I was sick all weekend. A little bit of a temp, a nice scratchy throat, and some nice green mucus. But I did manage to go on a nice bikeride Saturday-it was pretty nice. The only thing that prevented it from being perfect were all the farckin' people who were walking/running on the bike trails-which made my ride very stop and go. But I don't blame them. The walking paths were generally under water or ice.

this is a really cool essay from the CSM-
here's the link, but in case they take it down at some point, here it is:

Uh-oh, the places we'll go!
By Susan E. Omar
"Can you imagine?" my dad would say, and then we knew our family was about to move - again. A former high school dropout and runaway, my dad had turned his life around and married his childhood sweetheart. When the Korean War broke out, he had developed a talent for mechanical drafting and got a job in Colorado. He talked about his life from that point on as if it were a hero's journey. "Can you imagine?" he said when he told Mother about the new job. "They're going to pay me to go to school!"

John Kennedy delivered his "Ask not ..." speech, and I was just starting second grade when Dad announced an opportunity for a career change. He was going to work as an aerospace engineer, fulfilling his dream to be part of the space program. "Can you imagine? We're being transferred to South Dakota!" Then he began to list all the things we'd get to do: camping in the Black Hills; a visit to Mount Rushmore; a trip to Deadwood City where Wild Bill Hickock and Calamity Jane made history.
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I'm told that when he took me to a dinosaur dig in the Badlands outside Rapid City, S.D., I pointed to a worker and said solemnly, "That's what I'm going to do when I grow up." Dad answered, "Honey, you can do anything you want. I'm the living proof."

It was the summer before I started fourth grade when Dad was promoted again and we moved to a suburb of Little Rock, Ark. One night after the move, I was taking a walk with him, telling him about my new friend who liked Nancy Drew mysteries as much as I did. We stopped under a huge sweet gum tree to watch fireflies sparkle in the humid air around us. "Did you ever imagine we'd live in a place as beautiful as this?" he asked me.

We were still reeling from the Kennedy assassination when Dad came home, saying once again, "Can you imagine?" He hugged my mother. "They're going to pay me to move to California." But when I listened to them talk happily far into the night as if California were the Promised Land, I wanted to cry. I didn't want to move again. I loved my Girl Scout troop, and I was in the breathless throes of my first crush.

I was very sad when we packed again and began the long car trip west. We rolled into Arizona on New Year's Eve. Dad's car developed engine trouble and it had to be towed to what Mother's stories would refer to later as "a wide place in the road."

Yes, the gas-station owner said, he could fix the problem, but he'd need a part from Tucson, and he was closing for the holiday. He suggested we check into the dingy motel next door (which his sister operated). He told us that if we needed groceries, we'd better get them soon, because his brother-in-law was also closing until after the New Year's celebration.

I grumbled when I noticed the motel pool was cracked and drained. Dad really tried to cheer me up, offering to buy me a comic book - or even two comic books. But I wanted my Nancy Drew mysteries, now packed into a moving van somewhere. He said I could have a soft drink from the motel vending machine, but all that was left was orange soda, and I told anybody within hearing distance how much I hated orange soda.

Mother, tired and stressed, gave me two choices: I could shut up, or she could slap me. Dad and I were shocked that my genteel mother had said "shut up." When Dad suggested a walk, I quickly followed him out the door.

The silhouettes of the saguaro cactus looked like eerie giants with curved prickly arms. When we started to walk away from the lights of the "town," I mentioned to Dad the possibility of running into rattlesnakes.

"We'll stay on the pavement," he said, and kept walking. He was quiet, the way he got when he was thinking or praying. After a while he said, "You know, California is a wonderful place. Can you imagine-"

But I cut him off. "I don't want to move to California!" I wailed. "I want to be with my friends. I don't want to be the new kid anymore."

Dad nodded, but he didn't say anything else until we started back to the motel. Then he said suddenly, "Did I tell you about the ocean?" I let out an exasperated sigh. "During certain seasons," he continued, ignoring me, "there are tiny animals in the water that light up when the waves roll up on the beach at night."

I thought about this. "Like fireflies?" I asked.

"Sort of like fireflies, except underwater. And the beaches," he said. "Can you imagine a place so warm you can swim in the winter?"

We walked along in silence.

"And I'll tell you something else," he said. "They have boats with glass bottoms."

"Glass bottoms?" I asked.

"Yep, so you can see the fish that swim under the boat."

Now that was something to try to imagine.

"And then, of course," he said softly, "there's Disneyland."

So I spent New Year's Day in a dusty little motel with no pool, drinking orange pop. I watched the parade on TV and flipped through the comic books. Mother and I were friends again. I was in a better frame of mind, wondering how a boat could have a glass bottom. Wouldn't it break?

We arrived in California a couple of days after New Year's, and we never moved out of state again. We rode in a glass-bottom boat and we marveled at plankton-lit ocean waves. We went to the beach year round and I discovered the dinosaur fossil collection at the Rancho La Brea Tar Pits.

A few years after Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, I enrolled in a college close to home, studied paleontology and archaeology, and began a life that did not include moving every few years. I visited ancient ruins in Mexico and pyramids in Egypt, though; and when I returned to recount my own hero's tales, my dad would listen intently.

At the story's end, he'd smile, nudge Mother, and ask, "Can you imagine?"

well, some good news-Pete Townshend has been cleared of kiddie porn charges. Thank God.

Oh, I really didn't see any shows last weekend. All I ended up doing was go to the Poetry slam. Horton Heat was sold out and Greazy Meal, though I was interested, no one else was. And I wasn't interested in going alone.

This weekend-we're supposed to have temps in the 60s and I plan on going bike riding.

I think this weekend is the official 'Michael Kohout Concert Weekend'- friday night, there is a poetry slam at the First Ave VIP room (MC'd by Meghan), Saturday, Greazy Meal are reuniting for a series of shows(at the Cabooze), and the Reverend Horton Heat is playing at the 7th Street Entry.

cool. We'll see how many of the shows I'll actually get to see.

Last night I went grocery shopping after the gym. It was my intention to buy the components of a favorite breakfast staple of mine-rice with raisins, and getting out of there spending less than $6. So I needed to buy some milk and some raisins.

Now-I didn't want to buy too much milk. I don't drink that much anymore, and I figured I wouldn't need more than a half gallon. Any more and it would most likely go bad in my fridge.

Well, a half gallon of milk costs almost as much as a gallon. Which sucks. And a gallon costs only a $1.50 less than 2 gallons. So I end up buying 2 gallons.

Which leads me to a state of semi-panic as I walk through the store. What am I going to do with the extra gallon? Should I bring it to work and donate it to the group there? Should I take it to my parent's house on Sunday, and give it to them? No, I decide, as I pass the jell-o isle. No, I shall make pudding. And I then buy two gallons of milk($4.50), a bag of raisins($2.75), and five packages of pudding(one pistaschio, one chocolate, one vanilla, two butterscotch-I really like butterscotch) for about $4.

So I spend about double what I expected. I was very disappointed in myself when I got home. So I made myself some pudding to feel better. And I did.

FIN

is it ok to be 24 years old and be really sad Mr Rogers died?

What a wonderful human being

here's a link.

I owe my parents $400 for car parts, for my shitbox car. So that I can get to my shitbox job( which I gripe about on my shitbox blog). Which doesn't pay me enough to maintain my shitbox life or shitbox car.

See how this works? Hoorah!

Kobe Bryant scored 40 points in a game last night. Is it me, or is he the most smug piece of shit you've ever seen? I really like Shaq and KG, but whenever I see Kobe I get the feeling that he's barely holding back his laughter. The laughter of the joy of being a multi-millionare by the time you're 19.

Yes, indeed, I am a great son. Saturday and Sunday, I spent a great deal of time and effort on my Mother's birthday present. I got her a new waffle iron, and yesterday morning I went over to their place to make her and my family waffles.

I looks like it's been a while since I made an update. A lot is going on-

My car is in the throws of death. My Pops and I replaced some wheel bearings, but now it just threw a spark plug, stripping the thread from the head. But, due to the current economic status of the Michael Kohout household, I don't think I have the option of getting a new car right now. So we're going to fix it. Either we'll get a new head or we'll try to put in a new screw thread.

I read a whole book. I ended up buying 'About a Boy,' the book by Nick Hornby. I read it in two days...nice book. Today I ordered 'High Fidelity' from Amazon. Till then, I've dug out some old Mark Twain-right now I'm reading 'The Guilded Age.'

At the end of last month I helped a bunch of friends move into their new places. That sucked. For how much they told me not to worry about them spilling shit all over my new carpet (which I own, and don't rent, unlike them), they weren't afraid to tell me to keep their new, rented carpet spotless. Fucking assholes. Well, they aren't that bad. And I'm not nearly so mad at them for (potentially) runing my carpet (as I decided I want to replace it with a wood floor) as it was for them to move out to Oakdale. Which is all the way on the other side of the fucking city. Which makes it really hard to hang out.

And on a good note I went to a poetry slam where Meghan performed. She did good, and I had a good time.

So that's that. Later.

sometimes, it's funny what or who people attach themselves to.
Such as Elvis, or Dolly Parton
In the linked story, from the New York Times Magazine:

In 1997, Ms. Parton disbanded her fan club and asked its former members to send their money to her favorite charities instead. Patric Parkey, 45, and Harrell Gabeheart, 43, of Irving, Tex., took seriously her call to give. Each year they attend charity auctions endorsed by Ms. Parton, where they bid on memorabilia to add to the collection that fills their 1,400 square-foot home — "every room, floor to ceiling, wall to wall," Mr. Parkey said. Among their greatest treasures: one of Ms. Parton's license plates, one of her wigs and a Dolly Parton pinball machine. The men are considering moving their bedroom into the garage to make room for more.
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Having photos of the star all over their house, Mr. Gabeheart said, "brings out the best in both of us."

"It's kind of hard to look at her all the time and not get closer to one another, because she teaches about family values and being supportive of one another," he added.

One weekend in December, when Ms. Parton gave three concerts at Dollywood to raise money for her nonprofit Imagination Library, which gives books to young children, Mr. Parkey and Mr. Gabeheart realized a long-held dream. They had a private visit with Ms. Parton. The meeting, which they won at a benefit auction for the Boys and Girls Club in Sevierville, Tenn., was scheduled to last five minutes but ran to about 20. They said Ms. Parton had chatted on their cell phone with their hairdresser, signed one of the porcelain dolls they make in her image and looked at photographs from their collection. "She told us, `All you need is my panties and drawers,' " Mr. Gabeheart said. "But we don't want that. That's too personal."

Mr. Parkey said he wanted Ms. Parton to know that "we're fans, but we're not hysterical fans." He added, "I didn't want her to think, `Oh, God, there's two more crazies.' "

Mr. Gabeheart looks forward to seeing her again: "I don't think we'll have a problem meeting her in the future. Because the people that are around her know who we are now."

Another fan who's known by Ms. Parton and her people is David Schmidli, 33, of Huntsville, Ala. For Mr. Schmidli, who has cerebral palsy, Ms. Parton is quite literally the alpha and omega: his mother, Jo-Ann, 72, teaches him to spell by using words drawn from Ms. Parton's song titles and lyrics. Each day he awakens at 3:30 a.m. to scour the Web for news of Ms. Parton, then feeds his German Shepherd, named Sparkles Dolly Parton, before going to his job as a tester at a computer manufacturing facility. During the holidays, he invites his co-workers home to show them his Christmas tree covered with 400 homemade ornaments, each decorated with Ms. Parton's picture.

Mr. Schmidli also sharpens his dexterity by making needlepoint tissue box covers and fly swatter covers bearing Ms. Parton's image (with angel wings). When he presents these items to her each April at the park's opening day, Mrs. Schmidli says, "She's as kind and as good as she can be."

"She looks down from on high on her float," Mrs. Schmidli said, "and she says, 'I love you, too, David.' "

Ms. Parton's status as an emblem of possibility is magnified in her hometown. "She's as big as a star can get," explained Judge Gary R. Wade, 54, of the Tennessee Court of Criminal Appeals. He was two years behind Ms. Parton at Sevier County High School. "If there's a kid who has any talent at all here in town," he continued, "you can point to Dolly Parton and say, `She came from here, and that means anything can happen, to anyone who works for it."

Dave Anderson, 44, special events director at Dollywood, said that Ms. Parton's fame had a similar effect on employees of the theme park. "It's exciting to say you work for Dollywood, for Dolly Parton," he said. "I've never worked for anybody that's been on `Letterman' to talk about me, even indirectly."

Most Dollywood employees have little personal contact with Ms. Parton. She makes public appearances at the park twice a year and attends private business meetings there about four times a year. But in December, for the first time since 1998, Ms. Parton posed for photographs with groups of employees.

On a rainy Friday morning, about a thousand Dollywood staffers gathered in the park's Showstreet Palace theater. When Ms. Parton bounded to center stage in five-inch heels, they erupted in cheers and applause. "What in the world you doin' out in the rain this time of mornin'?' she teased. `I know! You come out cause you're crazy. She tossed her head and laughed, pulling strands of her wig from her mouth. "And I got my hair caught in my lip gloss! Just know that I love you and I appreciate you," she said.

She stood aside as a Dollywood employee told the crowd, "You know the drill: no coats, no cameras, no bags, nothin' to be autographed." For the next hour, Ms. Parton walked back and forth between bleachers on either side of the stage, posing with groups of 10 to 30 employees at a time. When the last picture had been taken, she hollered a down-home "Thank you!" and turned on her heel with queenly efficiency; an assistant covered her shoulders with a woolen cape that billowed as she strode offstage.

For Ms. Parton's admirers, the paradoxes of her persona — artificial and authentic, ambitious and altruistic, distant and down-to-earth — hang together. And with her, they experience a kind of intimacy that is all the more powerful for being composed largely of illusion.

"A lot of times my fans don't come to see me be me," she said. "They come to see me be them. They come to hear me say what they want to hear, what they'd like to say themselves, or to say about them what they want to believe is true."

Ms. Parton evaluated these illusions in terms that were by turns critical, empathic and pragmatic: "I've often wondered if it's healthy for some of these people to depend on me that much, to where people live through you and don't live their own lives. It's like when people say, `I'm in love,' when they're really in lust. They call so many things love. I spend a lot of time thinking about stuff like that in the wee hours. But I think it's healthier for those people to have something to look forward to than to not. If they've got a show to look forward to or a record to look forward to, it might keep them from doing something bad to themselves or to somebody else. Or give 'em something more to do than just dwelling on themselves so much. I don't know. I just know I love the fans. I appreciate 'em. I love what I do. So I guess we'll all be at it for a long time to come."


Why do these people feel this closeness with people like Dolly or Elvis? Do they so lack love in their lives that this is the only kind they get? It's sad, but certainly less sad than this from Rolling Stone.

I think I've seen everything.

Yesterday, I heard a jazz version of 'Detroit Rock City,' the KISS song.

I can now die in peace.

last night, while I was baking a cake for someone I watched the reshowing of the 'Joe Millionare' program.

I can understand it'a appeal, although it's not my bag. All the girls in it remind me of my sister. Not that I don't love my sister, but 20, then 12, then 5 are too many of them.

Plus the dude was an idiot.

honey, do you know where you left the plague?

funny shit. too bad it's real.

I feel soo guilty for not updating this lately-but really, nothing has been going on. I've been working, going to the gym, had a new years party(which went well-we played marco polo in the pool, played drinka-the drinking version of jenga, exchanged x-mas gifts)...that's about it.

The only think that is going on this week is I've got a birthday party to go to( I've got a killer cake recipe ).