Times are tough all over. I don’t live on Wall Street. I don’t even live on Main Street. I live on my street. And so do a lot of little kids. It’s them I worry about in these troubled economic times. We’re getting dangerously close to Holloween and I don’t see things turning around in time. This will undoubtedly affect the youth in at least two ways. The first instance is probably occurring at this very moment. Right now there’s a kid in Aisle 12 of a Walmart, holding an Aquaman costume. And there is a Mom telling him she can make one just like it at home. The truth is she can not. She knows it. He knows it. A one-piece footy pajamas does not a believable superhero make. Molding a sheet of tinfoil to the head does nothing to better one’s standing among his fellow trick-or-treaters. I know. I’ve been there. Unfortunately, Tommy Badala was there too. Out of nowhere. Then he was gone. And my candybag went with him. I don’t blame him. For picking me out, I mean. For his tendancies toward such behavior, yes. For seeing me as an easy mark… completely understandable. I looked like I wanted it to happen. Parents, don’t let this be your child. Spring the $12.95 for the deluxe costume. He’ll thank you for it. Now, and later in Life.

Secondly, I ask that you forget your own economic troubles in spurge for a bag of Snickers. Nobody likes Smarties. I’m sorry but they don’t. If you feel you need to go the ‘candy in a tube’ route, at least think Sweet-tart. It’s really in your own best interest. Give enough Smarties to enough kids, you’re eventually going to call attention to yourself and invite retaliation. If you’re going to do that, you might as well put a little sign on your front porch, that reads ”You must be no taller than THIS LINE to receive treats.” I’ll do it with you… One thing I definitely can not afford is to give candy back to the 18-year-old kid that sold it to me at the drugstore. And his friends, sitting in the car in my driveway. I don’t care if I hit the lottery. Let them steal their own candy. Not that I don’t appreciate that they took the time to smudge a little black under their eyes to go with the sideways baseball cap and football jersey they’d be wearing anyway… No treats for teenagers, period. I’m drawing the line. Times are tough all over. Me…? I’m routing for the little guy. …With the tinfoil on his head.

I’ve been eating Wheatgrass, and nobody cares. That has not kept me from sharing it with them. My news, not the Grass. (Although they’d run out and get their own if they knew what was good for them.) I get on these kicks once in awhile. I discover something that absolutely changes my Life… for like three days. The Wheatgrass Revolution was inspired by the one and only Tony Robbins. Yep, the big dude who put out those two sets of motivational tapes. Perhaps you were unaware there are two seperate sets? Oh, there are. And I own both. Which means I was sitting home alone, eating Cheetos at 3 o’clock in the morning and decided an infomercial held my secret to happiness… twice. I remember thinking that ordering the second set would provide just the push I needed to open the first one. And it did. Four years later.

I was going through some old boxes and I came across the complete library. Still in Mint condition. I made a concerted effort right then and there to get started. Which meant throw them in my car, where I might actually pop one in the cd player. I got like 3 deep, vowing to come back and complete the exercises, when Tony let me in on the real secret. Wheatgrass. Turns out ol’ Tony eats little else. And look at him. He must be 10 feet tall.

I’m making changes. This awful stuff is not the end, people. It’s the beginning. I am forging ahead. Working my own program. Couldn’t work Tony’s if I wanted to. I lost cd’s 4-27. He was kinda bugging me anyway. Y’know, come to think of it, I’m feeling a little wound up in general. Maybe I need to give Yoga another shot? …Where the hell did I put that Deepak Chopra dvd I got in college?