Bleh, Monday. And the start of an “on call” week for me (though we don’t use the phrase “on call” because that would require them to pay me something). I always seem to get this when my boss is on one of his golf junkets. Hopefully it will be a quiet week, though I have my doubts. Bad for me, but good for Newt Gingrinch, who appears to have won the coveted Herman Cain endorsement. I’m guessing Herm feels a deep personal connection to the Newtster. So, the question is, will we actually see a Gingrinch/Obama race to make the White House white again? That’s gotta be good for Obama. Right? Crap, what if Newt actually wins? I mean, Obama might be half a loaf of light rye, but Newt’s just a slice of soggy old white bread. And who will Newt run with? Bachmann? Oh baby.

I got 20 (OK, 19.5, but who’s counting) gallons of kerosene yesterday, at $4.35 a gallon. $85. And I could have filled up another 4 cans. I find this highly annoying, but until I can afford another pellet stove, it’s the only way to make my workshop tolerable at this time of year (and it’s nice to have on hand in case the power goes out – which reminds me, I should run the generator for a while to charge up the battery).

I actually got to watch some football (about three quarters, in fact) yesterday afternoon (don’t worry, I didn’t expose my wife to it; I watched with my sister and her husband, who are both ignorant heathens like I am). Even better, while the teevee said it was the Bills/Titans game (Bills lost – HA!), in actuality it was the Jets/Redskins game, and the Jets kept it close before kicking the crap out of Washington in the end. So that was good.

Speaking of football, the parade of geezers continues for the Super Bowl halftime show, as the NFL announced that Madonna will be this year’s, um, “entertainment.” Woo-hoo. I never understood why Madonna was “popular” 30 years ago. But then I’ve never really had my finger on the pulse of pop culture.

The man who is both Tutti and Frutti – Little Richard – turns 79 today. And no doubt still has more energy than I had when I was 20. And Art Monk (sorry, sports guy) turns 54. He, too, looks to be in better shape than I am. Not that I’m really setting a high bar, there.