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March 30, 2003 - 11:54 am

FadeIn Sunday Magazine (409th Entry Special!)

Ah, Sunday morning. A time for reading, drinking coffee, eating chocolate, and smoking way too much.

Just like every other morning, but more so.

The only thing I really hate about Sunday morning is Parade magazine. It's that stupid little insert that comes with most Sunday papers. The inside cover features Q&A about your favorite celebrities! Then there's Howard Huge, a comic about a dog named Howard that is Huge. The only thing I can dig in there is Marilyn Vos Savant, who is "listed in the Guinness Book of World Records hall of fame for 'Highest IQ'" but apparently uses her powers only to answer silly questions in what may be the cheesiest weekly literature ever produced.

My favorite thing about Parade is the ultra corny Consumer-esque articles that always grace the cover. Invariably, the stories are something like "Cheese Sandwiches: Are They Still American?"

Gladys Edna Moore, 56, of Cornbelt, Idaho pop. 323, remembers a time when cheese sandwiches were truly American. "I remember a time when cheese sandwiches were truly American," mused Gladys, staring wistfully out the window, her frail hands cradling the numbered, limited-edition 'Oh, So Comfy!' Dachshund Sitting on a Pillow collector plate trimmed with 23 karat gold she ordered off page 13.

"Used to be that when you ordered a cheese sandwich, you could know you were an American just by lookin' at it," she sighs. "Then some Frenchman or some such put some mozzerella and tomato and basil on it, and, well, that's when the William's boys started listening to that Snoopy Dog rap junk, and the town just hasn't been the same since. That ain't music, that ain't a grilled cheese, and that sure as fun ain't American."

(Ed. Note - Before going to press, Ms. Moore was killed when three tornados and a flying beet silo converged simultaneously on her home)

And so forth.

Sometimes I am reminded that, despite being 27 years old, I am actually a 15 year old boy.

On my first day at the Grammy's, I headed out to lunch. To get to the street I wanted to go to, I went through the parking lot and quickly discovered that there was no gate. I was instead met with a six foot high cement wall. Rather than walk all the way around to the entrance, I took a running start and leapt up on top of the wall and onto the street.

Notably, I was dressed business casual and wearing fancy, hard, work-dress shoes.

No one seemed to notice my old man wall-leaping adventure, and I continued on my way without incident. There wasn't any lasting damage, but I cannot recommend leaping six feet down onto concrete while wearing hard fancy shoes. No, I cannot.

Also, in the entrance to the men's bathroom, there is a small storage closet off to the right that has roof access. Every time I pass it, I have to resist the urge to, well, access that roof.

"If I just climb that ladder really quickly, no one will see, and I will be on the roof!" I think to myself.

Then I imagine getting halfway up and having my supervisor walk in. A silent, awkward moment as he stands in the doorway, me frozen on the ladder looking back down behind me at him.

"I...was...lost?" maybe I'll say.

And then I will be escorted out by Santos in security.

Am I alone in my desire to simply be on the roof? Just to see? Or is this a universal desire shared by all mankind?

It occurs to me that I have never linked to this. There's a little picture of me there that was taken by my friend Edie. The picture amuses me, because it looks posed, like a perfect little book jacket picture, but it was not posed and is instead a small document of what I may look like at 3am after way too much Merlot.

Also, the picture was slightly compressed to fit in that little box, so you can rest assured that I really do not have a big, long, narrow horse-head.

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