way too much information...?

Don't worry. Hell hasn't gotten icy. I haven't found a new hobby, or, you know, gotten some sort of real life. Instead, I've been gambling. It's just how I roll (LOL!).

But for real, this weekend I was Indian gaming in Oklahoma. (Honestly, though, Cherokee Nation gambling doesn't have anything on Minnesota's Mdewakanton Sioux Community. Mystic Lake!)

Oh, I also visited my grandmother down in the sticks of Arkansas, where I learned that if I'd been alive during WWII and possessed a different lineage, I would've had a big ol' crush on my grandpa. Yowza! What a looker!

My family has loved freedom for a long time.

Yeah... Something is so not right about what I just revealed... So. Not. Right.

But, um, moving on, my grandma also showed me some of my dad's old childhood books from the 1950s and, my-oh-sexism-my, did one of them catch my eye.

Cyclotron!

Brought to you by the one-and-only Raymond F. Yates -- the renowned author of such works as A Boy and a Battery, A Boy and a Motor, The Boys' Book of Communications, The Boys' Book of Magnetism, The Boys' Book of Model Railroading, The Boys' Book of Rockets and Model Jets and Rockets for Boys -- the above-posted book, Atomic Experiments for Boys, offers a nice overview of such fun and masculine things as geiger counters, nuclear power, the H-Bomb and, of course, "Miracle in a Pickle Jar." Apparently, a simple at-home experiment involving a pickle jar, two pieces of black velvet and a felt weather strip, which is "obtainable at any five-and-ten-cent store," allows you to witness "the paths of atomic and cosmic ray particles." Sounds sweet. I'm going to buy a jar of pickles this weekend.

But besides deciding my grandpa was dreamy in the 1940s (hmm...it's still not sounding any less creepy...) and discovering I have the interests of an 11-year-old boy circa 1954 (well, except for the being attracted to your own family part...oh man, I'm calling my therapist now...), I also found out my grandmother's uncle was a master furrier. (Ahem, not a furry, mind you, but a furrier.)

Back in the 1930s when he was in business in San Francisco, he made my grandma a mink stole, which apparently was the hot sh*t back in the day. The thing about this stole, though, compared to some of the more polished and finished items he used to make, was its deconstructed details, like, you know, keeping the heads and paws (with tiny claws!) on.

Dear PETA, I'm vintage. Don't throw paint on me. Toodles!

My mother's response to this item was something like, "Ew. That's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. Get it away from me. Now."

My reaction was more along the lines of, "Holy effing sh*t. This is the coolest thing I've ever seen. Let me wear it. Now."

Eat your heart out, Diddy.

Thanks to the awesomeness that is my grandma, I now own this. I can't wait to hand out Butt Paste while wearing this.

Unfortunately, my Butt Paste'n'fur escapade will have to wait as I am in Las Vegas for the week. I'm going for "work" (shady!), but will hopefully be spending most of my time practicing Golden Touch Dice Control. Anyway, long story short less long, my blog droppings might be a little scarce this week, but I'll try. After all, next to DC, Las Vegas might be the Shambles P.I. capital of the world. It's like an extra-strength blog laxative.

Wish me luck!