Happy Freaking First Anniversary

or the greatest way EVAH to celebrate baby's first year blogging

Okay, so believe it or not I've been rambling, ranting and running on incessantly here in the blog-o-sphere for one year.

You, my throngs of adoring readers (well, okay all three of you anyway): Get OUT!!

Me: I know, right? The year sped along like the Road Runner after the Coyote bungles, like

the simplest of schemes only to have a ginormous Acme Anvil fall on his head because, you know he's not the brightest bulb in the pack. In fact I think maybe he has dyslexia or ADD or dementia or something because he is totally the SLOWEST of learners. Seriously. He's constantly standing around with a singed face or shot off hand from holding onto TNT too long or a...

Yinz guys: Get to the point, round eye.

Me: I...I don't remember. Wait. What were we talking about?

YG: *sigh* You were mentioning how quickly the year has passed. Which, you know, maybe for you. Reading your crap...er, thoughts have honestly dragged the universe down by a few years.

Me: Wha? Come on. There were a couple that were entertaining, right?

Yinz: Meh. Maybe a few.

Me: You guys are mean. I'm crushed. Really. You suck. Wait, don't leave. I love you... *flutters eye lashes*

You: Whatever, Dude.

Moving on...

So what does one do in celebration of a milestone such as this? Me? I hop on over to the nearest hospital for a ceremonial core sampling of my girls.

Hooo Doggie! It's a regular Hootenanny! Good times had by... NONE!

(Side Note: Speaking of "None", I just read the infamous OctoMom is dressing up as a Nun for Halloween. Yeah. Ponder that for a minute. Okay, it is sorta funny.) But I digress...

You may recall from one of my last posts that I have to go through the same mammary mambo every year. My less-than-bodacious lady berries get smashed then further photographed using ultrasound. My girls have been snapped so much, they're like the Christie Brinkley of boobage. They even have a good side and an agent. Work it, girls. Work it!

This year's added bonus for playing along is a... biopsy! But wait! If you act now you'll get two for the price of one! Don't let this offer pass you by. Call now 1-800-DRL-MYBOOB!

So, yeah. Do I know how to party, or what?

Last time my girl pillows got this kind of special attention, I had no idea what to expect. I went it alone, which I have to admit kinda sucked. This time my ever-loving Geo came along for the moral-support ride. I will always love him for this. I really needed his big, fat, rib-crushing hug afterwards. Besides, Geo has a vested interest in making sure his little buddies are healthy. If you know what I mean, and I think you do. :D

Anywho....

So I get into the procedure room, dawn the lovely, high-fashion gown and meet the woman of the hour, Dr. Chaffing, as in dish. Luckily for me, she has a great sense of humor and an even greater sense of professional skill. Dr. Chaffing-Dish preps my tender TaTa, whips out a 12-inch needle and proceeds to numb that puppy up. That done, she then turns around, rifles through her Sear's Craftsmen tool chest and whips out a Makita power drill with a hollow bit.

Aaaaaaand .... that's when I closed my eyes.

Okay, it wasn't exactly a power drill, but it sure sounded and felt like it. Seriously. There was whirring and circular vibrating like she was installing a molly bolt to hang a 300 pound mirror on the living room wall. I swear there was more drilling going on below the surface of my fun bags than a John Holmes film fest.

Six core samples later, I got to flip over and do it all again on the OTHER SIDE.

Thank you sir. May I have another.

Yay me!! Apparently the tissue in my right yabo is made of teflon, because Dr. Dish had to open the vault to the Medieval Interrogation Tools and pull out the gun-powder charged pistol to break through that tough candy coated tissue to get to the creamy chocolate center of the cyst. Thank goodness that worked, because I swear I saw her prepping a stick of dynamite to toss in as a back up. "Fire in the hole!!"

(I said hole. he he)

Now I get to spend the day cradling my cleavage with bags of frozen peas. Mmmmm. Dead Sexy.

This is why I drink.

But seriously. Do I know how to party, or what?

Friday Photo #33

In Memoriam...

Twenty years ago today, the phone rang at 3am. Even before I answered it, I knew my Dad was dead. The ring actually sounded different. Sadder. Final. And I just...knew.

I'm not a big proponent of visiting the dead at cemeteries. I used to make the rounds with my parents (the unofficial family crypt keepers) to the various familial resting places to pay respects to a number of relatives, most of whom I'd never met. As a child I thought it was kind of interesting, but mainly it was just an excuse to get out of the house and explore unfamiliar areas of town.

Yesterday Big Mar and I took flowers to my Father's grave site. I felt compelled to go. Twenty years is a big number. It seemed appropriate, necessary. It was a beautiful day, much like the day he died. A gorgeous, balmy October afternoon filled with sunshine and long shadows.

We lovingly arranged bouquets of mums and lilies, washed the built up dirt from the marker and stood there, each of us silently remembering him in our own private way.

As I've written in a posting not long ago here, my Dad wasn't always the easiest to love, but he did have a spark, a charm and a big heart.

You know why I like this photo? It's my old man at his favorite place: perched on a bar stool, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, drinking a shot and beer, waiting for his fried smelts. A sincerely unguarded moment of happiness.

Twenty years is a long time. Sometimes it seems like just yesterday...

So today, in honor of my Dad, I will raise a glass of hootch and toast his memory. Salut!

I miss him still.

Subverting the Dominant Paradigm

or some days you just have to cut loose

Okay, so I've been really sucky with this blogging thang lately, because quite honestly I have not had anything fun to talk about. My life is deadly dull and boring, boring, boring.

Until today.

Today was like a free-for-all of fun and games at work. Really. It felt like when your regular, strict teacher was out sick and the mousy substitute completely lost control of the class, but was still trying to soldier on even as students stood on desks and threw spit balls at her hair.

That kind of big-time fun.

First of all, much to my surprise and glee (you can watch America's favorite new "feel good" hit Glee every Wednesday night at 9pm on FOX.) my best friend Beets-my cohort in crime and co-queen of irreverent behavior-was scheduled to share the robotics/prompter platform with me this morning!

The delightful downward spiral of decorum started early on with the First Birthday Baby pictures. Proud parents and grandparents send in pictures of the little nippers which we broadcast as the final element of a news block around 5:15am. The relatives set their VCRs to record their progeny for posterity. As long as the names are spelled correctly, everyone is happy. Under the baby photos we play this God-awful repetitive music that kinda goes "Da Da Da DA...DaDaDaDA" over and over and over and over...in obnoxious infinity. It's pretty gay, and reminds us of bad 70s Go-Go music. Come to think of it, isn't all Go-Go music wretched?

Anywho-years ago Beets and I started jumping up and Go-Go dancing, doing our best Frug, Swim and Bat-tusi, every morning when the little darlins are on. She and I rarely get to be in the studio together so today it was ON! I mean FULL ON, Baby. Even the new anchor team (whom I love! more on this later.) got in the act. The best was little Jimmy McParkway bounding around the corner from his Traffic cave busting a groove. I almost soiled myself. Seriously.

This outbreak encouraged our audiophile Dave, to crack open the Irish music to which Jimmy and the weather dude channeled their inner Michael Flatley and straight-arm River Danced in the chroma key, ala Mary Catherine/Molly Shannon for an entire minute, leaving the Weather guy gasping for air when he did his hit at the top of the block. Aaaah. Good times.

But wait, there's more...dancing that is. Today was all about the dancing.

During the long commercial break, Beets and I leaped off the platform to join Jimmy McP in front of the big beam for more frivolity. At this point the director's knickers were in a royal twist because we normally tape promos during this three minute gap and we were totally eating up the allotted time with our infantile shenanigans.

But, come on. Look at us. Are we not the grooviest? It's Traffic A-Go-Go, for God's sake. You can't stop us. Besides I was wearing the perfect shirt for cage dancing. And no, it's not a moth-balled 70s relic from my cedar chest. It's current, Baby!

Other acts of mayhem ensued. At one point a small, rubbery, lime green disc that looked like Shrek's wife's diaphragm was being flung about haphazardly, jokes were flying, songs were being sung off key (okay that would have been me). Whatever. It was chaos. Pure, unadulterated, free-spirited chaos.

I absolutely LOVE the madness of today!

Side Note:

It has been so much fun the last few weeks since the new anchor team came on board. Jen, who had left about four years ago to pursue other opportunities, is back and has added a lightness and wit missing since the departure of my dear Sonya. And Rick (from here on out referred to as "The New Guy" or TNG) fits right in. He's professional, warm, funny as hell, easy going and twisted just like the rest of us. Not unlike my beloved KJo, whom I miss every day. They're a good team, and we are having a blast.

Hey, let's face it, you gotta to have fun that early in the morning. Otherwise it is just a Zombie death march. Braaaaaaaaaains....

I swear if we aired the crap that goes on during the breaks, our ratings would go through the roof.

But I digress...

The best of this morning's happening by far, centers around our much loved Traffic reporter. He was running a little late for his hit. In his haste to get on set he rounded the corner a little too sharply, caught his knee on a set piece which went flying and crashed and... oh just watch this video*. It tells the whole story.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHahahahahahah!

Okay, that makes me cry every time I watch that. I don't know what I find funnier, the re-enactment, Beets screeching "Holy CRAP, Marie!" from the wings or Jimmy McP snorting. But seriously. It was THAT loud on the air.

So to recap our day:

Dancing like morons: free

Getting hit in the face with Shrek's wife's green diaphragm: free

Scaring the Weather man into thinking he was shot on the air: Priceless

Yeah. Some days just call for cutting loose at the Special K. Now if we could only talk our boss into buying that Margarita slushy machine for the Studio...

*Note: no actual anchors or union members were harmed in this re-enactment. However, the set piece was rushed to the hospital to repair a number of fractures. We expect it to return after a few weeks of physical therapy. Thanks for asking.

Friday Photo #32

Sign of the Apocalypse?

Okay, so Bob Dylan is releasing a Christmas Album.

You heard me. A Christmas Album.

You know, songs like "Hark the Herald Angels Sing"; "Here Comes Santa Claus"; "O' Come All Ye Faithful"

Yeah. Maybe there's something to this whole 2012 Mayan calendar end of the world thing after all.

Random Ramblings

or my recent life in a nutshell

Warning: this is one long-assed posting of the boring variety.

Okay, so in the past I may have mentioned that I belong to a little community Steel Pan Band. There are five of us ladies who get together every Tuesday to pound out what sometimes passes for music.

In the past we've had other members, mostly male, who have stopped by to join in on all the fun only to leave, never be heard from again. It's as if they were abducted by Aliens as they walked to their car. Seriously. I don't know what happens to them. They just disappear. We're perfectly nice and certainly our "talent" is not intimidating at all, but yet...they never return. hmmm.

Whatever. We ladies always have fun carrying on and generally torturing our ever-so-patient instructor, Jonnet. That young woman is an absolute Saint with the patience of Job...or she secretly spikes her Starbucks with Vodka to get through practice. Either way, she's the best.

Anywho, a couple of weeks ago, unbeknownst to us, she booked us to perform at a big Breast Cancer Benefit. Wait...that didn't come out right. It wasn't a benefit for "big breasts" but a fancy breast bene--wait, "fancy" breasts have nothing to do with it either. Oh, you know what I mean. The point is this:

Us. Performing on an actual stage...in an actual theater. On the bill with actual professional musicians.

Riiiiiiiight.

Our little adventure didn't start off so well. The program called for every act to dance, sing or play for only 10 minutes each. We were all supposed to rehearse for 15-20 minutes that afternoon. The "professional" dancers before us ended up hogging the stage for almost 40 minutes. The whores. By the time we got the drums set up, the stage manager was only going to let us rehearse one song. One song!! Please! He was totally giving us the proverbial "Bum's rush". Wonderful Jonnet fought to squeeze in one more tune before we got the heave ho.

So Tuesday night we gals got all gussied-up in black attire and shocking pink scarves, and performed our little three-song act center stage at the Byham Theater.

Holy crap it was nerve wracking to wait for what seemed like forEVER back stage for our turn to play. There was a point when I completely forgot how to play the bridge of a song I know in my sleep. Total blank out!

WTF?

Luckily it came back to me once we got on stage. When it was all said and done (in a flash, I might add) the audience seemed to really enjoy our contribution. The Emcee even made a point of telling us how much fun he had watching us. We pulled it off, man! Geo said we got the loudest applause of the evening. Of course, he's my loyal, ever-loving mate, so maybe he was just being supportive. Either way, it felt really great.

Celebrating afterwards in our dressing room--we had a dressing room! Isn't THAT cool?--I had to admit, I sincerely wanted to go back on stage to play again. Even after all the anxiety of the torturous wait, I wanted to do it all over again.

I totally get it now. I get why people dig performing. What a rush! It's like a drug, man. Seriously. No wonder my fantasy husband, the lovely blue-eye one Rhett is so pumped when he does the post gig meet and greet. (And, yes. I shamelessly worked him in to this post once again just so I can share yet another gorgeous photo of him. Aaaaaa...that's better.)

Okay, so maybe next time we perform I'll invite you all to tag along.

Two Reasons Why I Am A Complete And Utter Asshat

or tell me something I don't know

Very funny Wise Ass.

Okay, so here are two further examples that prove sometimes I ain't right.

#1: I was dropping off my gal pal, Suzette when I opened my car window about three inches to toss out some rogue bit of stuff floating around the inside of the car. As my hand was poised halfway out the window, my other hand went completely Dr. Strangelove on me and raised the window.

On.MY.OWN.HAND!?!

WTF?!?

I'm such an Asshat, I kept yelling "ow oW OW!" until I realized...DUH!..I had control of the auto window button and released my pinched digits. Smooth move, ExLax.

#2: I was filling up the gas tank of my lovely Rita, when I noticed the pump counter was way past 11 gallons and rounding to 12.

"Hmm." I thought. "I didn't think I had this big of a tan--"

And that's when I noticed the gushing sound of gasoline spewing forth from my tank, all over the fender and wheel of my beautiful auto, pooling under its chassis.

Holy F*********CK!

Yeah. I think I kinda ... said that out loud. Sorry.

So I wiped off as much gasoline as I could using the gross windshield cleaning water and squeegee provided at every petrol station, which my friend Beets tells me is totally rude since people actually like to clean their windows sometimes with that water. I never thought of that aspect. That really was rude, but I was panicked. That's my story anyway.

Again. Sorry.

I spent the rest of the day smelling of Eau de Exxon. Hmmm. Dead Sexy!

How About One More?

or today's gem

As if all that stuff wasn't stupid enough, in my travels on this dismal, rainy morning I became the creamy white center of an Oreo car accident cookie.

Blurg!!

Luckily no one was hurt and there was no visible damage to any of our cars. But we all dutifully stood out in the cold, cruel, drizzling rain exchanging names, numbers, cookie recipes, fashion tips, bra sizes...

Then to top everything off, I dumped almost an entire bottle of water in my lap, looking as though I had lost complete control of my sphincter and peed myself royally.

Yeah. It was THAT kinda day.

Double BLURG!

Is It Still Porn If She's a Cartoon?

or Marge Simpson goes "blue"

Okay, so the sinking economy must be bad even in the fictitious hamlet of Springfield to force the Mother of all Matriarchs, Marge Simpson to drop her dress for dough. The current cover of Playboy has people scratching their heads and tweeters weirded out in Twitterville.

For once the two-dimensional center fold harlot literally IS two-dimensional.

Of course over here in the (semi) real world of television land, the burning question remains... "does the carpet match the bee-hive?"

(thanks to Jimmy McParkway for that one)

Another Spectacular Night At Club Cafe

or the hits just keep on coming!!

We are having a great run this year!

Okay, so Thursday night Geo and I shuffled off to our favorite club in the South Side, Club Cafe to see Mike Doughty perform. He used to be the lead singer for Soul Coughing long ago and far away, but now he's carved out quite a career as a solo artist.

Club Cafe is a delightfully intimate venue with very limited seating. We like to get to the club before the doors open to insure we get a front row table. We're old now and can't stand as long as we used to (except for Rhett Miller concerts, of course :D) so claiming a chair is imperative.

Anywho...turns out we were first in line. Odd. So I tried the door thinking the club was already open and lo and behold, who should be standing right in the doorway? Mike Doughty his own bad self! Feeling really stupid, but not stupid enough to pass up a good opportunity, I asked him if he'd mind signing a couple of CDs.

Me being all confident and poised, it went kinda like this:

Me: *blink* *blink* whispering: oh, would you sign my CDs?

Mike: What?

Me: mumble mumble...CDs...cough... sign please... mumble

Mike: Ooooookay. Sure. Did you take your meds today, Honey?

Okay. It wasn't that bad. He graciously complied, during which time I, being the dolt I am, said something super lame like "I just sent you a comment on Twitter." (*sigh* I'm such a nerd.) But again, he kindly smiled in acknowledgment and we all moved on.

Seriously. I'm a Dork. Like, an uber DORK. Ugh.

So the door opens, we plant ourselves at a front table and notice a question jar on stage. THE Question Jar of which I had heard tale. Sometimes when Mike goes on tour without a formal band, he puts a ginormous pickle jar out along with slips of paper for audience members to write inquiries which he answers during the show. It's a great tool for audience interaction. (I said "tool" he he)

Touring with Mike on this leg was a hill-billy looking, outstanding cello player named Andrew "Scrap" Livingston . They started the show with one of my faves "I Just Want the Girl in the Blue Dress to Keep on Dancing". Sadly, in our zeal to depart our abode to get to the cafe early to stake our table claim, I forgot my camera. But luckily there's this groovy thing called the interweb that has this great site called YouTube on which many people upload videos of all sorts of sophisticated things ranging from piano playing kitties to the most painful shots to the nuts ever witnessed. So here's a clip of the very song of which I spoke. FYI: that's Scrap playing with him.

I really love the sound of Doughty's solo work. He has a wonderfully deep voice and sings with an interesting, odd cadence. He scats a bit, too. The music's delightfully rhythmic and layered with jazzy overtones. It gets under your skin and grabs you, in a very good way. It's so infectious you can't not be-bop in your chair. I dare anyone to just sit still while he's playing. It can't be done.

Moving on...

In between songs, Scrap would draw a question from the jar and read it for Mike to answer showcasing his sense of humor and quick wit. Some of the questions were hilarious. The crowd really got into it. Made for a very fun evening. Here's a sampling of queries:

"Where did you eat dinner?" (Primanti's--which of course got a huge reaction)

"What's your pet peeve?" (People who don't follow the rules and yell out their inquiries instead of putting them in the jar.) That got a huge laugh from the crowd because a dude had just shouted a question from the audience and Mike had scolded him literally minutes before Scrap read that.)

If you were a dog, would you prefer Beggin' Strips or Snausages? (Snausages)

Did you ever want to be MC Scat Cat from the Paula Abdul video? (yes)

Did you forgive the crowd at Mr. Small's for not telling you your zipper was down until 5 songs in? (No! then he said something really funny and rude that pertained to a prior question which--believe it or not--I won't repeat. Go figure. But it was really funny.)

The set list included pretty much all of our favorites as well as a few "new to us" tunes: I Hear the Bells, White Lexus, Madeline, Circles, Busting Up a Starbucks, Looking at the World From the Bottom of the Well, Ossining, Real Love (a question jar request)...

Then he asked if the girl who requested Like A Luminous Girl on Twitter was there.

Hey! Wait... What?!

Dude! He was totally talking about me! I sheepishly raised my hand. Good thing, too because he had planned to play that tune in the late show, but sang it for me then. Sometimes that Twitter hickie is a marvelous thing.

Here's a funny thing...after the last song (a cover of Kenny Roger's The Gambler) the sham of the encore was exposed yet again. Much like Bell X1 a few weeks ago, Mike and Scrap decided to just spin around in their chairs then turn back to the audience--showing mock surprise, of course--after an appropriate length of applause and cheering to continue playing.

When it was all said and done he came back out for a meet and greet to sign whatever. The coolest thing though is they recorded the show and burned off copies for sale right then and there. Of course we had to buy one. Besides the proceeds went directly into their gas tank to defray tour costs. It was such a great show, how could we not contribute.

That CD is so much fun to listen to, I wish more artists would provide this same service. Plus they could make so much extra green.

Once again we left the South Side buzzing over another evening well spent. Our musical soul buoyant and sated.

Yeah. We are having a GREAT run this year.

Wait... You saw WHAT?!?

Okay, so I was talking to our noon anchorman, Stacy yesterday and somehow the topic went from naked men vs. men in boxer/briefs to hockey (don't ask)...specifically our first 90-91 Stanley Cup championship...even more specifically, Paul Coffey.

*sigh*

Paul Coffey was the first love of my hockey life way back when I became a fan of the best sport in the world. Le Magnifique, Mario was around for several years before we acquired the raven-haired, skating dream boat who became an integral part of our winning seasons. He was an unbelievable defense man. And boy could that dude skate! He'd steal the puck and suddenly pour on the jets and fly up ice to stuff it in the net. Brilliant!

And Good God Almighty was he handsome! Like, Roger Ramjet handsome. He even had the jutty cartoon jaw. I mean, come on. Look at him all tall, dark and gorgeous.

*drool*

He lived close by our house, but sadly, I never got to meet him in person. Probably a good thing. Chances are I'd have a framed restraining order hanging on the wall to compliment my arrest record.

Anywho, back to yesterday.

So Stacy starts to tell me a tale (pun intended-you'll get this in second) about sitting in the Pens locker room after our Stanley Cup win in Minnesota waiting to interview some of the players for our post victory coverage. Along strolls the object of my ovarian affection, Paul to sit down for his one-on-one...completely naked.

Paul Coffey.

Naked.

*thud*

I'm sorry. What? I just passed out at the mere thought of gazing upon his glorious gluts. Did Stacy just say Paul Coffey had his bare heroic ham hocks hunkered down on a stool next to him? You betcha.

*swoon*

As #77 casually walked away after the interview, even Stacy had to admit it was a thing of beauty to watch the broad shoulders, chiseled torso and beautiful buttocks of this Adonis.

Paul Coffey.

NAKED.

*thud*

Okay, that fall's going to leave a mark.

What The EF??

Okay, so this past weekend Saturday Night Live did a skit in which Madonna and Lady Gaga perform together. The two divas end up in a pretty entertaining cat fight. However, I kept getting distracted by the obvious plastic surgery Ole Madge was sporting.

Holy Crap!

Her eye tuck is so taught, now she's starting to resemble the elderly Rachel Welch after her misguided dance with the knife. Madonna barely looks like herself any more. Okay, she's still a ringer for that creepy puppet, Madam, but still. Damn! Someone needs to host a plastic surgery intervention for the Material Girl. Did she learn nothing from Jacko?

Please. Someone stop her from tightening her face again!

Check out what I mean for yourself

And another thing. Would someone please buy Lady Gaga some real gutchies. This see-through stuff is getting old especially with her being all hootchie-like and her legs flying up in the air. Her Momma must be so proud.

Stop The Presses!

or just another stupid celebrity "scandal"

I know..I'm late with this. I couldn't get my shi-ite together last weekend to weigh in on this. Whatever.

Okay, so the buzz all over the latter part of last week was David Letterman's admission he had sexual relations with several Late Night female (I love how they feel the need to qualify gender) staffers.

*gasp*

That NEVER happens in the work place! He must be the devil himself. To this I say...

BFD (Big Effin Deal)

Seriously. Who gives a shit. So he messed around with some consenting adult women from his staff. He wasn't married and a father then, and even if he was it's NONE OF OUR BUSINESS. That entire affair(s) is between him and his girlfriend, now wife.

The best part of this story, however, is the asshat who tried to extort two million smackers from Dave was a 48 Hours investigative producer! I mean, come on! This Cat has spent his career uncovering clues of would-be criminals, and yet he doesn't realize blackmail is rarely successful? Those boneheads pretty much always get caught. Moron.

So here's what went down (as if you haven't heard). Bozo reads his GF's diary entries detailing Letterman's entries (if you know what I mean, and I think you do), places a package in the back seat of Dave's car containing evidence of said dalliances and threats of exposure via a screenplay and movie deal, Dave drops off a fake check for a cool 2 million, Lex Luthor picks up the check, Feds slap his stupid ass in jail.

Here's the scoop straight from the horse's mouth:

Allegedly, Boy Genius was in over his head with alimony and other debt. Boo Hoo. That doesn't mean you betray your girlfriend by using her diary as a means to shake down her boss for some hefty do-re-mi. Did he really think Dave wouldn't involve the feds? Apparently yes. Yes he did.

Naturally there was the onslaught of related viewer polls, "Will this hurt Late Night's popularity?" "Does this revelation make you feel negatively towards Letterman?" "Will Jon and Kate make a murder/suicide pack sparing the American public any more of their inane bullshit?"

Uhhh.. no. no and unfortunately, no. Sadly we will all have to endure more drivel about that wack-ass couple.

But I digress...

You know it's not like Dave touted himself as the poster boy of family values, pounding his chest while perched on his pompous pulpit screeching how his moral compass is so much stronger than the rest of us peons below like so many deluded politicians and holy rollers. I'm talking about you, Larry Craig and Mark Sanford.

He's just a talk show host. A talk show host with a lot of class and courage to come clean and address this issue head on. Yeah he fucked up, but no good comes from lying. It's better to just admit it, take your lumps, tuck your tail between your legs, face the consequences and move on. He's publicly apologized to his wife and staff members who are now facing the barrage of a full-press media frenzy, hell bent on naming names and dragging more people through the mud in the name of "news gathering" in order to quench their blood lust for higher ratings.

He's got a lot to atone for if he's to repair his relationship with his wife. I don't envy him that journey. But again, that's between him and Regina. It is none of our bid-ness, as Dave used to say. All I know is he still continues to be the best entertainer on late night and one of the classiest schlubs on TV.

You know, politicians could take a lesson from Davy boy on how to handle a scandal. Hey, that rhymes.