Nice Doggie!

I don't like pit bulls. I just don't. There, I said it. AGAIN.

Of all the breeds of dog out there, it has always baffled me why someone would want a pit bull.

But when you combine pit bulls with small children, it is--in my opinion--a recipe for disaster. Regardless of its breed, however, once an animal maliciously bites a human it should be put down. I don't care if it's a chihuahua or a St. Bernard.

"Oh but the dog was so peaceful before she ripped my arm off!" or "It never hurt a flea until it killed Mrs. Davidson next door!" is what we usually hear from the seemingly baffled owners of dogs that attack.

I have seen my fair share of maddening "My dog isn't awful for mauling them" stories, but I think the following one out of Australia beats them all by a long shot.

Imagine having your two-year-old child attacked by the family dog. Imagine your little one's face chewed up. Imagine your child covered in blood and screaming for his life. Imagine being told that you are lucky that your child didn't lose his vision from such an attack.

Feel these emotions for a second. Is your heart beating? Are you filled with panic, rage, and visions of taking the dog out back?

Okay. Now imagine blaming the CHILD for the incident and vowing to keep the dog on top of that! Does this match the feelings you had a moment ago? Me neither.

But that's what Alicia Cottier has done.

According to this Mother of the Year, it's the toddler's fault for playing with the doggie's ears and ticking it off.

After all, she DID warn Noah to stop doing it or Cassey might get mad! Apparently the dog usually just walks away when annoyed. But not this time. "This time she snapped at him and has bitten him on the face," Cottier remarks.

Authorities insist the child is lucky to be in such good shape, considering the size of the mastiff-staffordshire cross.

"It's not like the dog picked him up and shook him or anything, she just snapped at him for pulling on her ears," Cottier says.

What she left out is that the "snap" has probably left her son disfigured for the rest of his life.

Paramedics from the rescue helicopter called Noah "the luckiest boy alive". I disagree.

I think the luckiest boy alive would have a mom who cared for him more than a mongrel of a dog. The luckiest boy alive wouldn't have been covered in blood, screaming for his life, and airlifted to a hospital to save his life.

Of course, what the paramedics meant was that he was lucky to BE alive. And they are right.

Let's just hope dear, darling Cassey doesn't "snap" again. Maybe this two-year-old has learned his lesson. Because his mother clearly hasn't.

Things are a little different in Australia. No charges are being filed because the incident happened at the family's home. Nice! So if daddy wants to beat the tar out of mommy, is it okay because it happened at the family's home? Incest? Molestation? Rape? Police don't have jurisdiction in family homes?

In a sane world, this child would be removed from the home. Not because the dog attacked him. But because of his mother's lax attitude about the attack. In America, it's called failure to protect. Kids are removed from homes in California (my home) for far less serious things all the time.

There should be no choice about the dog's fate, either. It should be immediately put down. No questions asked.

Hey, in case Noah's mom is reading this, I have a great idea for a Christmas gift for Cassey this year. A dingo!! It's a much more suitable playmate than a two-year-old boy.

Just don't pull its ears, mommy!

Wait...on second thought...

Reminder To Self: Three Years Left To Be Happy

I am going to be miserable three years from Friday. Statistically speaking, that is.

You see, I turn 37 on Friday and a new, supposedly comprehensive, study finds that depression comes down on people in their 40s like a sledgehammer.

So I only have three years of happiness left.

When I am 40, it's not going to matter that I love my family, job, country, God, and Nintendo DS. I am doomed to misery. I won't enjoy sunsets and sushi anymore. Long walks with the kids and trips to Disneyland are just going to stink because of my age.

If I had known this study was going to come out, I would have enjoyed my youth more. According to the people who conducted this study, people in their 40s get depressed because many people realize they haven't achieved their biggest aspirations in life...and their friends begin to drop like flies! I'm not making this stuff up! (Though I question the validity of studies like this.)

But I'm not going to let middle-age get me down. The researchers claim there is a light at the end of the long, dark tunnel of being forty-something.

The study claims that you snap out of the depression in your 50s and if you make it into your 70s physically fit, you are going to feel as good as a 20-year-old!

And now if you'll excuse me, I am off to conduct a study of my own. I want to know if the fuzz on the strawberries in my refrigerator will affect the taste of my smoothies.

Seriously, why do people pay attention to this stuff! Life is what you make of it, not what some study says it should be.

All the great philosophers were right--ultimately you are as happy as you make yourself out to be. Studies like this do more damage than good, in my opinion, because they plant the seed of defeat.

And that is all it takes for some people to get depressed about their lives.

Look forward to your life, whether you're a child, a teen, middle aged, or a senior citizen. Why? Because you can find the good in your life outweighs the bad.

If you only open your eyes.

This is my favorite quote by Jack London and something I like to live by. I hope it inspires you half as much as it inspires me.

“I would rather be ashes than dust! I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot. I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet. The function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.”

The Blog from 20,000 Fathoms

I finally gave in to my curiosity and checked out the hyped up monster movie Cloverfield last night.

WOW. And that is not an exaggeration. I haven't seen a movie that gripping in a very long time. Congrats to producer J.J. Abrams and director Matt Reeves for an amazing picture that takes us back to the days of The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms and It Came From Beneath the Sea and other classics from special effects pioneer Ray Harryhausen.

In fact, this movie is what you get if you were to combine The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms, King Kong, Blair Witch Project, and the television show Friends and stick it all in a blender and press ICE CRUSHER . Luckily it has more King Kong than it does Friends, but my analogy is still close.

The film starts out in a Manhattan loft packed with twenty-somethings sending off a friend to Japan for a new job. (I kept grinning every time Japan was mentioned or referenced because I couldn't help but remember Godzilla hailed from Japan!)

Soon, the earth begins to violently shake and the breaking news reports an earthquake has hit near the harbor and capsized a ship.

The realism of everyone's reactions is intensified as everyone starts running for the street, some whispering to each other "Do you think this is another attack?"--an obvious reference to 9/11.

We soon find out it isn't an earthquake. Nor is it a terrorist plot. The enemy is not human at all, and possibly not even of this earth. A giant creature has surfaced and destroys skyscrapers as easily as a child knocks down toy blocks.

What impressed me the most about the film was the stark realism that the handheld camera delivers. In fact, the whole movie is told from the video camera's point of view because the original intention of the filming was to chronicle the main character's bon voyage and the good wishes from his family and friends. But once the camera is rolling, why not keep it rolling and capture this cataclysmic event? As the character who carries the camera through most of the film states, "People are going to want to see this. They are going to want to see how it all went down."

That comment sent chills up my spine. It really did feel like the audience was sharing in this eye witness account of the destruction of New York City, if not humanity itself. We have the sinking feeling that this really IS the end. What hope is there when the military's best personnel and hardware can't make a dent in their attacks on the creature? More hopelessness falls on us as a
commanding officer says "Whatever it is, it's winning!"

The special effects are simply stunning and it is hard to believe that such impressive work was accomplished with an alleged $25 million budget. I grew up watching monster movies and disaster flicks. Even some of the newest and best always had a sense of being too "fake" for my taste. Not so with Cloverfield. It's mind boggling to watch because you swear you are witnessing the destruction of the Brooklyn Bridge and the complete annihilation of Central Park. The danger, the angst, the suspense, the horror--all of it seems real and my heart was still racing even on the drive home.

Once the action starts, it doesn't let go. It is relentless and unforgiving. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. The pretty people don't emerge unscathed. There isn't a neat, perfectly tied up ending in under 90 minutes.

It was maddening to me that so many people in the theater didn't "get" the ending, or much of the movie for that matter. Some bolted out threatening demands of a refund. That they had been "ripped off" by the "stupid" ending. It just proved to me how conditioned so many movie patrons have become by the typical Hollywood cliches. Movies aren't SUPPOSED to end this way.

By the way, there is even a mystique surrounding where the title of the film comes from. The opening screen references "U.S. Designate Project Cloverfield" in the same vein as the "Manhattan Project" or other military endeavors. "Cloverfield" is also the name of a street not far from the production company's offices in Southern California. Some say it was the codename for the film so that details of the plot would not leak out.

Either way, the title of the film is very much like the ending of the movie. Some things are better left to the imagination.

We don't need to know what zip code the creature comes from or what its favorite hobbies are or why it's so ticked off at humanity for the film to grab us by the throats and never let go.

I can't wait to see this movie again and to buy the DVD so I can see how they pulled off this amazing film. And I don't say that about too many movies these days.

I'm In The Wrong Business

Don't underestimate for one moment the power and earning potential of those in the business of making pets out to be people.

What a racket that is! Look at all the products aimed at dogs--from seat belts and clothing lines to Prozac and pictures with Santa--that imply they really aren't so different from us.

Now we have a couple that has developed a CD full of songs for Fido. It's actually called "Songs To Make Dogs Happy"!

A walk in the park and a sniff of a lamp post is all the fun MY dog needs. A rubber toy filled with peanut butter can provide HOURS of entertainment.

But a CD?? For DOGS??

I refuse to buy her this, no matter how well she behaves!

I do remember one of my earliest moments messing with an animal's mind. I would bring the neighbor's dog, which they had virtually left for us to take care of, into my room as a kid and play the song "Dogs" from Pink Floyd's 1977 "Animals" album. Although the album is a metaphor to categorize people as either dogs, pigs, or sheep, the song "Dogs" has an instrumental part that has a dog barking in it.

Man, would that play with the doggie's head! HAHA. It would look around and try to see where the other darned dog was! Needless to say, I was an only child with ample ways of keeping myself entertained.

But could it really be that there are songs that you can play for your dog that will soothe man's best friend? COME ON! My dog will fall asleep, scratch itself, bark, whine, or wag it's tail whether I am listening to Elton John or John Gibson. It doesn't matter. It doesn't care.

Why?

Because...it...is...a...DOG!

I'm in the wrong business. Watch. I am going to pioneer a satellite radio channel FOR pets. Not ABOUT pets...FOR pets.

It will be called the Million Dollar Racket Channel!

And maybe, just maybe, you or someone you know will stay glued to it all day long.

Let me know if your pooch likes it, OK?

But if your dog is like mine, she'd rather be a "Brian & The Judge" fan anyway.

Dear Mr. No Manners

This is an open letter to a rude father at my sons' elementary school.

Dear Mr. No Manners:

Perhaps it escaped your attention this morning that you almost took my car out in the school "loop" this morning. Was it worth almost causing an accident to get a whole car length ahead of me?

What was your hurry?

Since your Momma clearly didn't teach you manners, maybe you should pay attention to the weekly reminder sent out by the school principal that reminds people like YOU the rules of etiquette when dropping off and picking up your small children. (Hey! There is another reason to not drive like a jerk--small children are EVERYWHERE!)

For just one second, I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you didn't see that you were three cars BEHIND me in the line when we dropped our kids off. While I maintained my place in the line, YOU had some reason that you felt was valid enough to take the right of way and cut in front of the two cars behind me. But don't pretend that when you tried to do the same to me that you didn't see ME looking at you.

I could tell by the stony look on your face that you could FEEL my eyes boring into the side of your head. We didn't NEED to make eye contact for you to know you were being a jerk.

Do you just not realize that you are going to see me REPEATEDLY for the next several years while our children are in school together?? A community in only as strong as its weakest link and YOU, Sir, are IT.

Why would you want to foster this kind of hostility among such a small group of people. Don't we all have the same objective here? Aren't we raising our children to follow the examples WE set?

My children are learning to be courteous, considerate, and to understand that they don't always come first.

What message is YOUR child getting from you? Probably the same message you got from YOUR mom.

I implore you to break the cycle.

Realize that you are not the center of the elementary school universe. Other parents, like me, have days that WE need to get back to and jobs WE need to do, yet are still able to maintain an air of civility when interacting with each other.

So I guess I'll be seeing you at the upcoming school events. I'll be the guy who smiles at you in line. I am probably not the only person who has taken offense by your lack of consideration, so I guess you are going to just have to wonder which one of us I am.

Sincerely,

Spencer Hughes
Soccer Mom in the green Honda

Dumb Dog Moment #185

I don't know whether I should feel sorry for my doggie JoJo or shove her into a crate with a one way ticket to Timbuktu.

She is so sweet. All she wants is to be loved. At least by people she KNOWS.

You see, our JoJo has a recognition problem. It doesn't seem to be her eyesight since she can catch the trickiest peanut butter snack thrown to her and take it all the way to the end zone.

I think her problems resemble more of the kind we have seen on AMERICAN IDOL this week.

Case in point. If I come into the house wearing a baseball cap, for example, JoJo will cease to recognize her master. It's as if I become an entirely different person to her. Never mind that I sound the same, look the same, and smell the same. She doesn't buy it. Not for one moment.

So she growls and howls and acts all tough while she wets the floor. Does she think we don't notice that??

But here is the really odd part that qualifies this as a Dumb Dog Moment.

If I wear my Tony Clifton outfit (complete with wig, mustache, sideburns, and dark glasses) she doesn't even bark. Not even a whimper. Not the least bit of a hint of a growl.

In fact, she licks my hand and wags her tail.

So...baseball cap...does not compute.

Crazy costume with crazy altered voice to go with it...licks and kisses.

Can anyone explain this one? Is the Dog Whisperer reading this? Anyone?

And now if you'll excuse me, I am going to pop into my Superman tights and head to the studio. Let's see if she barks.

P.S. She didn't bark. Maybe she only reacts when I wear the Wonder Woman duds.

Recovery

I had a vasectomy yesterday after the show. Not the usual way I like to spend my post-show time. Usually a burger and fries on the way home is about all the excitement I can take.

But it was something that needed to be done since we are already blessed with the Brady Bunch.

Thank God the procedure has come such a long way. They don't even need to use scalpels anymore. As with most things, the anticipation was greater and longer and emotional than the actual event.

I'm the kind of wimp who needs nitrous oxide to get my teeth cleaned, so I cringed when the doctor said all he would give me was ONE Valium and numbing medicine topically.

ONE VALIUM?? For all my ANXIETY?!?! And only 10 mg??

Thank God it was only 10. I was flying high after 20 minutes. As we waited in the reception area, everything was funny to me.

"I'm REALLY nervous about this," I told my Better Half. Followed by a quick: "JUST KIDDING!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Nope. I was feeling no pain. 10 mg DID do the job.

The procedure itself took maybe 15 minutes or so. And I admit it was probably the strangest, most uncomfortable thing I can ever remember doing. There's just something strange about being fully awake and hearing and feeling (pressure, not pain, although it's not fun to get SHOTS in certain parts of your body) things being done to you...KNOWING what they are doing to you.

The doctor was a genius at what he does. It was NOTHING to him! It looked like he was an ace mechanic tinkering with a car and fine tuning everything. And the nurse at his side was not only professional, but extremely patient with me and all of my phone calls prior to the procedure. They both deserve medals.

I kept reaching for my iPod when things were getting a little intense for me, but the Valium had my muscles so relaxed, I was too lazy to reach for it (even though it rested on my chest!). Oh well. I don't know if I really would have wanted to taint a song for life like that. Hey! That's the song I heard when I was getting the 'ol Snip Snip!

No, thanks.

So now it's finally over.

All I mainly ever heard over the years were the HORROR stories. Let me tell you this, especially if you are a male reader/listener thinking of getting it done--GET IT DONE! If you are ABSOLUTELY SURE you won't have any regrets, and you know you are done with your family making super powers, get it done! Like most things in life, it wasn't nearly as bad as I had heard and imagined it would be.

The doctor was a little concerned that I didn't take any time off from work. I love what I do too much to miss any more time than I need to. I'll try not to get too worked up with the callers, that's all. At least until tomorrow. Then the ice is off and so are the gloves!

And now if you'll excuse me. There are Spider-Man boo-boo ice packs waiting to be frozen in time for today's show.

P.S. Try to not run over the speed bumps at your child's school at 15 miles per hour the day after a vasectomy. Words to...ouch...live by!!

OUCH!

I am scared to death right now.

Today after the show, I am having a...GASP...vasectomy. It's hard to even say it without cringing and making that face you make when you suck on a lemon or hear nails on a chalkboard.

No need to dwell on it too much.

At least medical science has advanced to the point where they don't even need to use a scalpel. Next thing you know we will get medical checkups over the internet.

Wish me luck.

And be sure to be extra nice to me on tomorrow's show.

If you'll excuse me, I have an icetray to fill and an iPod playlist to create. I have the feeling that Bryan Adams' CUTS LIKE A KNIFE won't be included.

The End of Time

The other day I bought a cheap new digital watch at Target and had to set the correct time. So what did I do?

I did what I, and generations of fellow Californians, had done forever.

I dialed POPCORN.

Huh? What is that, you ask. It was a number you dialed...POPCORN...or 767-2676...to get the EXACT time according to the atomic clock. It was a lifesaver after blackouts or when you had to make sure the microwave was keeping good time.

The cool thing about the number, especially when you were a kid, was that you didn't really HAVE to dial POPCORN. The service worked if you dialed 767 and any four numbers. You didn't even have to dial a prefix. It worked from wherever you called.

And who could forget the lady's voice who told you the time. She sounded like June Cleaver and it was almost like listening to a live person since she always said good morning, good afternoon, or good evening to you. She had more manners in that single recording than today's society has in a week.

Joanne Daniels was the woman whose voice was heard for almost the past three decades of the service (which AT&T had offered since the 1920s!). It sounded so fluid because it WAS...she had to record EVERY SINGLE possibility. Today, voice menus sound so stiff because the voice actor just has their voice spliced a thousand different ways in order to make a complete sentence. At the end of giving you the time, she would say "Please make a note of it."

But to my recent dismay, the familiar voice of the "Time Lady" was no longer heard. I found that it was silenced forever last September. A sign of the times. AT&T claimed it just wasn't a needed service anymore. (Since it's demise, 300,000 new telephone numbers will be made available...cha-ching.)

So my watch still doesn't have the exact time on it. And it will make me feel a little empty, in a nostalgic way, every time the power goes out or the clock in the car needs resetting.

Because the Time Lady is no more.

Maybe her voice is in a warehouse somewhere along with cheap gas, metal jungle gyms, phone booths, lunch pails, and rotary phones.

It makes me kind of sad. It makes me feel old.

Please make a note of it.

Even Spider-Man Can't Make His Marriage Last

It's hard to believe that is has been 21 years since I purchased the comic book in which Spider-Man (A.K.A. Peter Parker) married his girlfriend Mary Jane Watson.

Fans who only know the relationship from the movies will remember that Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst played the characters on the big screen.

Maguire was only 12 years old when the comic book Spidey tied the knot.

And now, the knot is unraveling. Disappearing, actually. It's the latest hairbrained plot to keep comic book fans on their toes.

It turns out that one of Spider-Man's longtime enemies, Mephisto, makes him a bargain he cannot refuse. In order to save his Aunt May's life, he must erase any and all traces of Spider-Man's marriage to the love of his life.

That's right. The Web Head is single again. Ladies rejoice.

Why do writers do stuff like this? They have even killed off SUPERMAN himself in the past, only to quickly bring him back from the dead when they realized what a dumb thing they can done. Recently they killed Captain America, only to bring him back as well in a new form.

So it's not exactly the story of a superhero getting divorced. But it's a sad day for Spider-Man fans when one of the genre's sweetest romances goes back to page one--as if it never happened at all.

Cut my heart out now. Why not just tell me that LOVE STORY was all a dream sequence? Or that Humphrey Bogart was gay while traveling KEY LARGO with Lauren Bacall? Or that no one lives happily ever after?

Not even nerdy photographers who get bit by radioactive spiders.

Customer Service Nightmare #2,591

If only our borders were as secure as accessing a cell phone account.

We noticed a huge mistake on our cell phone bill this week and called customer service to get to the bottom of it.

"Pin number, please?" the barely intelligible voice on the other end said.

We gave it to him. Nope. Wrong number. Sorry!

"The street you grew up on?" was the next question.

We told him that, too.

"Nope!"

"Nope??"

You mean, somehow my Better Half FORGOT the street she grew up on?? She even tried the SECOND street she grew up on, in case by some fluke she had given that one instead.

NOPE, NOPE, NOPE!! Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!!

The blood was more than boiling at this point. You see, the agent wouldn't explain the error on our bill until we could prove we were who we said we were. We were willing to give Social Security numbers, our address, etc. But NO! How could we get any further if we didn't know the street on which we grew up! We were CLEARLY impostors!!

Cutting to the chase--the dolt on the phone didn't enter "Street" after our answer. HUH?? Are you KIDDING ME?? Are you telling me that is doesn't show him the magic answer to the secret question unless he INPUTS it? I don't believe it for a second!

He actually read us BACK the correct answer. And it matched OURS. So obviously he had the street name in front of him the whole time. Unless he typed "Lane", "Avenue", etc. which it does not appear he had the mental capabilities of doing anyway.

Oh, and by the way, our password WAS correct. He was just reading the number wrong.

I took the phone at this point and demanded to speak to a higher power. I complained to the supervisor, who wasn't any better at communicating in the English language than her agent was. I told her that the guy helping us was a dolt and I couldn't understand how they could allow such people (let alone PAY THEM) to waste a customer's day like that. We spent easily one hour of our day on something that should have taken 10 minutes TOPS.

All I got was the standard, cue card answer..."We're so sorry...blah, blah, blah, blah."

Same old junk.

Maybe they should hire that guy to man security at the big city airports! He wouldn't let anyone in!!

"We need a password to get into America? HUH??"

"What do you MEAN I don't know my mother's maiden name??"

Once Michael Chertoff puts Sherlock on the payroll, maybe my cell phone provider can replace him with someone who speaks English and has half a brain. Just half. That's all I'm asking for here. I know not to set my sights too high.

You have to be realistic, after all.

Thanks a Latte

I have a confession to make.

I like McDonald's iced coffee. Hazelnut is my favorite, now that my soul is on my sleeve.

Why should I feel ashamed? The first time I ordered it I felt like a teenager trying to sneak a dirty magazine past the cashier.

"Excuse me? I couldn't hear that!" the voice from the drive-thru box boomed at me.

"I said I would like an iced hazelnut coffee, please."

I am glad I finally mustered the guts to order it because it ROCKS. Just because it doesn't cost $14 doesn't mean it isn't any good.

It's nice to be able to order the biggest size they make (it's called a "large", thank you) and not have to put a second mortgage out on the house.

Will McDonald's be the next cool place to prop up your laptop and look important for hours on end? Probably not.

But the Golden Arches are trying to draw people away from the caffeine competition with the fancy names for SERVERS.

Try one next time you are itching for an iced coffee, even if it is a freezing cold winter.

And yes, I'll take fries with that, thank you.

Only In San Francisco

Only in San Francisco would people hold a candlelight vigil for a tiger that mauled three people, one of them to death. And only papers like the San Francisco Chronicle would run the story on the FRONT PAGE, even though only FOUR people showed up.

That's right. FOUR.

The excuse is, of course, that more people would have showed up if it hadn't been on New Year's Day. So...Why HOLD it on New Year's Day??

One tiger loving San Franciscan said that her death was wrong in so many ways. Maybe the cops, reacting within life or death split seconds, should have shot at the tiger's knees or used rubber bullets or thrown a net over her. Or maybe once the tiger was loose, the only humane thing would have been to let it run loose until it was finished mauling people and then ship it back to the wild.

Even at the Zoo itself, people left flowers and cards (for an ANIMAL!) at a bronze statue of a tiger.

Sure, it's sad when a majestic beast like this dies. But it's not sad in the same way as when your grandmother dies or when your father gets killed at the ATM pulling out Christmas present money.

It all boils down to this...the animal HAD to die in this incident. There was no time to respond with tranquilizers or animal psychologists. There was not enough time to call Animal Planet and get their guidance.

It's hard enough to be a cop in San Francisco and chase after the two legged bad guys. Imagine facing--in the DARK--a 350 pound tiger.

Maybe people should hold a bonfire for the San Francisco Police officers who ended the chaotic nightmare.

Nah. Not in San Francisco.

An Accidental New Year

My elderly parents spent New Year's Eve in the emergency room of a city hospital because some moron rear ended them in his delivery truck at 35 miles per hour. With my father's history of spinal injuries and surgeries, it's amazing the impact didn't break him in two. My mother, luckily, was also OK.

But they aren't really OK. Their backs are shaken up and so are their nerves. Their car, which is their main transportation to get around town, is totaled from the rear.

And if this is anything like my own personal experience, they are going to be waiting a very long time for reparations to their vehicle and their insurance. I will tell them not to hold their breath that the idiotic driver will ever be as punished as they have been.

Case in point--a story involving my own car.

I loaned my car last year to a relative. They were subsequently involved in a road rage incident that left them the victims of a ticked off teenage hooligan. Several gun shots to the car later, they miraculously escaped without any physical harm.

But more than half a year later, I still have a bullet hole in my windshield and cracks as long as my arm. And have I been compensated? Nope. Not one dime. I refuse to submit it to my insurance because why should I be punished with higher premiums because some thug willfully shot at my car??

The authorities reassure me that the junior Al Capone will be reimbursing us soon. Then we are told it might not be all at once because the family can't afford it.

Someone call the Whambulance. I can barely afford our mortgage, but I still have to pay it every month or we can loose our home. I don't have the luxury of paying it $25 at at time.

But there appears to be no recourse. The system is not forcing this kid or his family to pay me back the thousands of dollars they OWE me. If you can't pay your way, you have to get a job. If you still can't, you might have to get another job. And another. This kid has enough time to hunt people down and shoot at their heads while they are driving, he has time for a job. His parents should have to sell something of theirs. And if they don't have anything to sell, maybe THEY need to get another job, too.

I am tired of injustice. I am tired of there often being little recourse for the "little guy" in society. My parents are stuck at home with neck braces while the man who did this to them is probably driving the streets once more as if nothing happened.

I am looking at a car that looks like it was in a GODFATHER movie and the punk who did it is probably laughing somewhere.

The system works. Sometimes. And sometimes the bad guys get the upper hand.

Here's to an accidental New Year! Hope the rest of the year makes a little less of an impact, if you get what I mean.