc amongst the fine citizens of Canada with his abusive ways, assaulting their collective psyches and undermining their self-esteem. It brought back painful memories from my childhood and my own bogeyman spawned by consumerism run rampant...

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So, we have a brilliant new public service campaign in the States to educate the young people on the dangers of marijuana. Like most of these campaigns, it seems that they've failed to consult with anyone that has ever actually smoked marijuana to aid in their production. They have all the believability of a reading of Dr. Martin Luther King's "I Have A Dream" speech on talent night at a white supremist compound.

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Baseball season no longer holds the allure that it did when I was twelve which is a bit sad but, perhaps, not surprising. It's not only how the game has changed, but more the fact that I don't spend endless summer days playing pick-up games with neighborhood friends - games that would invariably end in fights which would send us all on our seperate ways until later that day.

However, baseball season always makes me think of Lola and her love of the Chicago Cubs.

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