Just because there is snow on the roof, doesn't mean there isn't a filter in my furnace.

I'm as much of a man as I ever was, period, end of story. Of course that's like the guy who dresses up in the Hamburglar suit for commercials , saying he is as good an actor as ever. Here's the thing, since I hit that half century mark back in July, I'm getting fucked up emails for erectile dysfunction, penis growth tablets, and electric Snuggies. I even got some shit from AARP. To be honest it's starting to wear a little thin. Sure I've got a few white hairs in my beard, okay, my beard is entirely white, but that's nothing new. My beard turned white in a matter of months, courtesy of the multi count federal indictment I was hit with back in the great fall of 95. I'm tempted to use the old adage about snow on the roof and fire in the furnace, but that one doesn't really work for me, seeings how my roof , or head, has no shingles, hair.

Oh Snap, here goes MM on another of his unintelligible rants. Wonder what brought it on this time?

Allow me to fill you in Skippy.

I think my white goatee is giving people the wrong impression. Cashiers are talking to me in that special tone of voice, the one reserved for blue haired ladies who dip themselves in perfume so noxious and over powering that it makes you feel faint just standing in the same room. The voice people reserve for the dull witted, the feeble minded, and puppies. I've considered dying the goat, but then I'd just look like some third rate Vegas Magician, or an out of touch broken hipster, never that. I've shaved it off, but then I just look less menacing, and more Elmer Fudd-ish. I could go out and buy a Kanga hat and a yellow sport jacket, but we already have more of those types running around than we need.

Let me splain what brought all of this on. I was on my way to meet with my soon to be editors yesterday. Man do they have their work cut out for them. So I stop to get gas, I'm in a hurry, the pump wont take my card. So I run inside, have the 20 something under achiever stop texting for three seconds to scan my card for 20 on pump 4. The scan takes, I decline a receipt, then head for the pump. Well the pump still won't come on. I go back in and tell little miss congeniality that her shit ain't workin, and she says she will have to scan my card again. I reply that no she wont be scanning my card again, double dipping my account, and causing me to make repeated calls and trips to the bank to get one of the charges removed. Then she does it, starts talking really slow, like I'm wearing a football helmet minus the face mask, like I might start drooling and evacuating my bladder right there at the counter. She repeatedly calls me sir, then tosses in a couple of Dears just for good measure. Lets just say the conversation deteriorated from there, she worked her minimum wage magic, and viola', the pump worked. But the incident, the talking to a puppy voice, kind of fucked up my day.

I head down to the City Market area, meet with my soon to be employers, who are like half my age. While I'm there, they need a picture for my Press Pass. I detest having my picture taken. While there was a time when I had a pretty good cut to my jib, hard living, incarceration, and a less than sunny disposition have not worn well. I'm no great shakes in the looks department, and that never translates well to still photography. Why do you think The Pitch hid my mug behind a dollar store Santa hat with attached beard, made from an Albino Muskrat pelt, when they ran me on their cover. So I trudged back home, yelled at my girlfriend, kicked the dogs, and slapped the shit out of Oscar, our Cockatiel for good measure.

Now it turns out that I may have been .....wr.....wro....wrwr...wrong. Seems like maybe that 20 something cashier at the local shit n git didn't get my card scanned right the first time, and I inadvertently got away with not paying for that 20 bucks worth of Texas Tea. There was a time in the not too distant past when I would have chalked it up to Karma, and kept my 20 beans. But I'm in a transitional period, and I'm trying to play by the rules and regulations that most of you L7's play by. In other words, I'm gonna have to do the right thing. While giving back the 20 bucks is no biggie, I'm dreading the prospect of being assaulted with the slow, talking to a wobble head voice, that I know is waiting for me. Maybe I'll mail em a check.

60 should be a real hoot, I can't wait.