Chicago.

Usually I look out my hotel window and see a courtyard, a swimming pool, the back of another building. This time I've got a spectacular view of the city. Right now I'm looking at a spacecraft that has evidently landed on top of Soldiers' Field. You'd think that would have made the papers, but apparently no one but me thinks this is news worthy.

I've had my share of really strange conversations today. One that sticks out is the older gentleman that practically made me swear to him that I'd buy a BMW motorcycle. He saw a Harley Davidson logo and spat out some really nasty words regarding the Milwaukee based manufacturer. I didn't say a word to him. I know what you're thinking, Debbie, but I didn't say anything other than, "How are you doing today?"

He pointed at the Harley logo and launched into a diatribe about how the American public has been duped. Then he opened his wallet and showed me his BMW Motorcycle Club of America I.D. card. Next he passionately detailed all the ways BMW is a superior manufacturer of motorcycles. He ran down a litany of things that have happened to this 19-year-old bike and how BMW made everything right again and didn't charge him a cent.

Before he left me, he told me to buy a used BMW.

I told him I'd think about it.

I'm thinking about it, Deb.

By the way. I miss you Deb. I can't wait to see you. Soon. ..

I've taken a close look at many of the popular weight loss programs that you see advertised everywhere: Atkins, South Beach, Weight Watchers, Dr. Phil, Subway (Eat Fresh). . .

I used my layman's understanding of human physiology to cull the best parts of all of these programs and combined them into a revolutionary new weight-loss program. I call it De-Goo Yourself.

I've been on the De-Goo Yourself regimen for the past three days. So far I've lost 175 pounds. That puts me at a sleek 90 pounds but I'm still not at goal weight. I'm really looking forward to reaping the benefits of returning to my fighting weight of 40 pounds.

I remember second grade. I was so full of energy and boy, was I shredded.

It's not going to be easy getting back down to 40 pounds. The first 175 pounds was tough enough. The dementia alone crimped my daily routine. Plus my swollen, bleeding gums and unexpected tooth loss has been a little alarming. And, I'll admit, complete renal failure is a bummer to say the least.

But it's all worth it.

I'm guessing three more days of this and I'll reach goal weight. I'm not sure if I'll be able to walk, but at 40 pounds Debbie will be able to carry me wherever I need to go. I know it's winter, but I'll be looking for plenty of opportunities to take off my shirt and show the world the six pack beneath my, now, paper-thin skin.

Please don't write and ask me about the details of this fantastic weight-loss plan. I'll make it available as soon as my body adjusts and I'm able to type, on my own, again. In the meantime wish me luck with this last 50 pounds and know that someday, soon, you'll know the secret of becoming lean, mean and hooked up to a dialysis machine.

Julia is trapped beneath the futon. She's rolling all over the place these days and today she found her way under the furniture.

I hope she's okay. Frankly, I wouldn't know. I can see her legs. They're moving. I can't hear anything though because I have the volume pumped up for a Ben Fold's song I really like (it's called Army if you're interested).

Hold on. . .

She's not screaming. In fact, if she had a ratchet in her hand I would have sworn she was making some adjustments under there. She turned and looked at me as if to say, "What the hell do you need? I'm workin' here."

I left her alone.

I left her alone for a second, that is. She's yelling and I can hear her over the music. Better move her little ass back to the middle of the room.

Third trip. Now it's officially a game.

It's just another part of a mosaic of games I play these days. Earlier I played the filth in unexpected places game. I'll refer to it as FIUP from this point forward.

Today's playing field for FIUP was the downstairs bathroom. I thought I'd start Operation Toilet Seat Swap there. Turns out it hadn't really been cleaned since we all had the flu a few weeks ago.

My first FIUP score was Allie's step stool in front of the sink. Turns out Allie did her best imitation of a lawn sprinkler when she got sick. The base of the step stool was decorated with little pink blotches of sick. I scrubbed it like Kerr-McGee did Karen Silkwood after her first plutonium exposure.

My second FIUP score was behind the bathroom door. Same material but bonus points because Allie's puke defied the laws of hydro-dynamics by landing on the floor three feet in the opposite direction her head had been pointing.

I win! A clean bathroom and I'm one step closer to the coveted 2004 FIUP Cup.

Allie got a haircut today. It's severe but she looks cute. I'll post a picture in the M&J Gallery.

No more blogs until I see some checks.

I want $50 each and every time you view this blog.

Greg & Deb on the Web gets about 75 hits each day. That means I should be pulling in $3750.00 each month (a little more if I write something about Janet's boob).

I want my money.

I won't be going to the trouble of setting up PayPal accounts or anything like that to try and make things easier on you. I simply want you to write a check and mail it to me each time you visit.

I've anticipated some of your questions below:

How can I send you my checks if you don't provide a mailing address?
If you're reading this blog then you're smart and resourceful. In this age of information it shouldn't be too hard for you to find our address. Do I have to do everything?

After the money starts rolling in, will you be updating on a more frequent basis?
No.

You've got a lot of nerve. What makes you think this blog is worth this kind of money?
I'm not going to hold your hand and walk you through all the reasons you should be paying far more than $50 a day for the kind of content you get here. This is not a sales pitch. Take a look at the archives. You owe me.

Are there discounts available?
No.

Payment plans?
No.

If I don't pay, how are you going to stop me from reading this blog whenever I please?
Not unlike water, air, Hawaiian Punch; you wouldn't survive long without this blog. This isn't public television. It's far more important. Your conscious will no longer allow you to get by with the play without pay relationship we've had for the past seven years (believe it or not, that's how long we've had a Web site).

That should cover it. I look forward to hearing from you, and your banks, soon.

Click the pic to hear my first ukulele opus.
I'm a freakin' musical genius.

Last night I served Allie port chucks (or to the uninitiated: pork chops). Allie didn't want to eat her dinner. This isn't uncommon. Allie's a lot like her mother and doesn't like to stray from her list of safe foods. It's a short list that includes peanut butter, macaroni, hot dogs, cheese, crackers, spaghetti, bacon, waffles, McNuggets, fries, pizza, Trix cereal, fish sticks and Stove Top stuffing.

If you are what you eat, then my daughter is composed of the sludge found beneath the USDA's nutritional pyramid.

I try to get Allie to eat better. I'm obsessed with the concept of always providing a green vegetable on our dinner plates. A typical meal for us (last night for example) is meat (shake & bake pork chops), potato (instant, mashed) and vegetable (green beans). It's not haute cuisine but, nutritionally, it seems to be leaps and bounds from McNuggets and fries. Plus I'm able to get everything on the table in under 30 minutes.

Why are you reading this?

You know how it's going to end. I'm going to tell you about my struggle to get Allie to eat her port chucks and she'll either do something cute or gross (in this case she chewed on a piece of meat for ten minutes and then spit the sinewy pulp out on the table). Then I'll try to tie everything together by letting you know that I'm doing my level best to properly feed my family side-stepping the possibility my daughter might turn into a chewed-pork spewing, diabetic, rotted tooth, arterially compromised young adult.

Wow!

I can't get my fingers to type another word about port chucks. I'm thinking I should be upstairs re-caulking around the base of the toilets.

Sharon sent an email today. It included this picture.



Now, I always love hearing from my friend, Sharon. But when I opened this attachment I thought it had something to do with the '72 Munich Olympics.

Sharon, here's a recent picture of the kids from my wallet:



Okay. I know. You want real pictures of the kids. Head on over to the M&J Gallery and use your password. There you'll find a few things I just scanned. Don't have a password? Drop me an email and I'll get you one.

Our small town has a theater company. I haven't seen any productions but I like the idea of having a local theater company. It's a lot like the local historical society or a Lutefisk Victims Memorial. I know chances are slim that I'll ever use or experience these things but I like being able to tell people that our town has them. It makes me feel smarter for having chosen our fair city as home.

The theater company is trying to buy its building located on Main Street. It's going to cost around $150,000. The company is raising funds by selling bricks to pave the front entrance of the theater. Starting at $100, you can buy a brick imprinted with a message of your choice.

I'm thinking $100 isn't too much to pay for immortality. The only problem is coming up with something to say on the brick. I have a few ideas:

-I sold my grandma's plasma to buy this brick.

-I thought I was buying a giant Milk Dud.

-They said I'd shit one of these when I found out how much it cost.

-This brick was previously used to drown kittens.

-At this rate, I'll finish the fireplace for just under $40,000.

I'm not doing too well. Please add some ideas of your own.

Early talk today revolved around the Superbowl and Janet's breast. On the Drudge Report there's a close-up of her gland. The pasty is actually, what looks to be, an elaborate nipple piercing. It's amazing how easily I got sucked in. The assertions that the exposure was accidental are hilarious and point to just how little trouble people in the media have lying to millions.

That last sentence made me sound like I secretly have some kind of counter-cultural manifesto hidden somewhere on this site.

I don't.

It's not finished, yet.

Anyway all four of us were in the basement together eating sandwiches and watching football. We weren't all watching football. I spent some of the time getting up to help Allie assemble a flower wand so she could help Barbie return an enchanted forest to its original, blossom covered splendor. Debbie was reading the paper. Julia sat in her bouncy seat and seemed to enjoy watching the game while she secreted drool over everything she could get her hands on.

It was family time. The perfect time for Janet's boob to pop out.

Don't get me wrong. I'm only slightly sarcastic. I wasn't calling my local CBS affiliate complaining about a quarter second of partial nudity. It wasn't a big deal. After all, I don't think Allie would sit up in bed, screaming for her mommy or daddy, because she dreamt Janet Jackson's boob was chasing her through the woods. However watching someone beat, shoot or stab somebody else every night during prime time is a different matter.

There is no point to be made. We can all recognize hype. The Superbowl is one of our nation's finest examples of taking something of little or no consequence and turning it into an event important enough to provoke some Boston residents to minor acts of vandalism.

Whether or not these New England hooligans are smashing street lights because of Janet's boob is a question that probably will never be answered. However I suspect CBS's decision not to air footage of the half-time streaker is what lies at the heart of the matter.

Realtime Superbowl coverage:

Was that Janet Jackson's boob? I'm pretty sure Justin Timberlake tore off a portion of her costume and exposed her right boob. It looked as if she had a pasty or an enormous nipple ring in place, but I saw a boob.

Then CBS refused to show the streaker that just ran across the field.

I'm just in it for the commercials.

And Janet's boob.