Sorry for the long break in between blog updates. I was suspended for two weeks, nearly fired, in the wake of my controversial Tom Petty and Bobby Brown opinion pieces.

The break gave me time to think, long and hard. And I’m here today to apologize and, with your blessing, to start over.

I made two unfortunate, and clearly damaging, mistakes. Both Mr. Petty and Mr. Brown are American heroes. You folks made me realize that. For attempting to tarnish their legacies, I am truly sorry.

As an act of contrition, I’m enrolling my five-year-old son in a Bobby Brown drug seminar. No, no, Mike Jr. doesn’t have a drug problem, yet. This was a preemptive measure. My hope is he’ll learn from the best how to be a man and how to do the right thing. Clearly, I can’t offer him that. But after finally hearing all the songs Mr. Brown did with his childhood group, New Edition, I’m confident that he will get my son started on the right path (giving my boy the chance I never had).

As for my personal thoughts on Mr. Petty. I love Tom Petty. I own all his records. The truth is, Jeff Lynne, his former and least known band-mate in the Traveling Wilburys, forced me to write all that bad stuff about him. If I didn’t, Lynne, also the frontman for Electric Light Orchestra, was going to make me wear a wig afro and dark tinted sunglasses at gunpoint and videotape me singing “Don’t Bring Me Down” and put it on YouTube. It was all part of his sinister plot to get back at Tom for not only overshadowing his role in the Wilburys, but for Tom’s overall status in the music business. (Lynne never got over being underrated as a guitarist, lead singer, songwriter and producer). The national embarrassment I would’ve faced couldn’t compare to the pain I caused. Sorry.

Never the less, I must choose my blog topics more carefully, given the sensitivity expressed by my readers. So I’ll quit chasing waterfalls, and stick to subjects I’m used to. Like deep-fryers. That said, If they dunked salad in bubbling-hot peanut oil, I’d eat it. And I’m not afraid to say it…

It’s not shocking that the once-famous R&B singer Bobby Brown got busted for having cocaine.

What is shocking is that anyone, a judge no less, would think Bobby’s got something to teach kids about the dangers of drugs.

Brown was court-ordered last week to be a mentor to teenagers as “punishment” for possession. Reports say that’s the judgment he “wanted” anyway.

This case is proof that the patients are running the asylum.

Not only does Brown escape punishment, but the court puts him on a pedestal as someone people, kids, should look up to. Exactly what he was hoping for! (What better way to reinforce negative behavior than by letting it go unpunished and giving it a seal of approval).

So what if he used to be a celebrity? The question is: What positive message can he send to teenagers about drug use? That, apparently, we don’t have to held accountable for our actions. And that before we’ve even proven we can overcome our addictions, we – if we had a few hit singles almost 20 years ago – get a free pass to be the voice of sobriety.

If the courts want to let celebrities skate the law, then just let them. Let them go free and don’t even give a reason. But don’t add insult to injury. Don’t make them mentors!

What’s next? Will Joe Francis, the creator of “Girls Gone Wild,” start teaching seminars on the importance of morality in order to skirt his legal troubles.

Kids are smart. They can see right through BS, better than most adults. If we keep giving them role models that aren’t credible, they’ll keep following our lead.

If you want to make an example out of Bobby Brown, about the consequences of drug use, send him to jail.

Don’t feel bad if you forgot my birthday.

I didn’t remember it either. Not until I got to work this morning and a co-worker reminded me.

Nice.

Can’t say how or why I’d forget such a milestone. Birthday’s used to mean so much.

Maybe I’m too busy. Career driven and working long hours, it’s easy to forget about the things that matter most.

Maybe it’s because I’m at that age – 26 – where my mind and body are starting to go through certain “changes.” For example: Mentally, I don’t feel a day older than 15. Physically, I don’t feel a a day younger than 40. My actual age is closer to the average of the two. Just doesn’t feel right. It has my internal clock all spun around (the hot flashes haven’t come yet, but they’re not far behind).

Or maybe I’ve just gotten old and crotchety in my ways. I’ve already caught myself watching daytime episodes of “JAG” and yelling at kids who ride their bikes on the sidewalk out front after dark.

Maybe my memory’s starting to go. Sometimes I’ll dial the phone and when someone answers I have no idea who I called. It’s happening more frequently.

Or maybe I’m just an idiot who can’t remember anything unless it involves free Pabst and inner tubing.

Who knows?

“Tom Petty is the greatest singer, guitar player and song writer in the history of this Universe or any other, and he forever will be. Just listen to the delicate, yet complex integration of chord progressions and lyrical mastery in songs like ‘Don’t Come Around Here No More,’ ‘Into The Great Wide Open’ and ‘You Don’t Know How It Feels.’ It’s like seeing two people fall in love to the sounds of a symphony only they can hear.”

That’s what someone told me once when I said I didn’t like Tom Petty.

Okay, I lied. That’s not what they said.

But they did call me a jerk.

That’s not the only time, either. I’ve lost friends, nearly family, because I don’t like his music…his music.

I didn’t say I didn’t like him. He’s probably a great guy and fun to be around. I just think his songs are too simple for my taste and that a lot of them sound too much alike.

“Then you’re are an idiot!” – I can already hear you saying it.

It’s okay, let it out.

“You don’t know crap about music!” “You’re tone deaf!” “You’re ugly!”

Keep them coming. I know I’m evil. I change the station when I here “Free Fallin” or “You don’t have to live like a refugee” – how dare I! It’s okay. I’ve learned to accept who I am.

And if I’m in a situation where I’m unable to change the station or the stereo, I start singing (I can sound just like Tom Petty) really loud, only I change the words to make the song’s lyrics really awful.

For example: “Free Fallin” becomes “Free Ballin.” You can only imagine how it goes.

That one’s made people cry.

Now Tom Petty is the performer during half-time of Super Bowl XLII in Phoenix. Can’t say I’m as thrilled as everyone else.

I believe my direct quote was, “I’d rather watch Steven Tyler and Justin Timberlake sing ‘Walk this Way’ and toss microphones back and forth to each other in hell before I’ll watch this year’s half-time show.”

But it’s clear I’m alone on this one. In fact, I’m not going to say that everyone else in the world claims to be Tom Petty’s biggest fan, but I’m not going to say they don’t, either.

That said; if I’m the only jerk on the planet that won’t defend the greatness of “Last Dance with Mary Jane” to the death, than even I have to admit Tom Petty must be doing something right.

It’s 6:40 p.m. on Friday. And I’m here late because I wanted to bounce some ideas of my readers.

Below are some of the possible names for the classless, body odor-filled bar I’d like to own someday. I thought up some slogans, too, with the hopes that the bar will gain a disgusting enough reputation to warrant selling T-shirts with bright decals and funny characters on them (I’m told it’s important to cross-market and develop value-added products).

Have a look-see:

Name: McScurvy’s
Slogan: “If you’re ugly, we’re open.”

Name: The Busted Grill
Slogan: “There’s no cover charge, but you have to let us knife you.”

Name: The Damp Sleeping Bag
Slogan: “Home of the first Little Debbie Urinal Cake”

Name: Butterfly Kisses
Slogan: “Don’t worry. If she hasn’t left you yet, she will.”

Name: Hotel Honduras
Slogan: “1st World time at 3rd world prices.”

Name: The Bill Collector
Slogan: “You’re only homeless when we’re closed.”

Name: Plywood Palace
Slogan: “Doors lock when pyrotechnics start.”

Name: Jail Bait
Slogan: “Technically you can’t date ‘em, but theoretically you can sure as hell fight over ‘em.”

Feel free to help me out if you come up with any of your own.

“These Three Carts” (done to the tune of “We Three Kings”)

These three carts of P&C are
Wheel bearings un-greased they traverse afar.
Snow bank and fountain, Street corner and mountain,
Acting as make-shift cars

Chorus
O carts of wonder, carts of night,
Carts with foil antennas might,
Pick-up a TV station, no it’s fading,
Guide us to that case of Milwaukee’s Best Light.

Born as carts on P&C’s lot,
WD-40 I have to unfreeze them again,
Carts forever, rusting never
Still abandoned by all in shame.

O carts of wonder, carts of night,
Carts filled with garbage and gas create fire bright,
Portable oven, char-broiled chariot we’re lovin’
Guide us to that case of Milwaukee’s Best Light.

No Common Sense to offer have I.
Leave a perfectly good cart on the neighbor’s lawn to die.
Drunk and hazy really lazy,
Steal new cart and go get high.

O carts of wonder, carts of night,
Three carts on the front porch make it tight,
We’ll hang on lawn until they’re mysteriously gone
Guide us to that case of Milwaukee’s Best Light.

Carts not mine: It’s a bitter dispute
Though the store manager doesn’t shout of gathering gloom.
It’s the neighbors, haters, cops and writers,
That give me such an awful time.

O carts of wonder, carts of night,
We’ll take the carts back and make it right,
Squeaking, squirreling, leftward turning
Guide us to that case of Milwaukee’s Best Light.

Glorious now behold the zip ties,
worse for ware, but here the cart lies.
Alleluia, alleluia!
Sounds through the cart return area and skies.

O carts of wonder, carts of night,
The carts are home to reunite,
From store to car, they travel no more far
Guide us to that case of Milwaukee’s Best Light.

Regarding my pro stance on the Town of Norwich and City of Norwich taking part in a joint consolidation study, one reader that doesn’t agree wrote: “Michael is pretty young and idealistic, which is to be expected and also is proper.”

I actually think I’m pretty cynical, and at 25, I feel like I’m 40 (too many late night’s at Millie’s Diner).

I see my position as being more pessimistic than anything else. It’s born from a lack of faith in local government.

A lack of faith that it will ever be proactive. A lack of faith that it will ever take risks. A lack of faith that it can ever look beyond the short term. A lack of faith that it can really get anything done on its own. A lack of faith that it can ever lead.

If anyone’s idealistic, it’s the people on the Norwich town board who think they live on an Island Kingdom beholden to no one.

Furthermore, if anyone’s idealistic, it’s people in local government who think Chenango County will get better if we stay the course.

Who knows, maybe if we do nothing the county will become a tourism hotspot?

“If you think Branson sucks, wait till you see Norwich!” A pamphlet might read.

I know local governments can rest on their laurels. I know local governments have excuses. I know local governments hate Albany. I know local governments can meet for two hours once a month. I know local governments can react after a situation reaches crisis mode.

What I don’t think local governments can do is develop a realistic vision of the future. They sure can develop a future based on a fantastic version of the past.

– Missing pastor found alive in Arkansas using identity of man killed in Norwich
CENTERTON, Ark. – According to several newspaper reports, a pastor once believed kidnapped and murdered by Satan worshippers was found alive in Arkansas last week working as a small city mayor using the name and Social Security number of a man killed in Norwich nearly 50 years ago.
After disappearing in 1980, Donald L. LaRose, a former Baptist minister in Lancaster, Pa., Broome County and Indiana, was found last week in Centerton, Ark., living under the name Bruce Kent Williams.
Based on the report, the real Bruce Kent Williams was a 19-year-old man killed in a car wreck in Norwich in 1958. It is unclear how LaRose obtained his name and Social Security number.
It was not known Wednesday if Williams was a Norwich resident.
Before twice disappearing – once briefly in 1975 and then again in 1980 – LaRose claimed he was being threatened by Satan worshippers. Now the mayor of a small city in Northwest Arkansas and re-married as “Ken Williams,” LaRose says he left his first wife and their children so the Satanists would not harm them.
From 1972-75, LaRose was a pastor in the Town of Maine, located in Broome County. While there he went missing briefly before turning up in Minnesota, claiming Satanists had abducted him in Binghamton and brainwashed him into believing he was Bruce Kent Williams.
In 1977, he moved to Hammond, Ind., where he went missing for the last time in 1980.
For the last 27 years, LaRose has been a local radio personality in Northwest Arkansas.
His identity was discovered by reporters who received a tip from LaRose’s family who discovered a website, www.donlarose.com, that is registered to a “Ken Williams” in Centerton.
On his website, it reads, “Since my unveiling on Wednesday, November 21, 2007, I have revised this report to delete portions of the story designed to keep people from following my trail. All changes will be included in bold letters.”
—
As it turns out, Bruce Kent Williams – the identity Don LaRose assumed – was not killed in Norwich. Neither the city or town have records of such a person dying in a car accident here.

I figured that busted pretty much any local connection to the story.

However, after reading the article, a Norwich woman called in and said she knew Don LaRose when he was her pastor at the First Baptist Church in Maine, NY, where she lived before moving to the Norwich area 10 years ago.

While LaRose has been somewhat vilified, she claims the man she knew was loved by all, and when he disappeared, it frightened and devastated an entire community.

“Everybody loved him,” she said, recalling LaRose when she was 15 years old. “As a pastor, he really fit the needs of our community.”

The LaRose she knew was kind, outgoing and popular with people of all ages. “He was a caring man, a great family man, and he was very funny.”

LaRose had a distinct laugh and a great singing voice, too, she said. “If I heard them today, I’d know it was him without seeing him,” she said.

For all intents and purposes, LaRose was the squeaky clean leader of a wholesome church.

Then, on election day, 1975, everything changed.

He claims to have been abducted and brainwashed, waking up homeless in Chicago and then Minneapolis – without any idea how he got there – believing he was “Bruce Kent Williams,” with no idea who Don LaRose was or anything about his past life.

You can read LaRose’s account of the whole story at www.donlarose.com. (The woman I spoke with says the transcripts on that website describe LaRose’s story just as it happened).

Can’t say I believe it, but it’s a fascinating read.

Regardless, the facts are clear. Feared kidnapped and killed by Satanists, this guy was gone for 27 years. All the while he was a radio host and mayor in Arkansas most of the time.

It’s a hell of a story, if nothing else.

Saw “No Country For Old Men” last night.

And I can’t honestly say how I feel about it.

In parts – the acting, dialogue, action sequences and the scenery – it was excellent.

Overall, I thought this movie was missing something; mostly because it tried to do too much, I think.

The Coen Brothers are masters at tying together complex story plots that contain equally complex characters – like the dude’s rug tied the room together in their oft-quoted film classic, “The Big Lebowski.” In the case of “No Country,” the plot, based on the Cormac McCarthy novel, is simple, the characters are simple and their separate story lines are simple. It’s all pretty straightforward – the acting and action drive this movie.

But as you may or may not see, the Coens spend too much time drifting and not enough time explaining, like the Soprano’s. And in a few key scenes they leave too much for the imagination. They lack that punch they’ve delivered time and time again.

All-in-all, it’s definitely worth the price of admission, though. And I have a feeling that a second viewing might change my mind (I was dazed on turkey and up past my bedtime the first time around).

I look forward to getting the DVD as well (commentary and extras might give some more insight).

As a side note, moviegoers on Thanksgiving should be allowed to bring leftovers into the theater. Who wants candy when you could have a turkey, stuffing and mashed potato sandwich?

I deal strictly in cash.

I don’t like credit and debit cars. First off, I don’t trust them. Second, cards are tied directly too computers, which I also do not trust (but apparently, I have no problem with them as long as I can shoot my mouth off on Internet blogs). Third, when you use a card, it’s like using play money – you don’t have to actually part with your hard-earned dollars like you do when you hand-over a wad of green. I’d wouldn’t be able to keep myself in check without that money guilt.

It’s not just about preferring cash over card, though. I’m actually making a healthy life choice by keeping real money in my pocket.

That’s because it’s teeming with bacteria. Some gross, some not so gross. And the way I see it, I’m building up my immune system every time I open my wallet and take out a few bills.

But, according to recent studies, money isn’t as dirty as once thought.

In the 1970s, however, cash and coins had a pretty bad rap.

A recent research article from an on-line source (which apparently is trustworthy) notes: “In 1972 a study in the Journal of the American Medical Association cultured bacteria from 200 coins and bills and found objectionable ones like fecal bacteria and Staphylococcus aureus on 13 percent of coins and 42 percent of notes.”

Other studies have shown that many bills have benign bacteria growing on them. Only a small amount have been found to carry nasty bugs like E-coli.

I’ll admit, it feels icky when you actually think about the less-than-desirable hygiene habits many people have, then consider that those nasty Neds and scurvy Susies have all been rubbing and caressing your fundage.

But if you consider yourself a survivor, keep a hold of that roll.