Dylan Bolin

I have a humble request of my state lottery:  Please stop making scratch-off tickets so complicated.

It’s not entertaining.  I am rarely, if ever, delighted by the latest “game.”  And I don’t want them to be entertaining.  I’ve never bought a lottery ticket for entertainment purposes.  For instance, I never thought of saying to a date:  “What do you say we take a carriage ride, have some dinner and then maybe some lottery tickets.”

I have purchased lottery tickets because I was very broke, and if 1 dollar had a 1 in 146,107,962 chance of changing that, I was willing to take those odds.

I’ll still grab one once in a while, but I don’t understand them.  I like crossword puzzles, but your crossword lottery ticket just confuses me. 

And please don’t put something on a SCRATCH OFF lottery ticket that I’m NOT supposed to SCRATCH OFF.  Don’t ask me to read the thing like a form at the D.M.V.  And if I did win the Grand Prize, and you didn’t give it to me because I happened to scratch off that little area in the corner…well…I would have to kill you.  Sorry.  And I doubt they’d find a jury that would convict me.

And don’t tell me that I can’t scratch it off at your counter.  In my Rags to Riches Fantasy, I’ve got a lot riding on this, so you and everybody behind me CAN JUST WAIT A DAMN MINUTE!

Look, I just want to know if I’ve won.  That’s all.  In fact, here’s what we’ll do, I’ll give you a dollar, you just say:  “Sorry,” and I’ll be on my way.  We don’t even have to do that hopeless, awkward pointing like I’m trying to pick out a cruller from the bakery counter.  AND, I don’t have to keep the gentlemen behind me waiting.  He can get is 2 Mountain Dew’s, and 3 packs of Basics, and he can go about his day in a more timely fashion, too.

Actually, I’m going to do that; I’m going to open a store which ONLY sells lottery tickets.  Better yet, I’ll sell my OWN lottery tickets.  I’ll just tear some paper into 1000 scraps.  Then I’ll write “Yes” on one of them.  I’ll sell them for $1 a piece.  Each morning, wearing just a bathrobe, I’ll open the store and shuffle the scraps.  When a person comes into my store and gives me $1, I’ll pick up a scrap.  If it’s blank, I’ll say:  “No,” if it says “Yes,” they win the grand prize of $500.

Even if the winning scrap gets sold right away, I’ll still keep selling the blank ones until all 1000 are sold.  And any given person can buy as many as they want.  Heck, I can close up shop earlier and, by my math, that still makes a cool $500 daily profit.

I’m going to go buy a storefront right now!  I’m sure that there’s absoloutely nothing ethically or legally wrong with this plan!

-Dylan

Many of you have commented on the Majestic Pines “Bad Luck” spot, and I thank you for them (even the creepy ones asking if I still had the unitard).  That commercial is actually one of three.  Here is another.

I should add that I don’t necessarily endorse gambling.  I think it’s a bit like life; you can’t win if you don’t play and, eventually, the house always wins.  If you’re cool with that paradigm, (and you’re doing right by the people that depend on you) have fun.  That being said:

I’d also like to introduce my own new casino:  Dylan’s Coin-Flip Emporium!  Come on down to Dylan’s Coin-Flip Emporium and place your bets while the Fickle Finger of Fate flips a common quarter!  Heads, it flips you out, tails it flips you off!  Wear a unitard and get a free buffet!

And coming in 2010, play Pass the Pigs for a grand prize of $250,000!  Shake a ”Makin’ Bacon” and you’ll be rolling in it!  And don’t forget the Swine Keepers’ Klub!

-D

Hello friends. 

I’m writing this having gotten exactly fifteen minutes of sleep last night, so forgive me if the tieping is strangely.  If you’re in the Milwaukee area, you know that a wicked batch of thunderstorms rolled through last night, and if you have a dog (even the most laid-back, laissez-faire kind) chances are it affected him/her.  That was certainly the case at our house.  Our four-year-old Pit/Lab mix, Bailey went through more stress than that of the original Mercury astronauts.

In an attempt to help her and any of your dogs who might be storm-phobic, I did some research.

It’s still just theory as to why dogs react the way they do to thunderstorms and perhaps not the same way to, say, planes, trains or automobiles.  One theory is that, like many humans, they genuinely enjoy John Hughes.  Behaviorists (behaviourists to our European friends) aren’t sure whether they (the dogs, not the behaviorists) are reacting to the flashes of lightning, the sound of thunder, wind, rain, etc., but some dogs begin reacting up to 30 minutes before the storm arrives, leading some to believe that they are even reacting to changes in barometric pressure or the ionization of the air.

Certain dogs are predisposed to be thunderstorm-phobic more than others.  Collies, Shepherds, Hounds and other working and sporting breeds tend to react more so than others.  This is likely because their genetic make-up dictates that they react quickly and surely to stimuli, and the stimuli of a thunderstorm can be overwhelming.  

Rescue dogs (like ours) also have a similar predisposition.  Shelter dogs are more likely to have had scary or unpleasant experiences prior to being adopted making them highly sensitive.

But what to do about it?  According to my research:

• Don’t panic.  It’s very important that the human stay calm.  And even though the situation may be extremely frustrating, it’s also important that the human not lose his/her temper and scold the dog.  In the un-nuanced mind of a dog, this will only reinforce that there’s something to be afraid of.
• Don’t try to soothe the dog with baby talk or lavish affection.  Again, this will only reinforce the behavior.  Essentially, you’re saying:  “Good boy; be terrified!”
• Provide a safe, isolated space where they can “den.”  The bathroom, a closet, under the bed.  Let them know that it’s there and let them ride it out on their own.
• Put the dog on a leash and walk him/her through the house.  Have them perform behaviors that you’ve taught them and reward them accordingly.  Redirecting the dog’s focus (and yours) can work wonders; plus it provides normalcy amidst chaos.
• When it’s not storming, there’s something called “systematic desensitization.”  This involves gentle reminders of the storm (like a C.D.) and rewarding the dog with treats and affection when there is no sign of anxiety.
• Drugs.  As a last resort.  Consult your veterinarian.

 I hope some of these tips help.  Again, I did this research mainly for our family, but maybe it can help yours, too.  And judging by the Doppler radar, we might get to try them very soon.

Good Luck.

-Dylan

I’ve always loved the Blues.  I love the wailing guitars and gritty catharsis.  If there was ever a musical genre that celebrated those aspects of the human condition that seem decidedly UN-celebratory, it’s the Blues.  Inherent in the Blues is that rarest of experiences in our modern world; a shared experience.  When played well, the Blues exhibits a spontaneity and imperfection that allows the common to become transcendent.

I’ve always enjoyed the Blues, but, at the same time, felt sheepishly inauthentic as a result.  What business did I have sporting the White Guy Overbite while lurching arhythmically around my living room?  I was a white guy, and I was in a living room.  Surely, there were folks who had it much worse than me; that particular musician for instance.  For some reason, it seemed that it was well and good to appreciate other musical genres, but when it came to the Blues, I wasn’t commiserating but rather co-opting true misery.

But the fact is that we all get our share in time.  Sometimes the source of our pain is the inexorable march of time, the love that slips through our fingers or the missed epiphany, and such sources don’t discriminate between race, creed or economic strata. 

It’s also natural that the Blues evolve along with its purveyors.  Even today, when a man spreads his wings, circumstance may clip them.  When the shape of modern life alters its acoustics, the resonance of the music is affected, too.  Such is the case with Nation Sack, the new, self-titled recording by guitarist and Gristleman, Greg Koch, vocalist Malford Milligan, bassist Tom Good and drummer Del Bennett.  While they feed from the roots of the Blues, Nation Sack is not content to remain earthbound.  The hooks soar to new heights and the lyrics speak to today’s everyman.

Traditionally, the Nation Sack was a small Mojo bag that was only carried by women.  It was used in spells of female domination over men.  It was also mentioned in Bluesman Robert Johnson’s Come On In My Kitchen.  There’s no doubt that today’s man is bewitched, if not directly by a Hoodoo Princess, then surely by the sedimentary pressure of manhood itself. 

Like love, what it means to be a man evolves over the course of a man’s life; tall and stong, a virile lover, a provider, stoic in suffering, a sage and dignified in death.  Nation Sack seems to occur at a Mid-life Crossroads (a fine title for their next album if I say so myself).  An honest assessment of the road less traveled or the well-worn path chosen so many years ago.  Even in health there is death, success has a cost and while sometimes life is tedious, there is often perfection in repetition.  These are all themes explored within the 12 tracks.

It’s been a very long time since, for me, an album was so inclusive and immersive.  From the first playing, I was transformed from observer to participant, and I highly recommend it.  Give it a listen, then give it a home.  If you are a male, age 35-55, and you purchase this recording and decide you don’t like it, I urge you to contact me and I’ll take it off your hands.  But I doubt the Mojo in this Nation Sack will let that happen.

-Dylan

…is in trouble.  They were placed on the endangered species list in 1973, and they’re numbers are still very low.  Just 18 sightings have been confirmed in Wisconsin.

I’m not sure how they go about “confirming” a “sighting.”  I’m sure someone sees a Kirtland’s warbler and goes to tell someone else, thereby confirming the sighting, but that’s pretty flimsy “confirming.”  I mean, the other person should probably see the warbler in question before confirming, right?  And if that’s not possible, at the very least, there should be a brief interview full of indignant skepticism by the wannabe confirmer.

But, confirmed or not, according to the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel and an article by Paul A. Smith, you’re not likely to see them at the feeder again this year.  The male’s call of “Chip-chip-che-way-oh” will likely go unheard by the female, but it could still be used as backing vocals by Paul Simon to replace Ladysmith Black Mambazo on his next album.

With so few, you’d think the D.N.R. would tell us exactly where they are so we could go enjoy them, right?  Wrong.  The D.N.R. has placed them in the Warbler Protection Program, and is keeping their location ”undisclosed.”  Perhaps the Tataglia Family is looking for them.

Actually, the idea is, if they’re undisturbed, maybe they’ll mate.  And by way of aphrodisiacs, the only humans allowed near them are biologists.  And nothing gets birds hotter than being studied by biologists; suave, sexy biologists.

They capture them and tag them, of course, that’s a given, but these biologists also put speakers under nests, pipe in mating calls and hide in nearby trees like alien voyeurs to watch the results.  If I were a lonely, male Kirtland’s warbler, I think this would drive me insane.  I would not only NOT want to mate, but I think that I might just rock back and forth on a branch and slowly pluck all of my own feathers out.

But these are biologists, and biologists always know how to keep the grant money coming in.  Just like with the pandas.  Biologists are always trying to get pandas to do it; I think it’s an aphrodisiac for the biologists.

But you can certainly help, too.  If you see a lone, male Kirtland’s warbler, offer to be his wing-man.  Take him out to the clubs.  Get his beak good and wet.  Even if he only hooks up with a couple of sparrows, the practice is good for his confidence. 

And, if you see a hot, little Chickadee at the bar, and you want to hook up your friend, the Kirtland’s warbler, this line never fails:  “Hey, see that tag on my buddy’s leg over there?  Well, he wants to tag you, too.”

-Dylan

The day is fast approaching.  It has taken on more gravitas than the Mayan Doomsday date of 2012.  I am, of course, referring to the switch to digital television.  On June 12th, those of you with analog antennae will be left to wallow in your own outdated filth, not knowing what to think or buy while the rest of us are enjoying According to Jim in all of it’s digital splendor.

Now you may be wondering why all the hub-bub.  Why is it so important that we all switch to digital?  It is best not to question the F.C.C.  They are the benevolent and generous arbiters of all things entertainment, in addition to protecting us from swear words.  All day long they hand out judgements like the fact that it’s okay to say “ass” on network television and on radio, but ”asshole” will get you a hefty fine.  You see, we like asses; when girded in hot pants and gyrating, they’re valuable tools used to sell beer.  However, add “hole,” and you’ve crossed the line into vulgarity. 

It’s these kinds of nuanced decisions that the F.C.C. makes so we don’t have to.  They’ve also decided that, as of June 12th, 2009, all full-power television stations must broadcast their signals digitally.  First, digital signals allow for greater sound and picture clarity.  You’ll also be able to enjoy movies in their original formats and ratios.  No more “pan and scan.”

Second, a digital signal can carry more information.  This means something called multicasting, which is the broadcasting of several signal options within the same signal.  Many people think that switching to digital means automatic High Definition (HD).  Not true.  Trust me, if you want HD, you’re going to have to pay for it and pay handsomely.  However, with multicasting, an HD signal can be bundled with a standard signal on the same bandwidth. 

Third, and probably most importantly, broadcasting in digital frees up much of the valuable broadcast spectrum for other things like advanced wireless services and public safety services.  But let’s be honest; given the choice between Wi-fi, cell phones and public safety services, where do we really think most of that broadcast spectrum is going?

And did you know that there’s yet another digital revolution afoot?  This time, in the field of pregnancy tests.  That’s right.  According to Clearblue® Easy, 1 in 4 women can misread a traditional pregnancy test result.  My immediate reaction to the commercial was:  How is this possible?  I mean, the symbols can’t be any more elaborate than the marshmallows in a box of Lucky Charms, right?  What’s the problem?  But who am I to argue with the the opinion of Clearblue® Easy? 

My solution to the problem would be to let the suspected Baby Daddy take a look-see and act as a secondary test.  I guarantee, with a possible paternity suit on the line, he will be 100% sure of the results; exceeding Clearblue® Easy’s accuracy claim by roughly .1%.  Simply administer the test normally and hand it to the man.  Then, instead of a plus or minus sign or “yes” or “no,” if he disappears, cartoon-style, in a cloud of dust and bobby pins, the result is positive.  Then, the couple can reunite on Maury in 100% digital clarity.

Additionally, Clearblue® Easy has made their pregnancy test DIGITAL!  Ladies!  No more peeing on analog litmus paper!  Now, you can enjoy the comfort and security of urinating on a stick containing tiny diodes and capacitors, and receive your results with digital clarity!  In the future, you’ll be able to pee directly on your converter box and receive your results on your television picture in picture!  D.V.R. it and show it to your friends!

Say, how about a new pregnancy test iPhone ap?  We’ll call it the peePod!

-Dylan