I’ve decided to make this gift of freedom count. I did not to shave for 12 days. It was my longest period of being unshaven. I think my previous record was around five days.

I took a picture of myself each day to track the beard’s progress.

Click here to see a slideshow of the daily growth!

Anita “Dot” Normanly:

When I heard you were celebrating your 40th birthday, I couldn’t believe it. You don’t look a day over 37! You’ve really tapped into the fountain of youth, haven’t you?

Oh, Tater, our friendship means so much to me. Who else shares my passion for horseback riding, traditional hymns, hot yoga and raising show ferrets? No one, that’s who. You’re one-of-a-kind.

Of course, it goes without saying, there is no one else I want to celebrate Hanukkah with.

Cheers to your dazzling milestone! You are a true American Bad Ass and the gene pool hit it’s zenith on the day you were born.

I remember the time Brian and I were golfing on the back 9 at Augusta, and he told me the story about the time he shot the panther in his grandmother’s chicken coop with the homemade arrow from his grandfather’s weapon chest.

I always knew that when they called on me, as his business partner of 30 years, that this would be the story to tell. His triumphant rise from backwoods North Carolina to a titan of the radio and television industry to one of the greatest private pilots to grace the sky, is foreshadowed in this epic encounter. Using his spartan surroundings to conquer nature, and a threat against his family, channeled into boardroom frenzy and a keen market interest.

To Brian…the captain!

I’ll never forget the conversation we had on the way back from Wal-Mart about VHS tapes, which led to childhood memories, which led to two dudes almost crying simultaneously.

Oh man… when I found out you were a crip…whew.  What a day.

It was the fall of 2006, and I remember it clear as day. Brian approached me with a pitch for a new restaurant in Fuquay, and I remember being knocked off my feet with its genius. It seemed as though all the kinks were already worked out and Brian was ready to get the show on the road.

The menu, he said, would include menu items from all the other fast food chains in town, making our place a one-stop shop that everyone could enjoy. Best of all, Brian had already found a fantastic location in the heart of Fuquay, the old McDonald’s location right next to the local landmark Guardian Angel Thrift Store. Realizing the immense gratification of such a business venture, I immediately transferred $3.5 million into Mr. Shrader’s account.

Three months later, my heart was still full of hope in Brian’s vision, but I began to question why no work had been started on the chosen location. When I went to his house to inquire how soon it would be before I could sit down and enjoy a Taco Bell taco and Zaxby’s chicken strips in the same building, I was in shock when he was no where to be found. All his possessions were there, but no Brian.  It seemed as though he had just disappeared.

I am sure you can all imagine my shock the next day when three federal agents arrived at my front door with handcuffs. There seemed as though there was what only could be described as a simple mix-up, and I found myself being questioned for my part in crimes which included the funding of foreign nationals, the funding of foreign drug cartels and the funding of some other stuff I don’t even understand. It was not long after that I learned that Brian too was being held on the very same charges.

Ha. This is really laughable now that I am sitting writing to you all from within my 5×8 cell here at Atlanta Federal Penitentiary. How a jury of my peers could not see how such a mix-up could happen, I am not too sure, but I am sure it will all work out. The last I saw of Brian, at the trial, he assured me there was a simple mix-up in the purchase of some new stoves and deep fryers and this would all be worked out in the appeal. I have faith in Mr. Shrader, the American hero who only wanted to open a new business in the face of oppression, and I still look forward to the day that I can enjoy Dairy Queen chili cheese hot dogs with a nice hot McFish sandwich — both from the same kitchen.

Have you examined lately what your friends have done to your life?

The premise: Facebook now rivals e-mail as the easiest way to communicate electronically with many people.  Among my friends — and I’m talking about people with whom I want to make plans regularly — a Facebook message will get a faster response than an e-mail.  This requires people to spend relatively large amounts of time on the site.

Clearly, spending that much time on Facebook lures a people to drink from their own stream of consciousness.  We’re treated to their momentary obsessions and fleeting thoughts searching for the quickest exit (in this case, through the fingers).   In the end, you get a whole bunch of nothing and scores of people who “like” it.  There are a lot of people seeking approval out there and as many others willing to give it.

I took action last month.  I instituted a policy to ban (later amended simply to “hide”) people who post random song lyrics as status updates.  I’ve already hidden three people.  I would hide everybody and use Facebook only as an elaborate e-mail, chat and event-management service, but it’s sometimes fun to look through the list of friends and see who has the least to say.   It gives me something fresh to talk about behind their backs.

The status update has become, perhaps, the lowest form of communication (lower than the T-shirt).  It’s worthless.  Your friends are wasting your time.  Don’t just sit there and take it.

I have revisited the show “Strangers with Candy” in the past few weeks.  I was a fan when it first aired about 10 years ago, and the episodes are fun to pull out and watch every few years.

It’s a show that’s full of boundary-jumping, wide-open, blatant crassness — and the returns are diminishing as I get older.  It’s still funny, but I mostly enjoy watching it now with people who haven’t seen it before and delighting in their shocked laughter.

When I was 20, a gasp was as good as a laugh.  At 30, I prefer the laugh.

After years of being the face of crime prevention, Pat Harrison (better known as McGuff the Crime Pup) is on his way back to the top.  After a long hiatus from the spotlight, an innocent ad agency hires him for a project.

They soon learn why McGuff had not worked in years.

LISTEN TO THE SHOW

CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD THE MP3 [17MB]

LISTEN TO “COMING BACK,” THE SONG

Written and performed by Brian Shrader

COMING BACK
Starring TREVOR MCGREGOR | SEAN LEARY
Featuring ERIC SZYMANSKI | ASHLEY FOURNIER | NICK DOYLE
Music composed by BRIAN SHRADER
Story by BRIAN SHRADER and SEAN LEARY
Written by BRIAN SHRADER
Entire production supervised by BRIAN SHRADER

First, I dreamed Rush Limbaugh showed me his two children. They were mostly air-filled and floating in a swimming pool.

I then dreamed that my mom and I had to fly to Boise, Idaho, to manage a circus for the weekend. We were flying on Southwest, and I was trying to write my name and address on one of those paper luggage tags at the ticket counter. But they all were TWA luggage tags and people had already written on them.

Later in that dream, I was in a St. Paul, Minnesota, motel. I saw a couple of dark-suited, sunglassed men stealing the contents of my room — including the motel’s furniture. My gut told me they were agents of some kind. As they were driving away, I jumped through an open window and into their vehicle. I put my hands over the driver’s face. He proceeded to show off his considerable memory by reciting which intersections were were crossing as my hands blinded him. I grabbed the wheel and crashed us into a house.

Maybe I’m not watching enough television.

I’ll probably remember 2009 for the recession more than buying my first house. This has been my first adult recession, and what a way to start! I spent the first six months frightened at the prospects of a collapsing economy and the second six months betting on its future health by buying a house.

What’s the worst that could happen?

I could starve to death, broken and penniless in the woods, I guess.

Being a homeowner isn’t really an accurate description of the situation. Better: I have an agreement with the bank to let me live here and do things while I pay for the house a couple of times over. I’m a stickler for the truth.

[Writer's note: On the radio right now, Don McClean's blabby, sickening "American Pie" is stinking up the airwaves. It's downstairs, and I don't have the energy to turn it off. So, if the influence of it's gassy lyrics and ham-fisted imagery drag this blog post to a watery grave, I apologize. Blame Don and your fellow man.]

There are two great features of the new place. It’s far enough away from civilization that I feel like I’m in the sticks. It’s 10 minutes from a grocery store, 10 minutes from a gas station, 10 minutes from a stop light. Marvelous! Spotty cell phone service, but quiet. It’s in a one-street subdivision, and every house is back in the woods. We all have the same idea. I enjoy hearing the distant pops of shotgun and rifle fire in the afternoons. I’ll take this over cookie-cutter suburbia any day. Every neighborhood I looked at reminded me of a beehive. I don’t want to live in a beehive.

I’m waiting to see some wildlife out here. You never know when you’ll have to pick off a squirrel for breakfast. Hey — I’ve already been through one recession, friend. You just never know what’s going to happen. So far, no wildlife, except for a neighbor’s bizarrely skittish dog. He’ll slowly walk up, sniff your hand or pants, then suddenly tear away as if you popped a bag in his face. I’m glad this dog is not a person, or I’d have serious qualms about living here. Something has come loose in his brain.

The other great feature is that the place came with three burn barrels! There’s no more natural place to spend time in a recession than huddled around a barrel of burning trash. It’s fitting and I love it.

Buying a house consumes a lot of your life, so I understand why new parents fall out of rhythm with the rest of us. Once upon a time, I was carefree and floating. Now, I’m measuring for weatherstripping and keeping a close watch on the electric meter.

Carry on to 2010.

M-5 just wigs out
There’s no reasoning with it
Daystrom is hubris

Starfleet gets chintzy
M-5 means major layoffs
Kirk talks it to death

I remember listening to a CD of the best radio spots of that year (1994), and I’ve never forgotten one of them. It was for some bank, which wanted to project a friendly, local feel. The spot had a parody jingle for “Behemoth Bank and Trust.” It sounded just like a bank jingle. Here are the lyrics:

When you walk into Behemoth Bank
Don’t expect a smile
Or a friendly “how do you do?”
‘Cause that’s just not our style

We’ve got a ton of money,
So why should we give a hoot?
We’re Behemoth Bank and Trust
And we don’t care about you.

It started Monday morning as an innocuous sore throat, but quickly descended into fever and chills by evening. I’ve been laid up since Monday night with some kind of hell cold. It faked me yesterday with a slight recovery before slamming me last night with another round of chills. I’m feeling better this morning, but there’s no doubt that I’m going through a double-dip health recession.

Last night, my nasal congestion settled into my throat, and I had the sorest throat on record. I was tired, but whenever I drifted off to sleep, some muscle in my throat involuntarily clenched and I’d suddenly wake up with a sharp, stabbing pain in my throat. Miserable. I finally fell asleep around midnight, but awoke at 5 a.m. I popped a Benadryl and just woke up from that fake chemical-sleep, so I feel like I’m living in Jell-O.

Realizing that something as insignificant as a head cold had me moaning in pain in a hot, sweaty bed all night makes me prayerful that I will not end up writhing in a death bed.

Fever dreams are bad enough, but when you combine it with a sore throat, look out. Every time you swallow, your body feels the discomfort, and I’m sure it incorporates that into the dream. Monday night, I had a lengthy, frustrating fever-and-sore-throat dream about selecting a dining room table. I don’t remember the details, but the dream world made it impossible to select an appropriate dining room table. It had to do with angles. This is the third fever-and-sore-throat dream I’ve had that involved insoluble math problems. This is telling.

Of course, sick days are full of attempts to entertain yourself and whiling away the hours of quiet despair. Netflix provided the foundation of my entertainment. I added some things to the Instant Viewing queue and watched them in bed with the Roku player, which is the finest electronic device on the market today. Monday night, I enjoyed a couple of “Dragnet 1967″ episodes, some Jack Benny episodes and the movie “Network.” It was the first time I’d seen “Network,” and I really enjoyed it. What a pleasure to watch Robert Duvall being angry.

Yesterday morning, I watched all of the “American Experience” series on FDR and the first episode about Truman. The story of Franklin and Eleanor’s marriage is a real tragedy, and it brings into focus Hillary Clinton’s interest in Eleanor Roosevelt (remember when she said she felt Eleanor’s presence in the White House?). I also didn’t realize how quickly Truman’s star rose in the years before he became vice-president.

So, now that my throat is feeling better, I’m going go and swallow some things. I will relish these moments.