Karma: It’s something Carson Daly came up with Before I begin this blog entry, and before I apologize for the lack of blog entries over the last five days, I need to express the joy and unbridled sublimity that I just felt when watching primetime television.

If I were to sit down and pen a pilot, it would include several of the following (in no particular order):

• The funny guy from Mallrats.
• The fat guy from Mallrats.
• A blonde B list actress who can’t act.
• Some random wacky ethnically stereotypical foil characters.
• Old school rap.
• “Telly” from the movie “Kids.”
• Rudimentary existentialism.
• Buddhism 101
• Carson Daly

Oh wait, someone already did. And that show’s name is “My Name is Earl.” This sitcom may have set television ahead about 20 years. I will never miss an episode.

Then again, I said the same about “Greg The Bunny” and look what that got them: cult status and a season one DVD (there was only one season, anyhew).
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Ok, so it’s been a while since we’ve last chatted. And things are starting to come together. If this were the A-Team, the plan would’ve come together in like 38 seconds and would have been accompanied by a loud, triumphant horn section and snare drums.

This, however took longer than 38 seconds. It took about five days. And like I said, it’s not quite done yet. This process is more like the show “24.”

When I left the state of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations (check!), I arrived in New York, where upon I witnessed the Red Sox (check!) mowing the Yankees down behind the able arm of Curt Schilling. They were 3.5 games ahead then.

Ten days later, they’re just .5 game ahead, clinging to life. The arsonist has oddly shaped feet (check! - new checkpoint for random "Anchorman" quotes).

When I left Rhody, I had a good feeling about the good folks at United Van Lines.

Ten days later, I’ll be filing a claim for the bag of shoes and various throwback jerseys that were left behind somewhere along the way through Altoona. (To United’s credit, they were prompt and helpful and instructed me to fill out a claim for the, um, Prada bag filled with my custom made Bruno Magli laceups – three pair – and the, uh, Gucci loafers. And the autographed, field authentic Tom Brady jersey, size 56.)

But regardless, I have (most of) my stuff. I think. But at least the 95% of my possessions (and a reminder that ownership is 90% possession) that are present and accounted for are 85% unpacked. The deluxe apartment is coming along nicely. One feature that I am quite happy about the D-L-A is the shelf-like qualities of the top of the kitchen cabinet. Since I can remember, or since 1998 (whichever comes first), I have collected plastic souvenir soda cups from ballparks and stadiums.

And yes, even as a man who is in his 30’s, I still perform the ancient postgame art/ritual of “cupping.” (which is completely different that the real ancient ritual of cupping, which involves candles and flames and cups and pain.)

Regardless, there is a nice display for the bevy of Red Sox and New England Patriot (check) plastic cups that I have collected. In a few months, be sure to check back for the follow-up to this heartwarming story of souvenir display called “What in Holy Hell is Growing in My 2002 Dunkin Dugout/Nomar Cup?”
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I’m very much liking the folks out here in the Midwest. I’m very much realizing that I’m not originally from here. I'm very much realizing that they're very much realizing that I'm not from around here.

The way that I’m very much realizing this oh-so-very-much is in the little things. People wait for the “walk” sign and stop when “don’t walk” flashes. I jaywalk. All the time.

People stop before taking a right turn on red. I take right turns. And left turns. Everywhere. Even on red.

People don’t talk to themselves. I generally do. But lately, it’s been of the encouraging kind (attaboy!), rather than the disappointed (c’mon, what the hell are you doing?).

People don’t swear so much, out here, either. And betcha by golly wow, well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, too. Bet yer bippy. (author’s note: I’ve taken to not swearing so much on TLBR after an esteemed reader and media mogul suggested that I take the edge off. So I came up with the Pantene Pro-V euphemism of “shampoo” for everytime I’d like to curse. It works here. It does not, however, work in public. I swear as much as I like on my blog, only I press the delete key and you never see it. I just swore again. But it's gone from the public record without you knowing, save for my small admission. There is no delete key for the random or instinctive eff-bomb I’ll drop on occasion. And by occasion, I mean frequently. The one time I tried to verbalize the literary euphemism "shampoo" instead of swearing at the sticking doorknob to my apartment, I got strange looks. I’d have been better off calling it a shampooing see-you-next-Tuesday. That would’ve drawn less attention than saying "shampoo" lather, rinse, and repeatedly.)
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I have been eating out quite a bit, on account of having no furniture or dishes. And I must say, the sandwich shops are good. From Potbellies to Jimmy John’s, I have not had a bad sandwich. And the hamburgers – whoa, Nellie. They're dumb good.

Right down the road, reportedly, the No. 1 ranked burger in the country is served. I dunno if it’s consensus or a split national champion on both the AP and coaches poll, but I’m sure it’s pretty high. I’ve had plenty of burgers in my day and my top 10 burger list is a tough one to crack. I will update you.
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Being a bit of a “gear hound,” I did gladly accept for first new pair of sneakers – the Nike Air Shox 45’s. Size 11.5. Have not worn them yet, but they’re exciting and new – just like the Love Boat.
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Tonight, I felt like I did my first real piece of work in the new place. I wrote the game story from our women's soccer team's road game.

In the old days in the old place, dealing with the women's soccer team was tedious - but that was the old old days. To their credit, the new regime is turning that squad around nicely.

In the late 1990's, talking about the 25 or so games on the old place's women's soccer schedule was akin to the 25 or so comedians telling the same dirty joke in "The Aristocrats."

But new place, new rules. Fired up.

I even forwarded it around to family and friends. I know the folks have a color laser printer at home and they'll save a copy for the scrap book.
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To answer a funny emailer’s question(s) from the TLBR hotline: No, I have not seen Laverne. No, I have not seen Shirley. No, I have not seen Lenny. And Squiggy, as the fine emailer pointed out, is an advance scout for the Seattle Mariners, so he might be in Anaheim of L.A. right now watching the Angels.

Also, to another funny emailer – and it's probably the same person as he/she/it uses the same quasi-semi-demi-hemi funny “hey, did you see (fill in the blank of said movie/tv star/quirky subreference who resided in a particular city or town) yet?” question…

No, I did not see Drew Carey in Cleveland or Bad, Bad Leroy Brown in the South Side of Chicago. I was in the North End. But either way, don’t mess with the wife of a jealous man.
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On the walk to the library - which, if you're scoring at home, places me one shy of my undergraduate library visit total - I saw a bizarro couple, comprised of s-a's from the old place: bizarro Corey Elias holding hands all sweet with Jackie O'Leary. Or was it Rachel O'Leary? I dunno, they look the same. (hope all is well back there, 'Wak.)
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A good friend from home – Matt – went to school out here and has taken up full-time residence. And being the good friend that Matt is, he took me out for a little tour of downtown Milwaukee. And the new hometown is really growing on me. All I need to find is a kick-butt buffalo wing place and we're cookin' with gas.

But Matt also showed me some of the, qu'est que-ce, "outlying areas." Matt took me to Muskego.

And when you say the word "Muskego," a vision probably pops into your head as to what it's like out there...in Muskego.

So turn up that vision. Look at it. Study it. Here comes some color.

Imagine a roadside bar in Muskego. The roadside bar is sponsoring an outdoor concert with a longtime, well-established cover band (author's note: the cover band ended up ranking third all-time on the cover band list, behind the likes of Loose Cannon from Fairfield and Those Guys from Newport.)

The roadside bar has a dunk tank. Yes, the one-ball-for-a-dollar; three-for-two-dollars kind of dunk tank. The female bartenders are the dunkees.

The patrons are the throwees. And the patronage in the bar ranged from: us, the barstaff, the 12 bouncers (one of whom was hoping it'd get crowded because when that happens, fights break out, and he likes to hurt people...endquote), two older moms, their two younger daughters (maybe 17. maybe. but they had over 21 bracelets.), and, well, the band. That was it. That was the extent of the guest list when we arrived. It grew slightly larger as the night grew later.

At one point, a 10-year old girl (didn't see if she had an over 21 bracelet, but even money said she did...) came up to me and asked if I wanted to buy candy. Just like all little 10-year olds do when they're in elementary school, this little darlin was selling candy.

Except she wasn't going door-to-door so she and her 5th grade class could tour the Hoover Dam...she was in a g-d shampooing roadhouse! With a dunktank. And a bouncer who was probably just on furlough or something.

I politely declined as I do not enjoy the taste of Reese's Peanut Butter cups and stale Miller Lite. In fact, I do no enjoy the taste of stale Miller Lite, either. But, "when in Rome...Ron, that doesn't make any sense." (check!)

To make matters worse, the father of the 10-year old girl saw that I was not buying candy from his daughter, so he, um, intervened. Kinda like when the sales manager steps in when you're buying a bar, except he looked like a member of the Boo-Yah Tribe and his sales tactics bordered more on intimidation, fear, and idle threats than polite persuasion.

I bought the peanut M&M's. And they made for a fine midnight snack.

The cover band - the Lovemonkeys - played an ambitious set from Ben Harper, the Counting Crows, to Peter Gabriel (Solisbury Hill, and well-done I might add), to U2. They were also pretty shampooing hilarious, esp. when they jumped off stage, stood in a semi-circle, and called it their "in the round" performance. Just hee-haw hi-larious.
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I have a busy week ahead and an even busier weekend planned. By then, I should have a regular computer and some more consistent service so you can expect more timely posts.

But really...isn't the long recap so much better? It's cyber-playing-hard-to-get...
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Which leads me to the final anecdote...

When I arrived here seven days ago, I had a car full of stuff. Not much, but definately two trips to apt. 1804 (by the way, I'm getting used to the HVAC noise. It's actually quite soothing now. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. See?).

In the lobby, I happened to be waiting for the elevator next to a moderately attractive young woman with curly blonde hair. When the 'vator arrived, it was some wacky old guy who came out pushing a shopping cart and talking gibberish.

It was at that point I wished to find the three copies of my lease and shred them.

But the friendly new neighbor assured me that the gentleman was not homeless, in fact lived on the 11th floor, and was usually always drunk.

So my new building friend...my first building friend if you're counting...got off at the 9th floor and we each said "bye." Although I may have said "bye now." But do you really shampooing care?

I hop back in the elevator, and 9th floor friend is in a bikini and a sarong (she cleaned up pretty well), heading for the rooftop pool. We exchanged polite smiles. She was heading, presumably, to sunbathe. I was heading upstairs to grab a bottle of soda, presumably because I was wicked parched.

Skip ahead two days. I couldn't sleep. So instead of taking Ny-Quil or benadryl and having a -dryl hangover, I went to Mo's down the road. They had this guitar player I liked and I brought a pad and pen and enjoyed a few club sodas with lime.

Yes, they were club soda with lime.

After an hour or so, I hiked back, hopped on the elevator, and lo and behold, it was 9th floor B.F.F. She was all gussied up, with jeans and heels, and looked quite nice if I may be so bold. She was holding two styrofoam containers, which were either take-out or leftovers, and was with this real squirrel-ly kind of chap. You ever see those almost sickly-looking dudes with a coiffe like The Donald? Yep, that was this guy.

I was just guessin at numbers and figures, pulling the puzzles apart trying to figure that one out. Questions of science and progress were abound in my head before la chica de noveno pavimento reached up with her one free hand hand pressed the 18 key.

"I remembered your floor from the other day."

Wow.

Bold move by Mrs. King (not her name) especially in front her beau, the scarecrow.
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That is all. Have a good rest of your week. Keep those emails and comments coming.

And Go Red Averages.

One.  ¶ 11:22 PM