Today's Boondocks strip keeps the words-to-ink ratio plenty low while positing post-war reconstruction:

Well, the American way of life is coming to Iraq. And you know what that means...

"Iraqi Girls Gone Wild?"

And I say "Amen." What's wrong with a little D-Cup D-Mocracy?

Why do we call it "nosepicking?" Why not something nice and scientific-sounding, like "nasal harvesting?"

I'm just saying.

Hi everyone. Radio silence over the last ten days was due to the State of Maine missing payments on its Internet bill. When you're running obscene state budget deficits, it's easy to miss a payment or two on your AOL Broadband.

Lileks has only one child, which allows him the mental clarity to poignantly describe the links between modern children's literature and the great classics of the West:

Tonight I took Gnat up to my room to play while I crunched some video. She started taking down Penguin paperbacks from the shelf and reading them out loud. They all had the same plot and the same conclusion.

Plato’s Republic: the spider went down the spout and they all lived happily ever after. The end.

War and Peace: the spider went down the spout and they all lived happily ever after. The end.

Every novel by Turgenev: the spider went down the spout and they all lived happily ever after. The end.

“The Nun,� by Denis Diderot: the spider went down the spout and they all lived happily ever after. The end.

She handed me the second volume of Les Miserables. “You read it,� she said.

“Le spider, Javert, went down the spout, so to speak, and they all lived happily ever after. Fin.�

“That’s a wonnerful book,� she said. I agreed that it was.

I turned 32 sometime over the weekend. I'm not sure of the exact time it happened, for I don't carry my birth certificate around with me on a regular basis. But I can tell that it happened: my joints creak just a little louder, this darned music you kids listen to sounds just a little crappier, Democrats seem just a little kookier. I'm a year closer to showing my AARP card for a discount at the 4:30 PM buffet at the American Legion hall.

Well I'm not going down without a fight, Age. You can drag me ever-nearer to the supermarket aisle where the Centrum Silver is shelved, but I'm gonna kick and scream the whole way through an ever-escalating series of grand and glorious (if not futile) gestures towards preserving my waning youth.

And I've started already. After over a year of absence, I've returned to the hardwood for noontime basketball at the YMCA. I briefly considered buying a new Honda CBR600RR and zipping down to Daytona Beach instead, but nothing says "mid-life crisis" like a guy trying to weave an overpowered motorcycle through toys scattered on the driveway without waking the family, wondering where the hell on the bike he's supposed to insert his new Air Supply CD.

All things considered, today's performance was quite acceptable. I tried to stick to the standard "White Guy Coming Off the DL" playing style: concentrate on passing and rebounding, take the open 15-footer if it's there, don't for God's sake don't go driving the lane until you remember how to dribble. This is the same style that endeared Manute Bol and Shawn Bradley to NBA fans worldwide, but it looks a lot funnier when a six-three guy is sporting it.

But screw aesthetics. I didn't embarrass myself, which is Rule #1 in the Guide To Mid-Life Crises (available soon from Amazon and Barnes & Noble). I was able to break away from the workplace in the middle of the day, something I hadn't done most of this awful, awful winter. And I reminded myself of one of life's most important lessons, learned from my grandmother: "You're only as old as you feel." I know Roman Polanski has a different interpretation of this phrase — it's not "you're only as old as those whom you feel" — but it's true, and it's got me feeling like I'm still in my twenties, ready to kick the world in the ass.

Tomorrow morning, however, isn't going to be pretty. Advice to readers: Pfizer makes Ben-Gay. Buy Pfizer stock now.

UPDATE: For you kids who don't know any better: substitute "R. Kelly" for "Roman Polanski" if the penultimate paragraph doesn't gibe with you (thanks Greg).

Ah, the signs of Spring.

Bar Harbor business propreitors awaken from hibernation to prepare for the tourists. The deer prance about antlerless. The Red Sox begin their annual swoon, months ahead of schedule. And a young man's thoughts turn to love.

Us old men, however, keep our thoughts right where they always have been. Focused on the imporant things: just a few more minutes of sleep, sound lawn maintenance, a nice solid bowel movement. We rummage through the boxes in the closet and bring out the white pants, the Sperry topsiders, the pink polo shirts. Hell, grab that cocktail shaker and martini glasses while you're in there, run down to the corner package store for a liter of Beefeater, let's do this season right. Find a compact disc that'll help you get your groove on, but nothing too threatening.....White Stripes? No, they look adulterous.....The Hives? No, too Swedish.....aha! "Lionel Richie!" Perfect. Man, I loved this guy in high school. Still have a pristine 45 of "Ballerina Girl," still shrinkwrapped. Maybe that's in the box too. Hell, just bring out the whole box.

Now, old man, you've got one martini in you, one in your hand, and another in the shaker, Lionel's "truly! truly in love with you, girl!", and you've got a box full of crap out on the patio. You look like Judge Smails on the first tee at Bushwood, and you're loving it. It's fifty degrees and you're getting ready to pore through seventeen years of acquired mementos, geegaws and trinkets. You might accidentally pour half a martini into the box, but that's just one more memory to cherish. Go back inside and top off your glass from the shaker, maybe stop by the bathroom for another nice "study period" (second one today!), daydream about mutual fund returns and gas grills with cooking surfaces measured in hectares.

You think you've got life by the horns, young people? With your nü-metal and your Oxycontin and your tight pants? It's Spring, my yard is clean, and I've got nice, firm poops. To a 31-year-old homeowner, that's the holy trifecta.

Would you buy a T-shirt that said "The Holy Trifecta: It's Spring, my yard is clean, and I've got nice, firm poops"? I'm always thinking about marketing.

Attention, readers in the entertainment industry (and I know there are some of you out there)!

Get this man a television show on a major US network. I don't care who you have to sleep with — that's a moral conundrum you'll have to sort out on your own. Just get it done. I'll even suggest some show titles (those allergic to bad puns should scroll to the next post):

• The Ba'athelor
• Are You Shot?
• Buried by America
• Touched by a JDAM
• Really Really Really Loud Boomtown
• Iron Al-Sahaf

My four-year-old wants to play chess every night before reading bedtime stories. It's so adorable, I have no choice but to accomodate his wishes.

And I beat him every time!

These punk kids today think they know everything. Let me tell you something, kids: us old folks can do everything better than you. Especially you four-year-olds.

We're old! We're bold! Get used to us!

Like my mini-bio on the left side of this page states, I work for a secret laboratory full of supergeniuses who not only have developed cures for every disease known to man (we like to release them slowly, to keep expectations high), but spend their off-hours breeding mice with advanced musical ability and quantitative reasoning. Today, I thought you would enjoy reading about some of my favorite strains of these Frankenmice:

• Strain CBA/CaHN-Btk^xid can deadlift one hundred pounds while singing Vivaldi's Agitata da due venti.
• Strain LT/SvEi-Y^* is listed as a "chromosomal aberration," due to the fact it can drink ten times its weight in tequila while orating on obscure federal regulations — it's often referred to as the "Ted Kennedy Strain."
• Saving my favorite for last: Strain BALB/c-Fech^m1Pas, a "chemically-induced mutation," can only be seen after pounding a six-pack of Bud tall boys. And man, is he worth it. Last time I summoned him from the ethanol aether, I hit twenty straight 7's on the $25 minimum craps table at Mohegan Sun, and staggered out of the casino with ten extra Ben Franklins folded in my pocket. I passed one to "Fechy," as I call him, as a grateful tip for his help. Didn't see him again until the next morning, passed out cold atop a naked cocktail waitress with four blocks of imported Camembert scattered beside him. Hard living, maybe, but he's genetically bred for it.

Today's entry From The Grave was written approximately two years ago. It is about winter and opportunity:

Looking for attention? Want people on the street to pay you notice? Have a yen for that aura of danger and excitement that drives the girls wild?

While you walk down the streets of the city, bend down to pick up a handful of snow. Pack it into a fine, icy sphere. Keep on walking, whistling innocently to yourself, displaying a thin smile to those nearby.

No one can ignore a happy guy with a snowball.

NOTE:I'd previously posted something I'd actually posted before, a duplicate of a duplicate. I'm lamer than Ken Griffey Jr. at a separated shoulder convention.

I've come up with a great new word to describe the process by which people vomit the entire contents of their daily activities onto their weblog: blogggggghhhhhhhhhing.

A fine use of onomatopoeia that I hope spreads throught the blogdom.