Six albums for a penny!

When I was 12 years old I took the record club flyer out of the Sunday paper, chose six albums and taped a penny into the circle.

The albums came. They reflected my taste in music at the time, which reflected my friend's taste in music, who lived across the street and had two older brothers. (Everything I learned about sex, drugs and rock and roll came from you, Jeff. Muchas gracias.)

I don't remember all the albums. I remember some.

Foreigner, "Foreigner;" Eagles, "Hotel California," Queen, "Live Killers," and Styx, "Cornerstone."

Come September, I'll see two of those bands en concerto: Foreigner and Styx. I'm more looking forward to the latter.

Without a doubt, Styx was the last great "concept rock" band of the 70s. "The Grand Illusion," "Renegade," "Come Sail Away," all classic gems.

The band was ill-suited for the 80s, a little too deep and not quite cute enough, I suppose. They literally got laughed off the stage with their Mr. Roboto stage "play."

I think there were some reunion gigs with Dennis DeYoung in the years after. But according to the best "Behind the Music" VHI ever produced -- in my humble opinion -- DeYoung got some strange disease where he was allergic to light. I don't think he tours with them any more.

Anyway, going to see them, along with 3 3/4ths of the original Def Leppard. RAWK!

By the way, that record club? My dad called them up and told them I was only 12 years old. Never joined their stupid club. Kept the records, though.

RAWK!

Goodbye black tar

I think I give up. I need sugar and cream -- or milk -- in my coffee. And that's that.

I tried to be the total con-o-sewer and drink it black. I wanted to like the taste of coffee for what it is. It would streamline my morning, too, not having to fool around with granules, a gallon jug and a spoon.

Its coffee's own fault for getting watered down, though. It teases you into thinking it tastes good.

Stick your nose into a bag of cold, rich beans, and breathe in. Oh, sweet delight! But brew it, or french press it, or drip it, and it's a different story.

Speaking of marriage, my wife scowls at my half-finished mugs with the liquid sitting there, fermenting like motor oil, with hint of aluminum. Meanwhile, my credit card surges with Red Bull purchases.

I love my better half, by the way.

But I hate the bitterness of untreated java. I realize that now. When it gets cold, it's even worse. At least coffee that's been properly sweetened and creamified still tastes consumable when it's lukewarm.

So give me a coffee "regular," as they say in Noo Yawk, and call me a moe if you want. See that gleam in my eye? It's my tummy, giving you the finger.

American Hero Redefined

C to the H to the E to the S to the T to the NUT.

Eat your food! Eat it! EAT EAT EAT YAWM YAWM YAWM GAK ...