Part II
All right, where were we?
I’d been searching for a car, my best friend offered to sell me his if I flew down to Baltimore to spend St. Patrick’s Day weekend with him and then drive myself home.
I’d left from Binghamton Airport, arrived at Philadelphia Int., met a girl with the hiccups, and then…
“Looks like the hiccups are gone,” I said.
“Aren’t you observant, you should be a reporter,” she replied, flashing me a sarcastic grin.
“You caught me, I write for a small paper in upstate New York but I’m on my way to Baltimore to see a friend.”
“Seriously?”
“Hence, my curiosity.”
She threw me a skeptical glance, obviously not sure what to make of my casual flirting and my business-casual attire.
I, meanwhile, had been trying to guess what a beautiful woman was doing three sheets to the wind, an hour before her flight left.
“Where are you headed?” I asked, non-chalantly.
The way she said Washington, D.C. immediately peaked my interest. She wasn’t local, that was for sure. She didn’t have any obvious foreign accent, but I can think of very few people who wouldn’t refer to it as just ‘D.C.’
“I’m going to guess Ontario.”
“How could you tell?”
“It’s all aboot the accent, ay?”
Lucky for me, she didnt find this offensive and instead replied with:
“I guess ya’ll don’t speak good English.” And a friendship was instantly struck.
We spent the next hour swapping stories. I filled her in on what you, dear reader, have already learned and she detailed her less fortunate journey through “the states.”
She had left her home in Ottawa at 5 a.m., drove to Buffalo, and boarded a flight to Philly where she expected a 30 minute layover before finishing her trip to D.C. Unfortunately, due to “a low cloud ceiling” she was delayed not once, not twice but three times and had been stuck in the same airport since 10…at the time of our encounter it was a quarter til six.
At noon she found the bar, and had spent the day chatting up travelers as they stopped into “The Wino Resort” on their way to wherever it was that they were going. During her eight hour ordeal, she estimated she had made roughly half a dozen new friends and finished twice that many glasses of pinot grigio.
The aforementioned hiccups suddenly made sense.
I asked her what had brought her into “the states” and she explained that her friend was a physical therapist for the girl’s varsity basketball team at University of Maryland. She was on her way to visit him when fate intervened.
Despite her upbeat attitude and penchant for idle chit-chat, I could tell she was upset about the turn of events which had befallen her during the day. Having spent a considerable amount of time in airports during my college years, I can understand the frustration. A few extra hours in the terminal can seem like an eternity when you’re eager to reach you destination.
Therefore, I made it my mission to cheer her up. I know, I know…you’re thinking “What a kind, young man to forsake the novel which he has yet to put down in order to devote the remaining hour of waiting, in order to comfort this poor, beautiful, downtrodden woman while she is in such a state of despair.”
I do what I can.
The conversation moved to sports which, we both quickly came to realize, was a subject that neither of us knew jack about.
I tried to explain basketball, she tried to explain hockey…and very soon the conversation switched to literature.
We continued on in that way for the remainder of the hour…and 30 minutes more due to another delay. As the wine worked its course, and the conversation intensified, we discovered cultural divide was not as vast as one might think (who would have thought that Canadians wear wrist-watches?) and by the time we boarded the plane we were about as close as two people who meet in an airport can be.
Unfortunately, it was a full flight and her seat was about ten rows ahead of mine. It turns out if they bump your flight enough times you end up in first class, which was great for her since the wine hadn’t completely left her system and flying isn’t exactly the best way to settle ones stomach.
However, it just so happened that I was able to make a new friend in row 24 seat F. Spencer and I, we had exchanged names only just before we boarded, had engaged in a friendly debate regarding the similarities between the rural south in America and rural Newfoundland in Canada.
This became incredibly ironic when upon exchanging backgrounds with my 28 year old row-mate, I discovered he was originally from Newfoundland but had been living in the states for many years, working for Amazon and was traveling the country scouting for new employees.
What are the odds?
Especially considering my mom and I had been discussing the incredible growth of the company during the drive to the airport, coincidence? Yea, probably.
Either way, we spent the 20 minute flight discussing said growth as well as our plans for the upcoming holiday weekend. Needless to say, we were both excited.
As I would soon find out, I had good reason to be excited. My chance encounters on my way to Baltimore were but a portent of things to come.
Upon arriving in Baltimore, I said goodbye to my two new Canadian friends and made the call to Alex. He had assured me that his house was only ten minutes from the airport so I dialed him up as soon as the plane was on the ground and by the time I had left the terminal he was waiting for me in what would be his car for only 48 hours more.
There are few things in life more fantastic than reuniting with an old friend. In fact, I consider waking up on Christmas morning only a close second. Over the 12 years that I’ve known my best friend, we have parted ways more times than I can count. And yet, we always seem to make sure we meet up at least twice a year. I can not say that about any other friend.
Of course, I can practically hear the derisive chortle as he reads this sappy bro-love note, but buddy, deal with it.
I had first considered talking him into letting Spencer accompany us on the first part of our journey, but in truth, this was our weekend and I know he’d be damned if we didn’t begin the journey together.
Therefore, I parted ways with my beautiful new friend and we promised to keep in touch.
And we were off.
Just writing this I’m taken back to that first car ride through Baltimore: 65 mph, exits every 100 yards, billboards for casinos, restaurants, lounges, go-karts, waffles, shopping centers, everything and anything else you can imagine. The thrill of being back in the city was over-whelming; it had been too long.
“Look at all of the places, man,” I said in awe. “I mean, just dig all the things to do.” I felt like a Dean Moriarty caricature, the thrill of life just coursing through my veins. I wanted to do everything. I wanted to see it all and meet everyone.
“Dude, these are the suburbs…like, gas stations and strip malls, you haven’t seen anything,” he assured me. “We’re just getting started…
Look for Part III, coming soon (sorry, Belush!)
Part II
All right, where were we?
I’d been searching for a car, my best friend offered to sell me his if I flew down to Baltimore to spend St. Patrick’s Day weekend with him and then drive myself home.
I’d left from Binghamton Airport, arrived at Philadelphia Int., met a girl with the hiccups, and then…
“Looks like the hiccups are gone,” I said.
“Aren’t you observant, you should be a reporter,” she replied, flashing me a sarcastic grin.
“You caught me, I write for a small paper in upstate New York but I’m on my way to Baltimore to see a friend.”
“Seriously?”
“Hence, my curiosity.”
She threw me a skeptical glance, obviously not sure what to make of my casual flirting and my business-casual attire.
I, meanwhile, had been trying to guess what a beautiful woman was doing three sheets to the wind, an hour before her flight left.
“Where are you headed?” I asked, non-chalantly.
The way she said Washington, D.C. immediately peaked my interest. She wasn’t local, that was for sure. She didn’t have any obvious foreign accent, but I can think of very few people who wouldn’t refer to it as just ‘D.C.’
“I’m going to guess Ontario.”
“How could you tell?”
“It’s all aboot the accent, ay?”
Lucky for me, she didnt find this offensive and instead replied with:
“I guess ya’ll don’t speak good English.” And a friendship was instantly struck.
We spent the next hour swapping stories. I filled her in on what you, dear reader, have already learned and she detailed her less fortunate journey through “the states.”
She had left her home in Ottawa at 5 a.m., drove to Buffalo, and boarded a flight to Philly where she expected a 30 minute layover before finishing her trip to D.C. Unfortunately, due to “a low cloud ceiling” she was delayed not once, not twice but three times and had been stuck in the same airport since 10…at the time of our encounter it was a quarter til six.
At noon she found the bar, and had spent the day chatting up travelers as they stopped into “The Wino Resort” on their way to wherever it was that they were going. During her eight hour ordeal, she estimated she had made roughly half a dozen new friends and finished twice that many glasses of pinot grigio.
The aforementioned hiccups suddenly made sense.
I asked her what had brought her into “the states” and she explained that her friend was a physical therapist for the girl’s varsity basketball team at University of Maryland. She was on her way to visit him when fate intervened.
Despite her upbeat attitude and penchant for idle chit-chat, I could tell she was upset about the turn of events which had befallen her during the day. Having spent a considerable amount of time in airports during my college years, I can understand the frustration. A few extra hours in the terminal can seem like an eternity when you’re eager to reach you destination.
Therefore, I made it my mission to cheer her up. I know, I know…you’re thinking “What a kind, young man to forsake the novel which he has yet to put down in order to devote the remaining hour of waiting, in order to comfort this poor, beautiful, downtrodden woman while she is in such a state of despair.”
I do what I can.
The conversation moved to sports which, we both quickly came to realize, was a subject that neither of us knew jack about.
I tried to explain basketball, she tried to explain hockey…and very soon the conversation switched to literature.
We continued on in that way for the remainder of the hour…and 30 minutes more due to another delay. As the wine worked its course, and the conversation intensified, we discovered cultural divide was not as vast as one might think (who would have thought that Canadians wear wrist-watches?) and by the time we boarded the plane we were about as close as two people who meet in an airport can be.
Unfortunately, it was a full flight and her seat was about ten rows ahead of mine. It turns out if they bump your flight enough times you end up in first class, which was great for her since the wine hadn’t completely left her system and flying isn’t exactly the best way to settle ones stomach.
However, it just so happened that I was able to make a new friend in row 24 seat F. Spencer and I, we had exchanged names only just before we boarded, had engaged in a friendly debate regarding the similarities between the rural south in America and rural Newfoundland in Canada.
This became incredibly ironic when upon exchanging backgrounds with my 28 year old row-mate, I discovered he was originally from Newfoundland but had been living in the states for many years, working for Amazon and was traveling the country scouting for new employees.
What are the odds?
Especially considering my mom and I had been discussing the incredible growth of the company during the drive to the airport, coincidence? Yea, probably.
Either way, we spent the 20 minute flight discussing said growth as well as our plans for the upcoming holiday weekend. Needless to say, we were both excited.
As I would soon find out, I had good reason to be excited. My chance encounters on my way to Baltimore were but a portent of things to come.
Upon arriving in Baltimore, I said goodbye to my two new Canadian friends and made the call to Alex. He had assured me that his house was only ten minutes from the airport so I dialed him up as soon as the plane was on the ground and by the time I had left the terminal he was waiting for me in what would be his car for only 48 hours more.
There are few things in life more fantastic than reuniting with an old friend. In fact, I consider waking up on Christmas morning only a close second. Over the 12 years that I’ve known my best friend, we have parted ways more times than I can count. And yet, we always seem to make sure we meet up at least twice a year. I can not say that about any other friend.
Of course, I can practically hear the derisive chortle as he reads this sappy bro-love note, but buddy, deal with it.
I had first considered talking him into letting Spencer accompany us on the first part of our journey, but in truth, this was our weekend and I know he’d be damned if we didn’t begin the journey together.
Therefore, I parted ways with my beautiful new friend and we promised to keep in touch.
And we were off.
Just writing this I’m taken back to that first car ride through Baltimore: 65 mph, exits every 100 yards, billboards for casinos, restaurants, lounges, go-karts, waffles, shopping centers, everything and anything else you can imagine. The thrill of being back in the city was over-whelming; it had been too long.
“Look at all of the places, man,” I said in awe. “I mean, just dig all the things to do.” I felt like a Dean Moriarty caricature, the thrill of life just coursing through my veins. I wanted to do everything. I wanted to see it all and meet everyone.
“Dude, these are the suburbs…like, gas stations and strip malls, you haven’t seen anything,” he assured me. “We’re just getting started…
Look for Part III, coming soon (sorry, Belush!)

There’s something truly amazing about Fridays that creates a vacuum in both time and space, forcing the clock on the wall to actually tick backwards. Of course, it’s an unproven hypothesis but it would explain why it takes so long for the weekend to get here.

Not that I’m anxious for this week to end. It’s been an interesting enough; Ag Day on Tuesday, my car breaking on Wednesday – and yesterday, I found $40 in the pocket of a pair of my jeans, leftover from one of those wild and crazy trips to the grocery store – when things got out of hand and I found myself rearranging items at the checkout line to avoid smashing bread products with canned goods and a gallon of milk, I slipped some extra cash into my pocket and forgot about it later. Such is the exciting life I live. (Finding loose change in the dryer makes me scream like a nine-year-old girl. Finding $40 in my pocket nearly gave me an aneurism and an unforgettable scene for fellow grocery-shopping onlookers).

In regards to my car, all is doing better than I had expected. The warning lights are making the dashboard light up like a Christmas tree, but fortunately none of them have to do with the recent noise it’s making – at least I think it’s fortunate. The old car (a.k.a. The Rolling Turd, named after the motor home in “RV”) is in need of new struts and springs, but I think I can put the problem off just a little longer, at least until it begins to bounce so much that holding a cup of hot coffee becomes a little too risky. My thanks to the few who emailed me suggestions or comments about my auto woes from my last blog, but my plan A is still in effect… If someone wants to steal my car, I promise to act surprised… Come to think of it, I really would be surprised. I promise to act disappointed.

• And we come to the end of another long, crazy week. At least the weather was nice — freakishly so. I’m not one to bite the hand that feeds me, but I can’t help thinking we’re going to pay for all this 70-80 degree weather with one mother of a snowstorm after Easter. Or a zombie apocalypse on 12-12-12, take your pick.

• My alma mater, Oxford Academy, has chosen a new school superintendent, Dr. David Richards. Ooh, a doctor! Little old Oxford is stepping up in the world! I’ve seen many a superintendent come and go, of course, but in my mind it’ll always be Mr. Burroughs at the helm of the red & black. Look at me waxing nostalgic about the good old days … of high school?!?

• I’ll be attending my first “Fashion Night Out” at the Benedict Corporation Saturday night. It’s an annual fashion show fundraiser for the Phoenix Dance Project, which features dancers from our own Perkins School of the Arts. I look forward to Amber’s recitals every spring and saw a Phoenix performance at the Palace Theater in Hamilton last fall that was phenomenal, so it’ll be interesting to see how they stage this whole fashion show concept thing. I hear it’s a good time.

• Pat Newell’s first of a seven-part series on the latest class of inductees for the Norwich Sports Hall of Fame appears in today’s edition, profiling John Stewart of the Class of ‘54. Check it out here.

On occasion, I like to take a look back at last year’s Evening Sun edition of the same date – in this case March 23, 2011 – just to see what was in the news. This week, that which stuck out the most was the weather, of course, considering last year we saw temperatures in the 30’s, snow, sleet and ice. For example, today we’re supposed to top out once again in the 70’s. Last year? Highs around 30.

In 2011, March 23 was a Wednesday, which meant it was “column day” for me. The topic? The passing of legendary blues pianist Pinetop Perkins. The title? Every day I have the blues, a not-so-subtle nod to another blues legend, guitarist B.B. King.

And then there’s The Evening Sun’s staff of reporters, which – one year ago today – consisted of myself, Tyler Murphy and Melissa Stagnaro (and Melissa deCordova, of course, who’s still here). Tyler and Melissa have since moved on, and I now share the newsroom with Mr. Julian Kappel and Mr. Shawn Magrath. What can I say? It’s a completely different dynamic nowadays, not to mention the “shuffling of the beats.”

Shuffling of the beats … I like that.

As far as sports are concerned … last year saw the Syracuse Orange make an early exit in the NCAA tournament, with an unexpected loss to Marquette. This year, a narrow victory over Wisconsin, which had me on the edge of my seat throughout the second half last night. Go Orange!

It’s funny just how much things can change in a year. If you’d told me 365 days ago that I’d be covering the Evening Sun’s police/fire/ems/court beat a year from then, I probably would’ve laughed out loud. I certainly never expected the change of scenery, but I can tell you this much … it’s never dull. And to be completely honest, now that I’ve adjusted to the new beat I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Sure, it can be a little depressing at times, seeing the same individuals getting in trouble again and again (and again), but as I said, there’s never a dull moment.

After almost four years of being sans-automobile, I finally stumbled upon the perfect vehicle. Granted, it isn’t exactly a 2011 Cadillac, but this little four-banger has been my trusty companion on more than one occasion, so I know the score.

For those of you have read my other blogs or know a bit about me, you’ll know that I spent ‘06-’09 in Missouri. What many may not know is that during my third year living in the Midwest, my best friend and hetero life-mate Alex joined me in St. Charles for what would be one of the most interesting and exciting times of my life.

When Alex arrived he was behind the wheel of a Chevy Prism, I believe at that time it had 60,000 fewer miles, and the car would serve as our main form of transportation during the adventures that ensued.

Whether it was traveling into the city, getting us to our respective places of employment, or just helping us bomb around town – the “Belushmobile” made sure we could always get where we needed to go.

When we decided it was time to return to the east coast – for me New York and Maryland for him – that little car took us on a hell of a road trip, in true Gonzo fashion. First to Chicago where we met up with some of my child hood friends, then through Canada where we met a slew of other interesting characters (as is usually the case when the two of us join forces) and finally through Norwich where we parted ways.

This weekend, that little car that could was the inspiration for another adventure – this time to Maryland, where I had not visited since i was 12.

It began with a phone call from Alex.

“I have the perfect plan…

(I’m going to pause here and say that if I had a nickel for every time I heard those words come out of his mouth, I’d have $5.35…sometimes they’re genius, sometimes just extravagant, and every now and then they end in…well, those are stories for another day…but when the plan is a good one, I get an anticipatory tingle before the words are even out of his mouth).

…you need a car, right?”

I told him I did.

“Well, I’m buying a new car, you haven’t been out of New York in four years…why don’t you fly down for St. Patrick’s Day, pick up the car, and drive it back!”

The offer was too enticing to pass up. He was absolutely right: I needed to get out of town for a bit. We had about a week to put our affairs in order: buying the tickets, making sure we had the money, get the O.K. from parents and bosses alike. It was going to be tight, but once Alex and I set our minds to a plan, there are few powers in the ‘verse that will stop us (minus last minute car accidents, right buddy?).

The beautiful thing? Nothing and no one seemed to even try! Usually we hit at least a few snags, but other than the usual hour plane delays it was smooth sailing the whole way.

My mother was kind enough to drive me down to the airport on Friday – with a quick stop in Oxford for a last minute interview with Diane Troxell – and buy me lunch before I began.

I could tell she was excited for me to leave, not just because she’d have the house and car to herself for three days, but because she’s completely aware of the twitch I get when I’m in Chenango County for too long without a break.

Because the fact of the matter is, as much as I love the area, the considerate people, and the beautiful rural setting – I was born in the city and I miss the city. I miss the crowded streets, the vast array of entertainment and eateries and most importantly for a night-owl like myself, something to do past 10 p.m. that isn’t a bar or Wal-Mart.

So my mom and I said our tearless farewells, with the usual amount of motherly warning, and I was on my way to security.

This was also the first time since 2009 that I had flown anywhere and I was totally excited to…wait, no…I wasn’t excited. Flying can be a pain in the you-know-what and I didn’t want to consider the fact that my two and a half days of freedom would be marred prematurely by a cancelled flight or a cavity search.

Nonetheless, I bravely removed my shoes, jacket, camera and stepped through the doorway of disaster.

And…nothing. I had put all metal items into my backpack already (including a lighter, which is absolutely fine to have in your pocket…but heaven help the squeaky-clean soldier of fortune that tries to sneak that super-size conditioner through, poor bastard), my shoes were off, no laptop, I’d left all of my explosives at home, and I was wearing an awfully snazzy jacket/jeans/button-up shirt combo.

So they let me through with barely a glance. Which is of course fantastic when you’re trafficking narcotics across state lines … just kidding! (I am so going on a ‘Watch List’ for this one)

Anywho, I made my way over to my terminal (there’s about four to choose from) and settled into a good book.* As I read, the rest of my fellow Philly-bound travelers (layover) began to filter into the seats around me. It was the usual diverse crew: businessmen returning home, plugged into at least three electronic devices and chatting incessantly into their headsets; elderly couples in bright paisley pull-overs and T-shirts, no doubt bound for their vacation home or an early family reunion; groups of college-aged kids in matching polos and iPods, synchronized scrolling at its finest, reminiscing about the night before and how “so, not drunk” that they undoubtably were.

All of these characters kept the room full of the drone of quiet conversation, no one person going out of their way to bother another, and providing a soothing background with which to immerse myself in my book.

There was, of course, a brief delay, but as I had a three hour layover in Philadelphia I was not overly concerned. When it came time to board the plane I was astonished to see that during my scan of the crowd I had missed the one person I might have pulled my nose out of my book for and struck up a conversation.

Travis St. Denny, recipient of numerous national titles as a part of the Amber Perkins School of the Arts and of course fellow Norwich High School alum class of 2006. As we passed we said a quick hello, eager to sit down and take off. However, we did manage to trade news of our destinations and I grabbed a quick pic in Philly to tweet.

Once on the plane, it was back into the book I’d go until the time we actually took off. Taking off, of course, being my favorite part.

Nothing about flying is more thrilling to me then the actual sensation the plane lifting off from the earth, slowly rising further and further from the ground, watching the people, cars and building shrink into the distance below as the plane gains altitude.

Once in the air I returned to reading with the occasional glance out the window at the clouds floating below. I’m always reminded of dry ice when I’m above the clouds, as if someone threw a brick the size of Montana into the ocean and the resulting mist was rolling across the country in waves.

Upon arriving in Philly I said my farewells to Travis and immediately began looking for a bar.

No, I’m not such a raging alcoholic all I could think about flying through the sky at 15,000 feet was “God, I need a drink.” The truth is I’ve just always wanted to sit in an airport bar with a beer and read the New York Times like I’m some sort of traveling businessman who knows the ways of the world.

Don’t judge me.

Unfortunately, on every other flight I’ve taken, I had not reached the legal age to consume an alcoholic beverage and therefore never had the opportunity…until now of course. So I made my way over to my terminal – a bit more tricky than Binghamton, requiring a bus and about ten minutes of walking to get there – and grabbed the last seat at a nearby bar. I bought a 22 ounce beer for the incredibly low price of $8 (what a steal!) and whipped out my New York Times.

Check.

Unfortunately, the bar was crowded, noisy and the food smelled too fantastic for an impoverished journalist, so I grabbed my bag, chugged my beer and made my way to my terminal. I began by making a few phone calls to mom (“glad to hear you made it safe”) Alex (“Dude, we’re going to die this weekend.”) and Scott (“I miss your musk, and I hate you.”), then returned to my book

Unfortunately, it became increasingly difficult to read as I noticed a presence immediately behind me, I dared a glance and noticed a woman behind me, gently swaying as if not sure which foot to favor, and holding her cell phone almost comically close to her face. She was blonde, beautiful, I estimated in her mid-twenties, and almost decidedly drunk.

Before I had a chance to offer her a seat, so as to avoid tipping over, she had wandered off to the bathroom and I was left wondering if I’d have a chance to get this girls story.

Sure enough, not more than 10 minutes later, my nose once again pressed firmly into my book, with a sigh and a *hiccup* the mystery woman dropped into the seat to my left.

I offered what was perhaps the poorest excuse of an opening line ever to be uttered, merely inquireing, hiccups, huh?

*hiccup* “How could you tell?” she threw back, sarcastically. Not mean, just frustrated and obviously much cooler than me.

I explained that I had been taught the hiccups were a spasm of the diaphragm and all one had to do to banish the devilish bastards was to take 10 soft sips of water and then hold ones breath for as long as possible. I offered her my water, returned to my book and we both sat in silence for a minute while she attempted to calm her twitching diaphragm.

After a few minutes a quick glance revealed a contented grin and a new light to her eyes I hadn’t noticed before. Gone, huh? I chanced another question, this time obviously much more cool.

“Aren’t you observant, you should be a reporter,” she replied.

Funny story, I began…

Look for Part II, coming soon to an Evening Sun blog near you!

*Firestarter, one of Stephen King’s masterpieces. I just finished it and it was a fricken’ masterpiece, let me tell you what. Quick pace, always moving forward. Action, horror, comedy, and characters that you could swear you’ve met. I’d suggest it to anyone interested in the genre, honestly I don’t know how I went so long without checking it out. Oh wait, my ex recommended it…that explains it. EX-plains it. Ha. Alright, now go back up and continue the story.

Follow me on Twitter…@evesunjulian

Money’s going to be a little tight in the Magrath household this week. Time to choose between paying a bill a little late or just buying a few less groceries for the week. It’s a tough decision when it comes down to it. Do I want to open one of those scary yellow bills – you know, the one with a skull and crossbones watermark that’s underlying threats of smashing my knee caps with a baseball bat if I don’t pay, tied to a brick then thrown through the window (I didn’t even know the cable company had connections with the Italian Mafia). Or, should I eat just PB and J for a couple days (something I could easily do)? Suddenly, life throws me a curve ball; my car breaks and has to go to the car doctor… On the bright side, I no longer face the dilemma of choosing between bills and food. My car is going to suck me dry before I get a chance to pay either. Hurray for not having to make any tough decisions in life!

Anyone considering the purchase of a Pontiac in the near future, I wouldn’t recommend it. There is, after all, a reason the brand didn’t make the cut when GM was trimming some of its fat a few years back. Unfortunately, it’s too late for me – I accidentally bought one in 2009. Personally, I’m hoping it gets jacked. I’m leaving the key in the ignition, the door ajar just a little bit, I have a welcome mat laid down with candy lining the dashboard and a sign that says “don’t steal me” in the window… I just hope they leave the CD case in the driveway (that’s right, I still use the CD player).

I guess, like everyone else in the area, I never thought I would say to myself “I’m too hot” in the middle of March. Yeah, I could spend my time worrying about the most recent sign hinting to the unquestionable truth of global warming and that it’s a looming threat that’s going to melt us to the ground someday. But for now, it’s just easier to pull the fan out of the storage room at home. My apartments too uncomfortably warm to complain.

Now that spring is officially here, it’s difficult to complain about a passed winter for the record books. I can count on one hand the number of times I had to brush snow off my car and not once did I need to shovel the driveway (though there were a few when it wouldn’t have hurt). Of course, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the snow this year, even if only a little. Snow and I apparently have a very love/hate relationship; when it’s gone, I miss it and when it’s here, I want it to go away… I use to have co-workers like that.

I also want to point out that Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow this year and his prediction called for six more weeks of winter… Liar. I knew he couldn’t be trusted.

Well, it’s March 21 and pushing 80 degrees out there … just one more day of record-setting temperatures. Which is, to put it mildly, quite unbelievable, if you ask me. And no, I’m not going to launch into my typical climate change rant, because – for the moment – I’m just going to enjoy the unseasonable weather and the fact that I’ve been able to barbecue the last three days.

What can I say? I absolutely love all things grilled, as well as the grilling process itself.

In honor of my first viewing of the recently released to Blue Ray, “The Muppets,” I decided today was the perfect day to write a heartfelt tribute to the brilliant Jim Henson for this week’s Evening Sun column. And I must admit, it was probably the easiest column I’ve ever written. As for the new Muppet movie … it’s fantastic. I can’t put it any better than that. It’s absolutely fantastic.

And now … my pick for the most ridiculous online ‘30 Seconds’ post of the day:
” … Our whacko environmental tree huggers have gone too far. If I want to burn my garbage on my land, as long as the smoke doesn’t drift into my neighbor’s bedroom window, leave me alone. More polutants are put into the air when I drive to Norwich than by all my outdoor fires.” – Man from South New Berlin

Mmm … wow … and that’s all I have to say about that. “Whacko environmental tree huggers” … how original.

With that said, how about a Quote of the Day, brought to you this time by Mr. Jim Henson himself.
“Life’s like a movie, write your own ending. Keep believing, keep pretending.”

There are clearly two types of people in modern culture: Those who spend hours in line waiting to get their hands on the new iPad and those who ask “Why are you doing that?” With the release of the new iPad this morning and me choosing to go to work instead, guess which group I belong to.

I’m a tech geek myself, but the thought of standing in line to be one of the first to buy a new product makes me shutter a little. I don’t do well in lines. In fact, you may be one of the less than fortunate people who has stood in front of me at the DMV, post office or in the check-out line at the grocery store. I was the jerk who let out such a sigh that it blew your hair forward, remember? Sorry about that.

For all my fellow Dr. Seuss fans out there, heads up; studios are already milking the success of “The Lorax,” which has topped box office charts for the last two weeks. Reportedly, plans are in the works to make another big screen adaptation of “The Cat in the Hat,” to which all I can say is… please, don’t.The last one (with Mike Meyers) was awful and I don’t see a new one doing much better. In fact, leave all of Seuss’ books alone (including the not-so-popular ones like “Fox in Socks” and “Mr. Brown can Moo! Can you?” – although Mr. Brown would be quite the heroic protagonist on the big screen). It’s no secret that the movies, all of them, ruin the books. Create new ideas and write all the crappy movie scripts you want Hollywood but I implore you, leave Seuss creativity be.

Shifting gears a bit, the St. Baldrick’s Foundation is hosting their annual fundraiser for childhood cancer research tomorrow at Park Place. Also, Roots and Wings is hosting an event at Taylor’s Country House tomorrow night – Both raising money for good causes but only one leaves behind a new populace of shaven heads (it almost sounds occutlic but again I promise, it is for a good cause).

Another beautiful day out there, Chenango County, so get out there and enjoy it, especially you online ‘30 Seconds’ recluses (just kidding … I think). Regardless, it’s far too nice to be sitting in front of the computer all day (unless that’s your job, of course).

In a totally unrelated topic, I read with great interest an online article posted by The Onion, America’s Finest News Source (a fictional news agency that’s always good for a laugh), concerning a distant alien race determined to end the madness in Syria because – according to the aliens – our planet seems to be doing nothing. Obviously, there’s absolutely nothing funny about the violence that’s going down even as a write this, but I applaud any attempt to get people thinking about the fact that thousands of women and children have already been killed, with no end in sight.

It’s pretty sad that we can go to war for oil and profits but not for a cause that is, in all honesty, a righteous one. Big thumbs down.

On a side note, thanks to those very same online ‘30 Seconds’ commenters for the following posts:
“Brian Golden: WONDERFUL article! Why are most people – parents, teachers, etc. ‘pro-medication’ for kids (and themselves)? LAZINESS. Zonk the kids (or yourself) and it’s EASIER. Much of today’s mainstream society ok’s that mentality.”
Man from Greene
“Okay, another comment for ya Mr. Golden … this one regarding your blog (posted March 14). Arnold used to take PLENTY of um, ‘meds’. Just look at pics of him from the 1970’s.”
Man from Greene
“Great blog Brian!”
Man from Norwich

Thanks to those who commented (I guess that column on ADHD was a good idea after all), and as for those who voted these ‘30 Seconds’ submissions down … well, you’re entitled to your opinion. As for my opinion, I think there’s a few people out there who vote down every post, no matter its content.

So there.

And now, my quote of the day, courtesy of The Duke, Mr. John Wayne.
“Courage is being scared to death … and saddling up anyway.”

Sunny skies and 60 degree weather in mid-March makes it a perfect day to (finally) blog once again, wouldn’t you say? I don’t know about the rest of you, but these spring- and summer-like temperatures are just fine with me. In no way, shape or form did I think I’d already have the grill fired up and – let’s face it – there’s nothing better than that first char-grilled burger of the year.

Not to mention the act of grilling itself, which I absolutely love. Just saying.

And now, on to my Funny (aka Ridiculous) ‘30 Seconds’ Post of the Day, brought to you by a Man from South New Berlin.
“Why did I just post that I believe Obama will win in November? Because he will get the votes from the welfarians, the union bosses, the liberal junkies, the blacks, the liberal Republicans, most Democrats, the radical Muslim terrorist (yes, some of them are U.S. Citizens), and probably from a few dead people too.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, to be quite honest. Oh, and Man from South New Berlin, you forgot liberal-leaning journalists (like me), enviro-whackos (like me), NIMBYs (like me, I guess) and those-who-avoid-radical-biased-right-wing-24-hour-news-coverage-like-it’s-the-plague (also like me).

Some people. And now, on to bigger and better things (that won’t be hard).

As is typically the case, I had my fair share of fun putting together this week’s column, ‘The kids are all right,’ and I’m hoping no one takes it the wrong way. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder is no laughing matter, I know, but one really has to wonder sometimes if it’s absolutely necessary to drug our children into obedience. I’ll be the first to admit I was a little wild as a child. In fact, my mom would be quick to point out that I was either going full tilt, 110 percent, full speed ahead or … I was out for the count. Which is, in essence, my point.

Please make sure that prescription medication is truly the answer to a child’s behavioral problems because, at times, it seems like we’re doping our kids for being, well … kids.

With that said, my quote of the day, brought to you by the Governator himself, Mr. Arnold Schwarzenegger.
“I saw a woman wearing a sweatshirt with Guess on it. I said, ‘Thyroid problem’?”

I’m sorry, but that’s funny … real funny.