Ok, I'm going to start this highly overdue blog off with a simple question. Why does Elton John write songs about chicks? I mean, I get the whole Marilyn Monroe one, but Kiss The Bride? Nikita? Island Girl? I could go on, but I think you get the point. That'd be like me writing a song about Richard Simmons. I think. Anyway.

A quick recap of my summer to this point:

Went to Bermuda
Yet another sinus infection!
Drinkin'
Came up with an idea for world peace on a paper towel, then accidently used it to clean up a hairball
Adopted another cat (more on that later)

So, the Bermuda trip. Went there for a week back in July. It's almost impossible to describe how beautiful the shoreline is there. Pictures barely do it justice. Other things that happened:

- I got unbelievably drunk at a cricket tournament, offended our hosts, and ended up hitchhiking back to the hotel in the most amazing downpour ever. I couldn't have been more wet if I had jumped in a pool. As a bonus, the folks I offended recently asked about me. See, I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way ... or something. Apparently, my sunglasses are still in the back of the car that I hitched, too. Magnifique!

- At one point, I was sitting at a bar with 5 shots of Jagermeister in front of me. Not good times. Let's take a look at the list of things I'd rather do than Jager:

Stick-to-eye poking
Bleeding profusely from anything
Rosie O'Donnell ... maybe ... I'll have to think about that one
Did I mention poking myself in the eye with a stick? Just checkin'.

As a bonus, they were served by this hecka hot bartender, so I felt obliged to do at least one. Pleh. Bleh. Fleh. I'm pretty sure the face I made drove her away, too. Chicks don't really dig it when you make the same face a cat makes to toss a hairball. Some women are so picky.

- I got my picture taken with a female pirate. Do I really need to expand on that one? I mean ... female ... pirate ... fuhgedaboudit.

- I managed not to fall down (for the most part) or pee in anything other than a bathroom facility. I'm pretty proud of that, considering that I have trouble doing that in Baltimore.

- I managed not to get on a moped, although I tried ... and tried ... and tried. See, my two roommates wouldn't allow me to get on one, because of all the injuries that happen to tourists on mopeds. To top it off, we ended up in the hospital on the last day there - long story, but it wasn't my fault, I swear! As we're sitting around in the waiting room, this highly attractive lass comes in with what looks like fake D cups. Naturally, I bring this to the attention of one of my female friends. Why a female? Sorry, but guys generally screw this stuff up - we've all seen the Seinfeld "staring at the sun" episode, eh?

So, Boob-a-lot is limping around the waiting room, so I pipe up and ask her how she got injured. Her answer? Moped accident. Crimeny. 'Course, my first instinct was to ask her how she didn't just bounce back up to standing with those balloons on ... hmm ... let's just move on.

As for the cat adoption, I think I'm just going to give that to you in pieces. Her name's Miss Tizzy, she's the parent of the kittens I found in the back yard last year, and I'm pretty sure she's insane. I'm not positive of this, but she is certainly named appropriately. She's also managed to invent two new sounds:

The Screow: a combination of screech and meow, generally used when I'm on her side of the bed or if she's touched unexpectedly.

The Screeyowl: a combo of screech and yowl, generally used when a stepsister or brother comes within 20 feet of her. I live in a rowhouse, so you can imagine how often I get to hear the screeyowl. Highly unfun, especially when it comes from under the bed in the middle of the night.

On to something that's been bugging me. Ok, I'm a child of the 80s. I spent my teens listening to Men At Work, I combed my hair in the most perfect zipperhead ever, and if you say "Way to go, Hamilton!" to me, I'll know exactly what you mean (that's from Fast Times for you dorknerds). So, I'm fairly ok with this 80s resurgence lately. The only problem I have? The music that is making the comeback. Seriously, the worst songs are making a resurgence. I'm going to give you an example with some lyrics:

I've got a secret I've been hiding under my skin
My heart is human, my blood is boiling, my brain I.B.M.
So if you see me acting strangely, don't be surprised
I'm just a man who needed someone, and somewhere to hide

That's from "Mr. Roboto" by Styx, which I heard on the radio the other day. Now, I loved this song when it came out in the 80s. Here's the thing, though - we all know I'm an idiot, and I was an even bigger one back then. As a bonus, I learned years later that this was all part of some extravagant rock opera cooked up by Dennis DeYoung, the lead singer of Styx (and, apparently, the wimpiest lead singer around next to the dude that ruined Chicago). I mean, how did they come up with this idea? They must've been in a room with Amy Winehouse's mother or something:

AW's mom: Here, smoke this.
Styx: Good stuff!
AW's mom: Here, sniff this.
Styx: Domo arigato.
AW's mom: Here, inject this.
Styx: I've got it! Eureka! We'll do a rock opera ... about a Japanese robot ... named Kilroy!

I can't see any other logical explanation.