Red Hot Chili Peppers 'Blood Sugar Sex Magik'

My mother is off into the foreign lands of Virginia this weekend. She’s at some kind of beach getaway with past and present Washington Redskins players. And for some reason, I have a vision of my mother… a short and very Baptist woman… sitting in a hot tub with… Dexter Manley…



Gary Clark…



John Riggins…



And this guy… I can never remember his name…



They’re all enjoying bible study on Sunday morning while the air propelled water of the Jacuzzi massages their bodies… Or is it some script from a badly produced homegrown adult movie? I don’t know.

My sister Tina was thrilled when she talked to her favorite player via my mother’s cell phone… Number mutha-f’ing Forty-four… John Riggins. I’m sure it was a very Marcia meets Davy Jones kind of moment.



To call John Riggins a free spirit… Is an understatement. To clarify… John Riggins was a diesel-powered free spirit (and I'm sure he still is). He did what he wanted and let you live the same way. But if he were coming your way with a football in his hand… You’d better be prepared to feel it. He would be coming at you like a six foot two inch bullet that’s as wide as a gun cabinet. Whether you stopped him or not, you’d remember it. And you might get a very cool scar to show the grandkids someday.

While searching images of him to repost on this non-monetary driven blog… An action that could be slightly illegal… Thank you copyright owners.. I started reading an interview with John “Riggo” Riggins … An Honorary Hog.

If you can wade through the football stories and listen to his quotes and personality traits and faults… You’ll find out what makes this guy so interesting.

I woke up the other morning and my eye was swollen and icky. Tears were running down my face and there seemed to be something in my eye the size of an uncooked piece of elbow macaroni. I couldn’t find anything when I lit up the bathroom and visually inspected the situation in the mirror. I just figured my eyes were just tired and I’ll go the day wearing my eyeglasses.

After my shower, I gave my eye the once over again in the mirror. Without the gory details that are much like the eye-removal scene from The Terminator, I found the culprit. It appeared to be a cat hair from Monroe, my cat.



I’m allergic to cats and yes… I’m aware that own one. She’s my little stabbing claws ball of love that greets me with tail-shaking excitement when I get home.

After some rest with my eyes shut for eight hours… The eyes were back to normal. Deep, cutting, and sexy as any pair can be. Looking ahead to 16 or more hours of consciousness even with the feeling of devastation over the cancellation of Veronica Mars looming overhead like a black and mournful cloud.

I’m gonna miss Dick.

First they kill off Sheriff Lamb, a great antagonist, and now the whole show is gone. I haven't been this depressed since Star Trek: Enterprise was cancelled by UPN.

This is a great period of mourning for me. Only the loving and caressing sounds of Cheap Trick’s many amplifiers next weekend in Charlotte will chase those blues away.



Before I go… Beverly is my MySpace Top Friend of the week. May she reign for seven days!

My MySpace page.