Dear readers...

Every group of friends usually has a collection of favorite stories they share amongst themselves.  I know my friends do.  The guys I have hunted and fished with over so many decades have a vast collection of tales that seem to grow taller with the passage of time.  I want to share with you a story just recently added to our oral tradition that I know will be retold many times in the years to come.  It's a good story and a true story.  I'm sure it will improve with age.

The Doland Poltergeist - As Told by Lawyer

As has been blogged, our gang of pheasant hunters spent Halloween weekend in Doland, South Dakota.   Nine guys shared a 1920’s farmhouse-style three story house with five dogs.  Since Tom, I and our good friend (known to some of you as “Sees-in-the-Dark”, hereafter “Sid”) arrived first, we had dibs on rooms.  Sid and I moved upstairs to single rooms, conveniently located next to one of only two bathrooms.   Sid and his Springer Spaniel, Farley, bunked right across the hall from me.

The rest of the gang finally showed up, got settled in, and later on, all went out for drinks and dinner at Doland’s only bar and grill.  After a good night’s sleep, we spent a tough day tromping through soggy sloughs and cornfields - the birds were hard to come by.  We returned home late in the day, threw steaks on the grill, drank beer and an assortment of whiskeys, played cards and talked smart until a little after midnight. 

The next day’s hunt was better, including a number of exhilarating “run and gun” Rat Patrol-style assaults on swampy pot holes surrounded by open fields.  None of us had done this before. 

A guide told us to position four trucks about 300 yards from the pot holes, each truck holding several hunters and one or two dogs.  The trucks were positioned so as to roll-in and surround the mini-swamp simultaneously.  When you get to the pot hole, you jump out of the truck, let loose the dogs and load your gun on the run.  By the time you hit the swamp, the birds are already flying.   Guns popping, dogs splashing, birds dropping and except for some occasional mopping-up everything is over within a minute or so.  All the guys got really jacked by this - way more exciting than the long treks though mile-long cornfields producing limited rooster flushes. 

By the end of that long day, Tom, Sid and I were ready for a couple of beers.  We told the other guys to meet us at our hunting outfitter’s lodge - a rustic hang-out in a barn outside of Doland.  It’s comfortable nevertheless, with old, overstuffed chairs, a couple of fridges with beer, a good assortment of liquor and mixers and satellite TV.  We tossed back a couple of beers and waited for the other hunters. 

We waited and waited.  Sid and I had a couple more beers.   Sid later felt he needed to add some vegetables to his repertoire and mixed a couple of Bloody Marys, which I noticed were light on the bloody and heavy on the Mary.  

Randi the hunting outfitter and Billy a guide who we met in Doland last year came in.  We got to jaw jacking about politics for a couple of hours.  After solving the sub-prime mortgage crisis, the war on terrorism and other pressing world problems Randi and Billy bade us a good night. 

The other guys never showed up. 

Sid must have been dehydrated from hunting as he decided to have one more for the road.  We left after he finished his nightcap and headed back home, with Tom at the wheel.

Sid was in a jolly mood when we got back, but quickly faded.   I noticed a short time later he and Farley had vanished and apparently retired for the evening.   I hung out with the guys, watched some ESPN sports recaps and went to bed.

It was Halloween night.

When I got up the next morning I saw Sid standing outside of his room.  His face was a ghastly pallor. He was wide-eyed and stricken - as if he'd seen a ghost. 

Sid motioned me over.  

In a raspy croak, he said - This place is haunted.

I could tell he wasn’t kidding around. 

What are you talking about? I asked.

Sid claimed he had proof.  I followed him downstairs.  He pointed at a glass mug on a table.  The bottom third of the mug was filled with tacks, pins and an assortment of nails.  In a shaken voice he explained-

Before I went to bed last night, I got a mug from the cupboard, put some ice cubes in it, filled it with water and went upstairs.  I drank the water before going to bed and went to sleep.  I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, picked up the mug to fill it, and then saw it was filled with all that stuff!

With a trembling finger he pointed at the junk in the mug.

Sid went on to say that it was impossible for anyone to have gone in his room and messed with the mug.  Everyone else was asleep, Farley had not even moved and the mug was in the exact same spot as he had left it. 

Shaken by this eerie event he had been unable to get back to sleep.

I’ve known Sid for about 25 years and have never seen him looking this freaked out.  If he ever told me he had been abducted by aliens who performed rectal probe experiments upon him, I’d believe him.   Sid is not a nut or drama queen. 

This was weird and diabolical.  I felt very uneasy and wondered if a pheasant-loving Poltergeist was on the loose, intent upon harming bird hunters.  Come to think of it, his room did look a bit creepy.  

One of the other guys then yelled out from the kitchen - Hey.  Are you talking about that glass full of nails in the cupboard?   I saw it and moved it to a higher shelf so nobody would use it.

A short silence.  Someone snorted.  Someone giggled.  Everyone started laughing.  Sid got red in the face.  Our resident doctor asked him if it hurt when he urinated.  Someone else asked if he had been trying to add iron to his diet.  Another claimed Sid’s favorite drink is a Rusty Nail.  This went on for some time until everyone had to quit because of the side aches and tears.

Occam’s razor is a principle which, as a rule, is sometimes stated as:  The simplest explanation is usually the best.

So much for the Doland Poltergeist. 

As I write this post I am looking across the top of my desk at a box. 

The box is approximately the length of the desk but annoyingly taller than the desk's surface.  It is almost a foot and a half deep and even though it is jammed-up tight against the desk it crowds the doorway.

Comfortably ensconced in its factory packaging the occupant of the box is what I have christened - The Giant Conundrum.

Every time I sit at the desk I ponder the conundrum. 

You cannot help but ponder it as it is so obviously huge and in your face.

Periodically I curse the conundrum.  Like I said - it blocks the doorway and I can no longer pass freely with briefcase and gym bag in the morning.

Every so often my wife metaphysically wrestles with the conundrum as if manipulating a massive virtual Rubik's Cube.  With her tape measure in-hand she takes valuable time out of her day in a valiant attempt to cypher a home for it.  She finds no solution to the puzzle.  The conundrum remains in the box. 

It's just too damn big.  

Sometimes I chuckle over my peculiar good fortune.  Of all the possible places it might have ended-up the conundrum has come to reside in our house.

You're thinking - What the heck is he talking about and why is it a conundrum?  

Well, by definition a conundrum is: A paradoxical, insoluble, or difficult problem; in short - a dilemma.

And I have a dilemma on my hands.  A problem of sorts.

You see, inside the box is a 42 inch plasma television.  I won it in a raffle at a recent charity fundraiser.  My investment was $100 worth of raffle tickets.

You might say - That's a helluva conundrum, Tom.

Yeah, but consider this, I wouldn't go out of my way to purchase one of these suckers.

My wife and I might just be that last surviving souls in Wauwatosa to not be cable or satellite television subscribers.  Don't forget, I'm the only guy who hasn't a clue from one year to the next who the American Idol is.  I admit it.  I am a cultural lowbrow. 

We've downsized our living space.  Our modest Tosa bungalow doesn't have a wall sufficiently large enough to accommodate the conundrum. 

There might just be one particular location we could possibly install this monolith of Korean electronics and only partially block one window - but then we would be sitting so close to it I wonder if we might not blind ourselves or grow wrinkled and leathery while basking in the warm glow of its radiation. 

We thought about moving it to the house up north.  Nope, too many windows and too little unbroken wall space.  Imagine favoring sunlight over giant television space - what a glaring engineering faux pas.

Someone suggested expanding the unfinished bungalow attic into a master suite complete with a whirlpool bath or maybe finishing the basement of the up-north house with a vast man cave complete with bar and slate-topped pool table - either of which would accommodate a surround sound system easily adapted to the conundrum.  These are all terrific ideas but my all-knowing wife gives me the all-knowing look.

So, for the present, the conundrum will continue to remain under wraps (and our electric bill will remain affordable) while we consider its options for the future.

The conundrum really belongs in a home theater.  Or does it?

Maybe I could put it in the machine shed up north?

It's a cavernous space.  

Hundreds upon hundreds of square yards of unfinished walls.  Metal walls too - outstanding acoustics.  It's filled with all manner of guy junk - a bunch of tractors, fishing boat, a couple of bush hogs, disc/harrow, pick-up truck, scraper blade, compressor, beer fridge, radial arm saw, 3-D deer target, microwave, giant chemical mix tank, four wheeler, patio table (with Labatt Blue Beer umbrella), deer hoist, a well-ordered collection of tools, canoe, sprayers, lawn mowers, a flock of goose decoys, various hazardous chemicals, boom boxes, giant jugs of hydraulic fluid, gear and motor oil, loader with bucket, Jerry cans of diesel and gasoline, chain saws and dead spiders. 

What it doesn't have is a plasma television.

At least yet.

This arrived in the mailbag today.

Just trying to keep everyone's spirits-up.

Tom

'Tis the season to be jolly, fa, la, la, la, la... 

What?  You ask.  Kris Kringle?  Already? 

Heck no.  The answer would be - Hunting Season.

The whole country is chugging Pepto-Bismol while suffering from a humongous national hangover following our orgy of lending.  The worried whispering at Starbucks includes a gnawing fear of depression-era breadlines.  Financial markets have plunged so low on Wall Street that the only thing that can leave a deposit on a shiny new BMW is a pigeon.  

I am beginning to think that I may just possibly be reduced to subsistence living.  So I'm going hunting.  (Note to self - expand the garden next year)

Don't laugh.  It might be a good time for some of you to brush-up on your hunter-gatherer shtick.  If things get any worse try buttering a slice of this and eating it.  Come to think of it, if you had enough of those signs you might be able to construct a pretty respectable Hooverville. 

Speaking of bread and circuses - isn't Sarah Palin fetching when she struts and rages about the elitist media?  I got to thinking - what if she carried a whip to complement those stiletto heels?  That would really get the crowds all sweaty and lathered-up.  Rallying the base as they say.  Alas, the McCain Campaign doesn't listen to me.  Another good idea down the drain.

Of which I am reminded that the media elite told me that popular Joe Plumber guy was well-off.  I am envious. 

Now, a plumber couldn't possibly be an elitist.  After all, they come home from work every day covered in, well, you know, the stuff that travels downhill through pipes.  I cringe whenever I get a bill from a plumber.   Therefore, a plumber could factually be well-off. 

Just watch - if Joe lands a lucrative contract to do plumbing supply endorsements for Home Depot he will become wealthier than the Kohlers and his taxes will grow to the sky.  That will teach him a lesson.  He won't be so quick to open his mouth next time.

Since my 401(k) couldn't purchase a pipe wrench I wonder if I'm going to get a redistribution of his vast wealth? 

For this election I can only hope.

I digress.  Don't you just hate it when politics creeps into the discussion? 

Only thirteen more days folks.

Back to the topics at hand - hunting and the creepy apparition. 

I've been regularly relocating a trail camera to see what is out there.

I'm getting all kinds of pictures of deer.

It would seem the territory is crawling with deer.  

The recent appearance of different male deer is significant.

That would indicate they have begun to expand their home range.

They have romance on their mind.

That's a good sign.  

Very soon they're going to stop thinking so clearly - kind of like frat boys on the prowl - and they'll become more vulnerable to the stealthy bow hunter.  

The problem is that whenever I climb into a tree with my bow all I see are song birds.

Sigh.

Actually, that's not so bad.  If you can get a chickadee to alight on your shoulder that would be pretty cool. 

Seems like a long-winded path to get to what I captured, eh?

I fetched the memory chip from a game camera, replaced it with a clean one, went back to the house, and uploaded the pictures.  

Get a load of this-

I captured a picture of a what appears to be a shaggy or hairy creature.

Unlike the other creatures in the woods this one appears to be bipedal.

It also looks like it has a hunch back and shuffles along with a stoop.

It gives me the creeps.

How would you like to bump into this while walking in the woods after dark - alone?

Especially around Halloween?

Shriek!

What do you think it is?

Tom

Yeah. I'll bet you're thinking someone swiped my Obama yard sign.  

Nope. 

Unrepentant capitalist - no Barack sign for me.

Okey-dokey. Maybe my McCain yard sign?

Nope. 

The choice of VP has left me exceedingly disappointed.  My friends, all of this recent lurching-about not only troubles me; it causes me to wonder who's in-charge anymore.

Alright - the Joeythelovesponge for Mayor sign?

I wouldn't dream of putting it out.  No way would I risk it getting appropriated by the Bidenites or the Palinistas.  It's already a pricey collectible - probably worth more on Ebay than my entire stock portfolio.

Call me hard to please but there will be no yard signs this election cycle.

I digress.

I want to tell you about a different sort of theft.

Something you won't read about in the weekly crime report. 

Prior to retiring on a recent Sunday evening I cleaned the cat box. 

I meticulously double-bagged the stuff and placed the collection of clumped litter and cat marbles on the front porch for deposit in the garbage on Monday morning.

At the crack of dawn on Monday I arose to fetch the newspapers from the porch. 

Looking about, something didn't appear quite right.   My bag of cat droppings was nowhere to be found. 

I look for the missing bag in the yard. 

Nothing.  

My logical wife said - Look beneath the porch, Tom. 

Nope.  Not there either. 

It had vanished. 

Some of you have probably hauled an old cracked porcelain commode, a busted storm door or ratty piece of furniture out to the curb only to have it miraculously vanish by morning.  This happens to me all the time.  I never have to haul my junk to the city dump.

But used cat litter? 

Right off the porch?  

That is bold.

I have two theories. 

The first is a varmint like a raccoon dragged it away.  Better yet - someone's Labrador retriever was the culprit. 

My second guess is that someone saw the carefully knotted plastic grocery bag sitting outside the door and thought there was something valuable inside it. 

Maybe they thought - Hey, someone baked some yummy scones for the nice people that live here and left them outside their door as a house-warming gift. 

With his stomach growling the hooligan tip-toes up on the porch, filches the bag and slips stealthily into the night. 

Drooling, he anticipates his illicit midnight snack. 

He thinks - Hey, these are heavier than scones.  These must be bran muffins.  Big ones, too.

Critter or person - I hope they enjoyed it.

Blech.

Tom

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Post Script -

It has occurred to me that you have not met the cat.  

She recently celebrated her twentieth birthday. 

I am informed that this is the equivalent of 96 human years.

She is the household's grand dame.

I learned something new this week when a colleague introduced me to the term word salad.

If you go to the all-knowing internet you will learn that this is defined as a string of words that vaguely resembles language, and may or may not be grammatically correct, but is utterly meaningless. 

The friend suggested the following as an example-

Couric:  What other Supreme Court decisions do you disagree with?

Palin:  Well, let's see.  There's, of course in the great history of America there have been rulings, that's never going to be absolute consensus by every American.  And there are those issues, again, like Roe v. Wade, where I believe are best held on a state level and addressed there.  So you know, going through the history of America, there would be others but...

Couric:  Can you think of any?

Palin:  Well, I could think of...any again, that could be best dealt with on a more local level.  Maybe I would take issue with.  But, you know, as mayor, and then as governor and even as a vice president, if I'm so privileged to serve, wouldn't be in a position of changing those things but in supporting the law of the land as it reads today.

One word - vacuous.

Maybe I'm just a long-suffering McCain fan that had high expectations and got smacked between the eyes with a running mate this is - well - disappointing.

How about Exxon v. Baker?  It happened under your watch as governor.  Remember?  It cost your fellow Alaskans a big chunk of change. 

Am I the only one that cringes in pain every time this candidate opens her mouth? 

Sheesh. 

For the sake of John McCain she better hit one out of the park tonight. 

Stay tuned.

Tom

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

10/02/08  9:55 PM - Some post debate observations:

Good Job!.  Not an out of the park slam - but several good base-hits.

Style points for being folksy.  Hey - Joe Six Pack - you're darn right you betcha - we wantcha to support those soccer moms, eh.  I love it!

Ample use of Reaganisms - There you go again - doggone it.  Beacon of hope.  You get the drift.

Hey Sarah - some unsolicited advice from someone who was on a high school debate squad. 

Rule #1 - Never let the moderator redirect you back to the original question when you fail to answer it the first time.

Rule #2 - Give-up the freaking sound bites.

Rule #3 - Stop looking at your notes and STOP using the word also.  You are making me nuts.

Rule #4 - Being perky is no substitute for command of the language and facts.  You need to practice more.  Oh, wait, there aren't any more debates.  I guess you're off the hook.

Thanks for alleviating 4 weeks of growing doubts.

Bottom line -

Lost no votes, gained some, appeared confident.

Stay tuned.

Tom

While out on my bicycle I stumbled across this curious ode to religious expression-

Tom

Is the continuing Favre drama giving you fits?

More of the spectacle raising your blood pressure?

If you have a Packer-related medical emergency all you need to do is call this guy...

I am sure he'll administer whatever Packer-recommended life-saving measures are necessary - including a refreshing adult beverage...

Tom

Here it is.  I admit it.  I know absolutely nothing about The American Idol.

Sometimes I think I am the last person on the planet that hasn't had my cultural pedigree enhanced by this phenomenon.

This is a chronic affliction that first manifested itself at a company Christmas party a number of years ago.  We were engaged in a festive camaraderie of potluck food and and Secret Santa - you know - where everyone has to bring a gift valued below a certain amount and it gets thrown into the bag and the managing partner wears his Santa Hat and redistributes the gifts.

The gift I receive is obviously a festively-wrapped CD.  Peeling-off the wrapping I announce I have a Clay Aiken album.

This is met with a chorus of oohs and ahhs.  What do I do?  I lamely ask - so who is this - a rising country music star?

I am clueless.

I trade the CD for a more valuable gift - a small mag light.  As a result this Aiken guy left a small impression on me.

It gets worse.

I few years ago I have to go to New York on business and because it is on the company tab I stay in a fancy schmaltzy hotel adjacent to Central Park. 

Before I leave I have to go to the front desk to settle a charge and am chagrined to find the space of all three desk clerks occupied by a very humongous man in gangsta clothing - you know - baggy shorts that hang to the ankles, over-sized expensive basketball shoes,  a stiff baseball hat worn backwards and what appeared to be about 400 pounds of jewelry. 

I'm a bit frustrated as I'm in a hurry to catch a cab and not miss my flight home and this guy and his people are taking-up all of the space at the front desk and his people are arguing with the hotel people. 

I stay out of it since I figure it's New York, it's basically weird, it's some sort of important rapper dude and you know me - I don't want any trouble.

The entourage eventually resolves whatever issues they have and moves-on.  I spend all of about a minute taking care of my business with the nice lady behind the counter and turn to my buddy Bob and say - Sheesh, let's grab a cab and split.

Bob replies - Hey, you know who that guy was?

Nope.

That was Ruben Stoddard.

Who the hell is Ruben Stoddard?

You moron, he's the American Idol.

Yes - still clueless. 

So there you have it.  I wouldn't know who the American Idol was if the Idol showed-up on my front porch to serenade me.

I am a cultural lowbrow.

Tom

Did you ever Google yourself?

You know - plugging your name into Google and searching to see what you get.

The American Dialect Society voted Googlegänger as winner of the Most Creative category for 2007 words.

How gratifying to know that this generally nonproductive office pastime now has a name.

So here goes:

If you Google Thomas Gaertner here's what you get.

One of the hits is for this guy.  Go ahead - click on the link - Thomas Gärtner.   

Alright.  Doesn't this guy bear an uncanny similarity to someone else we know?

Is it possible the three of us are related?

Did someone get separated at birth?

Or is this coincidence?

If you have any plausible theories feel free to post them and I'll publish them all in a couple of days.

Tom

Reports have been filtering-in from around the city about a resurgent campaign being mounted by Tosa's third candidate for mayor.

The comment section is open for business so feel free to weigh-in on this startling phenomenon...

Tom

So last Sunday afternoon I returned home from hunting with girlfriend - exhausted.  Looking forward to putting my feet-up, I strip down to my long johns and stretch-out in a comfortable chair to read the papers.  

Ding Dong  

My reverie is shattered as the ringing of the door bell launches girlfriend into a frenzy of barking accompanied by a headlong charge for the door.

Since there are rules and social conventions that discourage the greeting of callers in your underwear - my wife springs from the couch, restrains the dog and answers the front door.

Standing on the porch is one of my alderman - Bernie Grimm - with a fistful of reelection literature.

Being the modest guy I am I remain on the chair and listen-in on the conversation that ensues:

"I'm Bernie Grimm - your alderman.  You have Stepaniak and McBride signs"

"Yes, we do"

"You know you don't have to vote for them"

"That's ok - we're decided"

"Do you have a computer?"

"Yes"

"You need to check-out that Stepaniak.  Google Stepaniak.  You won't believe what you see"

"Anybody can put anything on the internet"

"You need to Google Stepaniak"

"My vote is firm"

"You need to Google Stepaniak"

"Really!  My vote for him is firm"

"I ask that you vote for me.  I have the support of the fire and police departments"  (Hands over literature).

End of exchange. 

The alderman wheels-about and departs.

With a twinkle in her eye my wife nods to the Joeythelovesponge For Mayor yard sign in our living room.  We both start chuckling at the same thought - what if we had that stuck in the yard. 

Tom

You can learn more about the 4th District aldermanic candidates here.

For details on the winning submission go to the bottom of the post-

Before you get your undies in a knot thinking I am pandering with another acid witticism in the title of this post -

I am not.

Take note that Tosa Trivia sometimes gets more views than anything I have to say about the mayoral race.

I think that speaks volumes about where Tosans place their priorities.  But I digress.

I hope you find today's trivia to be challenging.

If you can correctly identify the answer there is a very valuable prize up for grabs.

No run-of-the-mill mouse pad or coffee mug from WauwatosaNOW.

Instead you could win a certain highly prized and coveted mayoral yard sign.

Visitors to the TTS know what I am talking about.

Nope, not a Stepaniak yard sign.

No, not a Didier yard sign.

You can win your very own Joeythelovesponge For Mayor yard sign!

Imagine being the first person on your block to have one of these.

If I had one, I would be afraid to stick it in the yard for fear that one or the other of the two other Tosa candidates might swipe it when I wasn't looking.  They would be jealous.

Incidentally, Joeythelovesponge claims to be the third candidate for mayor of Tosa Town.

In the interest of full and fair disclosure I will remind you readers that Joey did make a campaign promise of sorts - that if elected - I would get to be the town Jaegermeister.

That is a sorely tempting proposition which would seriously stretch the elaborate and carefully-enforced Blogger Code of Ethics. (All 200,000+ entries thereof).

Alas, Joey didn't get his important mayoral paperwork in on time so he will not be on the ballot and thankfully I will not be ethically-challenged.

Seriously, a trip to Joey's website might prove to be a source of entertainment. 

There is Joey's Repository of Haiku. 

If you visit Joey's Store of Trinkets you can purchase all manner of Joey stuff - including the entire clothing line.

There is a good cause involved as well.

Joey has promised that all profits from the sale of Joey stuff go to the Deanna Favre Hope Foundation.  Not my promise, his.

The purchase of Joey stuff might actually be a productive use of your own money that is being returned to you under the guise of economic relief.

Brett Favre's wife + breast cancer = noble cause

In my view - much better than letting Washington spend it.

____________________________________________________________________

Ok - here's the trivia question:

In 1976, what emporium of fine dining was located at 93rd and Bluemound?

(Alright, I know it's not exactly Tosa - but it's close enough)

Submit your entries and I'll publish them along with the correct answer in a couple of days.

The first correct answer wins the authentic Joeythelovesponge mayoral yard sign.

(Wouldn't it be ironic if one or the other of the two candidates won this sign with a correct submission?)

Tom

Note to Joey - I hope you appreciate any increased traffic from this shameless, cheap, obtuse and blatantly commercial endorsement I am giving you and the Joey stuff I purchased this past weekend.  I'm going to take some hits for this. Someone is going to call me a Joeythelovesponge flack.

Good luck with your write-in campaign.

Gotta run, I hear incoming....

________________________________________________________________________________________________

The correct answer is-

TOSAQT got it correctly...

Yep. One of these.  This picture is of the Chips in Merrill, WI

In 1976, five hamburgers and your choice of two small drinks or a large order of fries would set you back $1.49.

QT - Contact me as to how you want to take delivery of your valuable prize. 

Are you candidate Didier?

Maybe candidate Stepaniak?

I wonder?   Congrats.  Tom

Ahem.

There seems to be some confusion.

I lay it at the feet of the print version of WauwatosaNOW for treading so roughly upon my heretofore barely-tarnished reputation.

Seems they published the blog post about my late mother.

The copy that appeared in print was edited in such a way that girlfriend was presented as a girlfriend of the human female persuasion.

Everyone that reads this blog knows that this is girlfriend.

I am happily married and this is my wife.

The lovely little lady is our step-grandchild.

Stop now with the emails and calls.

Tom

If the totally scientific research is to be believed... 

You Are 40% Republican

Specifically:  You're a bit Republican, and probably more conservative than you realize.  If you're still voting Democrat, maybe it's time that you stop.

Interested in learning how Republican you are?

You can also take the quiz to determine how much Democrat blood you have running through  your veins.

For the record - I'm apparently 16% Democrat.

I wonder what the remaining 44% is?

The possibility of property taxes being assessed on luxury, independent senior living facilities has been shifted to the back burner while the City Attorney's office and legal counsel for the senior communities lock horns.

Frankly, I'm disappointed that the public hearing to be held by the Committee of the Whole for tomorrow evening has been called-off.

I thought it was about time that citizens - senior and otherwise - had an opportunity to be heard on this issue.  I was anticipating a thorough airing of the truth surrounding this stink.

There has been speculation that the Didier Mayoral Campaign had a hand in the abortive grab for headlines when a bus load of seniors (replete with oxygen tanks) showed-up at a September 5th budget meeting demanding to speak on this issue.

Anyone with a shred of sense knows that open meeting rules do not allow comment on matters not included in the meeting agenda. 

That stunt was political theater - better yet - theater of the absurd.

Alderman Treis was correct in characterizing the exhibition as "elder abuse".

While attending a Wauwatosa Comprehensive Plan Vision Workshop at Hart Park Jill Didier made a point of seeking me out.  The candidate informed me, "I did not call the retirement homes...and I''ll leave it at that".

Plausible deniability?  That's anyone's guess - but readers of this blog are smart enough to connect the dots between the statement of the candidate and the breathless rants of the fervent.

If you associate yourself with loud-mouth daytime talk radio and belligerent bloggers while gleefully allowing these knuckleheads to spread lies and disinformation on behalf of your campaign, then the average Joe is going to eventually wonder what is fact and what is fiction.

The Didier Campaign shouldn't be surprised if someone might hold them to account.