People Who Are Definitely NOT Me.

Neither of these dudes is me. Including The Dude.

     I just Googled myself. For only the second time, ever. (The first time was after someone said they had Googled me, and I was offended and slightly alarmed, because I had obviously slept right through it, and it had certainly NOT been consensual, until it was explained to me that's not what "Googling" actually means, and then I was all, like, "Sorry, Uncle Bud. My misunderstanding.") I don't even like to look at myself in a mirror, let alone through the Matrix. But my self-esteem has been hovering around "Normal," so I thought I'd better do something quick to knock it down a few pegs, lest I get all full of myself and start to believe I'm as popular as THIS GUY:

Brantley Gilbert. Who is either a popular country music singer, or an extra in every episode of Sons of Anarchy. And who thinks shoulder spikes are awesome.

     And so here's what happens when you Google "Larry Brantley." I shall now clear up forever and all time which of these images are actually me, and which are not:

Yes. This is me. Why I'm dressed like I have an actual job is a mystery.

This is also me, looking pensive. (And yes, I had to look that word up. Don't judge me.)

Wrong, Google. Not me. 

Close enough! 

Um, no. I'm flattered that you think I'm a beautiful black woman, Google. But the beautiful black woman is probably crying. Right now. 

What the shit? Are you punking me, Google?

Now you're just being mean. Fuck you, Google.

Oh. Um, yes. This actually IS a photo of me. Not my best pic, since I haven't shaved, and I'm wearing a hat. And I'm in Victorian London. But that's definitely me.

Also yes. Definitely me. 

     So there you have it. Evidently Google does know who I am, while also simultaneously believing that I'm an aging sheriff, a beautiful black-woman, a mullet-headed, beer swilling trucker, a ballerina, and the illegitimate love-child of Hugh Jackman and Robert Downey Jr. 

     Happy Friday, y'all. If you're going to Google yourself, please use protection. 

     

Dear Colon: I'm Sorry.

Yes. That is totally happening.

     Dear Colon:

     Hey. It's Larry. I think this is the first time I've ever written you, which is weird, considering we've been together for forty-eight years. Hell, our relationship outlasted my marriage. Which is a good thing, I guess. Divorce was bad, but I'm pretty sure I literally can't live without you. All that to say, I probably should have corresponded with you a lot sooner. Or maybe the truly weird thing is writing a blog entry to one's colon. That might be the kind of thing that gets you an invitation to a softly padded room, and a sports coat that ties in the back. (I literally just Googled the following question: Has anyone ever written a letter to their colon?, and the top five hits were all on the subject of the grammatical colon. Evidently Google has forgotten that a colon is also a pretty important piece of the human anatomy. Or maybe it was just Google's way of saying to me, Really, asshat? You have NOTHING better to do than ask me if anybody has ever written a letter to their own lower intestine? Fuck you.)

     Fuck YOU, Google. 

     Sorry, I got sidetracked. Colon, I'm writing to say I'm sorry. Every year, about this time, I get into that whole "new year, new you" mode, which is a horrible generalization on its best day, but which always seems to translate for me thusly: In order to start the new year off right, feel better, and be one with the universe, I am going to do a CLEANSE. Please don't ask me to explain the thought process that brings me to that conclusion EVERY SINGLE TIME, because I don't know. Some people resolve to do their taxes early, or drop refined sugar from their diet, or rescue a dog from a shelter. I start the year by resolving to take a bunch of caplets and drink what is essentially lemon-flavored spackle every day for seven days, the net effect of which is to scrub my innards, and turn my ass into a Gustav Rail Cannon. (Look it up. You'll understand.) There is stuff coming out of me right now that I'm sure I ate in 1987. I know I saw some Jujyfruits, and I haven't eaten any of those since I saw Lethal Weapon at Greenspoint Mall. In 1987. 

     You have to understand that my intentions are good (you know, those things the road to Hell is paved with). We are firmly in Middle Age, you and I, and we need to do things that will not necessarily halt the decline, but maybe ease us on down the hill, instead of careening down the freeway like Sandra Bullock in Speed, which was a pretty kick-ass movie except for those parts where Keanu Reeves was existing. I'm told that a CLEANSE is ultimately good for us, and that the camping out in the bathroom and unholy noises and crying are all a normal part of the process. I've been told these things by people I trust. But they are also people whose home addresses are known to me, and if this doesn't stop soon we're going to their house, to use their fucking bathroom, before we murder them with their own toilet plungers. 

     Hang in there, Colon. We've been a good team, and we're going to get through this together. The battery on the iPhone is fully charged, and I even made you a playlist for the tough work ahead:

     Colon's Playlist

Drop It Like It's Hot (Snoop Dog)

Let It Go ("Frozen" Soundtrack)

Push It (Salt-N-Pepa)

Can't Hold Back (Survivor)

Ring Of Fire (Johnny Cash)

Smells Like Teen Spirit (Nirvana)

In The Air Tonight (Phil Collins)

Under Pressure (Queen, w/ David Bowie)

Taking Care Of Business (Bachman Turner Overdrive)

Toxic (Britney Spears)

I heart you, Colon. (Not the teeth, though. Colon teeth are creepy.)