The Ghosts of Tomorrow

Tonight marked the first time in awhile a few of us assembled at the always formidable Star Grille on the West Side of Winfield. As you would expect, as the baskets of wings and pitchers of beer were rendered nothing more than empty plastic molds, conversation turned to days gone by.

In days long since past by, during our respective sabbaticals from college, a crowd convened each Monday night (yes, I know it's a Tuesday) at the house of 50 cent wings and five dollar pitchers. Despite the infamous chicken wing shortage of '04, our laughs were plentiful and the discussions were priceless.

But here we sat this evening, mere years removed from ten minutes ago, barely able to rustle up five young men when in the past 15 to 20 were the norm. Tonight, the group sat a sole table where the group of old would merge and splice tables and jockey for the center-stage seat as to not miss a moment of any far-fetched tale or current-day saga.

Tonight we discussed the past - in all its glory: The blindness of the day-long tailgates for Pitt football games, the insanity of a Tuesday night pickup baseball game and, most of all, the trials and tribulations of every waning moment as a kid growing up in the rural confines our hometown.

Talk shifted to the impending weekend. A possible 'last hurrah' at the Klugh Cabin. To number the times we've spent eating a hot dog in one bite, squeezing a tap, throwing a ping-pong ball or jumped back as the wind blew flames from the bonfire a bit too close for comfort at this hypothetical house of memories would be like trying to list the combined marriages of Pam Anderson and Elizabeth Taylor.

There were the fall nights after football games with my body mind-numbingly achy, or the post-dance free-for-all that left the ground singed with liberty. What about the rainy morning exoduses with headaches the size of wrecking balls?

It's with all this we prepare for a Labor Day weekend full of drinks, friends and a baseball diamond. Granted, the baseball diamond has shrunk a bit as we're now playing softball, but the feeling remains. Oh how far we've come since those early days of debauchery. While some stalwarts of the past won't be able to attend - Mitch, Rozic, Scott, Brown, Shaffer: you're in our thoughts - we're fully ready to embrace what could certainly be defined as the end of an era.

With that, I say goodbye to the clutch of those days. You were the definition of my youth, just please remember me when I get old.

Here's to You, Disgusting White Crust on the Milk Jug

Here's to you, disgusting white crust on the milk jug. You're always there to flake off and gross me out on the rare occasion I open your container. Sure, I don't drink as much milk as a growing boy probably should. Is that enough reason to hate on me?

Take last night, for instance. Right after my mother prepared a deliciously chewy batch of brownies, I decided to wash them down with a nice cold glass of milk. After my first swig, there you were, floating around my mouth like a loose fingernail. I'm trying to drink milk, not eat soup in a Mexican restaurant.

This is hydration, not a Head and Shoulders commercial. So quit layering the top of my chocolate milk like curd at a dairy farm.

Arrogant Baconator Guarantees Heart Attack this Sunday

PHILADELPHIA -- Wendy's rookie hamburger Baconator shook up Brent Kaslin's Sunday lunch plans by offering what some are calling "Bulletin board Material."

The burger, known for its large patties laced with pepperjack cheese, which are in-turn covered with strips of bacon, jalapeno peppers and smothered in melted cheddar, talked to the media today after Kaslin ate a Burger King Double Whopper.

"He can eat what he wants, when he wants. I respect that. But just so he knows, when you come to my house, it's gonna be different. I'm going to give him a heart attack. I guarantee it. He better have 911 on speed dial, if you know what I mean."

This is not the first time Baconator has guaranteed bodily harm. During its debut last winter, the popular Wendy's sandwich informed an unsuspecting Rebecca Cartwright of her future in the bathroom. "Man, she had that coming. She stood in line and asked her friend Chrissy if 'she dared her to try a Baconator.' I straight up told her the afternoon was gonna be miserable, but she didn't listen."

Kaslin, a junior at Temple University, seemed weary when told of Baconator's guarantee. "I've heard it all before, ya know?. Last year after the Alpha Sig party I went to McDonald's and had a Big Mac, two Double Cheeseburgers, a large fry and a Shamrock Shake. Guess who woke up the next morning just fine...And I didn't even have a hangover," Kaslin quipped. "Regardless, he can play his game and I'll play mine - I never put too much emphasis on what the latest young hotshot burger is claiming. I've been around the block a time or two."

My parents quit drinking

I arrived home today at the typical time, half past five-ish, to an odd aroma. Scaling the stairs, I immediately knew something was afoot. Generally, each morning upon waking up, the whiff of Folger's in my cup gets me off and running to the shower, the sink, the breakfast nook and out the door.

But why on this sun-soaked late summer afternoon was a pot of coffee brewing? At first the thought was discounted as there were still donuts lying around from Saturday morning. After all, what's better than a coffee with a couple days old donut? As the usual post-work chit chat with mom and dad transpired, my curiosity was peaked. There was Cathy Boyd, the queen of Chardonnay, lounging in the rickety old rocking chair watching her soap with a glass of iced cranberry juice.

"We quit drinking wine," she said. Funny enough, I hadn't even asked. While laughter crept from my lips, the Chianti Cowboy Ed Boyd added "We only spend 300 dollars a month on wine."

Before I go any further, 300 dollars a month for wine isn't much, especially when considering the high end options one has when drinking these grapes of wrath. But, when you spend 300 dollars a month on Franzia, the tables have turned a bit.

Judging by Paul's calculation, that's roughly 25 boxes a month. For two of them. So here are my parents, one 70 and the other nearing 57, drinking 12-1/2 boxes of wine each every 30 days. My liver hurts just thinking about it.

It's this fact that makes me question my future. For the past two years or so I've lived a relatively subtle life in my parents' home. They stay out of my business and I stay out of theirs. If this new found sobriety of theirs changes that...I'm not sure how I'll continue.

No more walking downstairs on a Friday night at 8pm to go out and seeing them passed out on the porch. Gone are the days of the dog being the only sober person at 7am on Saturdays. And out the window is the idea of drinking myself to oblivion during family gatherings just to get through it. Well, I guess I'll still do it but I won't have my mom there to commiserate.

You'd think I'd be happy at my parents' decision to quit drinking. But there are constants in life. Death, taxes, and my parents hazed. So goodbye, drunk mom and dad, you'll be missed.

I'm gonna get some Franzia.

Endangered Gorillas Found - Kill em while ya can!

So here's a heartwarming story, a "trove" of endangered gorillas was found in Africa recently. The specific type has been considered "critically endangered" and in the 1980's the complete earth's population tallied approximately 100,000.

The conservative..err conservationist in me is happy that these things are doing well in a world so often defined by doom, gloom, warming, thinning, fleecing, rising and ravaging. But the cynic in me can't help but question the judgment of those nature nerds who so exuberantly broadcasted these monkeys' locale in the aforementioned world.

If one of the main factors in the dismantling of this species is a hunter spraying them like Cheney in Texas, is naming the exact location of this freshly found hangout the best idea? We all remember the infamous Geraldo incident and his subsequent expulsion from the entire country of Iraq. For shit sake, how bad does someone mess up to get kicked out of Iraq?

Back to the matter at hand. It seems to be bad form that, in any situation, divulging the exact details of critical intelligence might not be in the best interest of anyone who may be in a position to help. In most cases, the only ones who benefit are the ones who have something to gain - and in this instance, it's the hunters and traders - not the khaki-vested beards whispering into a camera.