I have a mustache!

Guten Tag Americans!

I would just like all of you to know that there is more to me, and my great company, than just being a "kraut" as 'Mr. Ford Tough' would have you all believe. For example, I wear little glasses. I also have a mustache, which I enjoy twirling. I most enjoy selling cars while wearing my glasses and twirling my mustache.

I do get mistaken for the game man you have in your country... you all know who I am talking about; he who sometimes does not permit you to pass go and collect $200.

Anyway, I have wandered from my intention, which is to illuminate you to the German loveliness. I do encourage every one of you to some time come visit my exceptional Fatherla... I mean country.

I must go now, but briefly first I want to be definite that you are aware of how sickened... that is, fascinated I am by your mongrel race... I mean ethnically diverse culture. I aim that our cooperation as one international company will serve you all positively while it allows me to infiltrate, er, um... learn more about the US of A.

Letter to Ford shareholders from the CEO

Dear Investors,

Stop all that damn crying. Ok, we had $12.whatever billion in losses for '06. So we lost some money this year. I pissed away more than that at O'Flannagan's last month for my brother-in-law's bachelor party. Suck it up assholes, you're in it for the long haul whether you like it or not. I didn't take over this company in September to hear a bunch of nancyboys call for a merger with the Japanese! Go tell gramps you just said that and come back when he's finished beating the shit out of you.

What? You still want us to make hybrids? Use ethanol? Hydrogen fuel cells? Come here for a second. Closer. A bit closer. That's good. Now lean over a little and give me your ear... GO FUCK YOURSELF!

Our motto is "Ford Tough," not "We're Ford, Let's Hug It Out."

If you want to go and make some kind of rice-burner go back to Seattle, finish off your poquito mochafrappachilattechino, eat some celery, hop on a plane to Hippie Land, and go pack some fudge with your tie-dyed, long-haired pals.

But I'm going to keep your money and use it for what you gutless wonders are too scared to do: make some good old black-smoke-spewing, tow-the-Titanic-out-of-that-pond automobiles. That's right, I am taking this time to announce our newest model: The F-9,000, quadruple exhaust, V-19, pickup. And an FYI to all you alternative-fuel fear mongers out there: it runs on baby seal pelts, puppy tails, kitten whiskers, and newborns.

You probably didn't notice it early this month at the Detroit Auto Show. That's because it was the auto show. All those Tonka Trucks and Hot Wheels you saw on TV? All that took place in the bed of the F-9,000, in a sound studio in Siberia, the only part of the world with enough balls to play host to this beast. I got sick of listening to all those carpet-munchers at General Motors and Daimler-I couldn't-hack-it-with-the-big-boys-so-I-teamed-with-Krauts-Chrysler, so I moved Ford to the only place on earth where the women have the same sized nuts as the men. That amounts to double the workforce.

No, keep it to yourself William Clay Ford. I don't need your pats on the back or endorsements, Matt Millen can have those. Just keep throwing me some of that sweet funding.

This truck is going to change what people think of the phrase "environment friendly," so club a few seals, take some Dramamine, and saddle up. I feel like going for a drive.

I are writer, NYC bum fights, and other revelations

So I am a journalist. I write all day at work and the last thing I want to do when I get home is write more. So I am starting a blog... let's see how long this lasts.

All right my friends (and enemies) we're starting this SOB off with a bang. Ready your stopwatches... aaaaannnd go.

New York City is rich with history, along with foreigners, homosexuality, horrible smells and apartments the size of my bathroom. There are St. Mark's Place and Bleeker St., stretches made famous by the '60s with their eclectic collection of novelty shops, bars, restaurants, 67-year-old biker women with piercings in the back of their necks, and kick-ass music (though now the very best tunes are on the Lower East Side and in Williamsburg). There is Central Park (the portion between 72nd St and 100th), The Cathedral of St. John the Divine, the South Seaport, the defunct Butterfly Grill (RIP) and Rockwood Music Hall... all of which kick ass.

But, to me, New York is personified by its hobos, winos, and bums (yes there are differences) and, more importantly, the nicknames I give them.

Today's profile: Guitar Hero of Hell's Kitchen (my neighborhood). For those currently residing in New York, head to The Coffee Pot on 51st and 9th to get a look (he disappears from the streets in the winter). The Pot, as I call it, proudly displays on the north wall an 11x16 photo of Guitar Hero taken by an area "artist." Those are rock-star quotes for those of you who can't see me on my couch.

If I had to guess, and I do, I would say Guitar Hero is about 65. He wears a black leather jacket with steel studs on the cuffs and shoulders, a white goatee, black jeans, boots of some sort, and an American flag bandanna around his head, ala Hulk Hogan not Bruce Springsteen. At night he sleeps in a cellar entrance just below street level in front of the building across the street from my apartment.

Why is he called Guitar Hero you ask? Because he f-ing rocks out, that's why!

He always sports an electric Fender as old as my Grandpa Lee would be today. It is supported by a leather strap and an amp that clips on to his belt... that's right, you heard me, an amp that clips to his belt.

In that very same cellar entrance he calls "bed," Guitar Hero mellows during the day, generally just putting out the vibe and conserving his energy so he can pounce on unsuspecting passerby when the time is right. And I do not mean pounce by the general, well, actual definition of the word pounce. I guess it is more of a "spring," as in "spring into action."

Semantics aside, I could spend hours watching Guitar Hero plot the perfect moment(s) to spring from his semi-subterranean hangout, twanging away at his relic all the while - amp off, of course, as to maintain stealth.

It is a thing of beauty, it is. To watch him perfectly execute, over and over again, his sole mission of every day: to envelop with song the select few lucky/scared-shitless hipsters that just so happen to cross his path at the time he deems right to strike... a chord that is.