Honest Day's Work for an Honest Guy

Friday was a typical first day at the job - you know: sign this, sign that, smile for the camera, bend over, cough - first day stuff.

Then the horrors began. Right about the time I would normally settle in for my 10:30 siesta, followed by lunch, followed by the noon snooze - THEY GAVE ME WORK!!!! And even worse - I LEFT MY BOURBON IN THE CAR!!!! Fortunately, they gave me a new highlighter, so I huffed on it all afternoon while reading up on stuff. I'm hoping no one noticed my flourescent pink nose . . .

Seriously though - it was nice. No stupid pep talks; no empty promises. No ass-kissing. It looks like a pretty professional operation, and that makes me wonder just why they hired me. Man - I just can't stop ripping on myself. What can I say? My self-loathing knows few bounds.

In any case, I spent today reading up on Radiation Therapy Planning, and if you think that sounds like fun, I'm here to tell you - it's not. Let's just go ahead and replace "reading up" with "desperately stabbing myself in the leg with a pen to stay awake". It wasn't too bad, really - I felt like I was back in college - only instead of hot coeds ignoring me, it was the three guys in my little cube block.

So all-in-all, things at the new job are okay. They don't think I'm crazy - yet, but I'm confident I can scare them soon.

Happy Trails

If a man should be judged by those things he leaves behind, then they'll be debating my contributions for years - dog-eared pornography, half-eaten food, a drawer full of dry scotch bottles and mountains of dust are my legacy at the old employer. I hope that some future archaeologist looks back on it as a treasure trove of corporate life at the beginning of the 21st century.

Or perhaps it'll just be considered the remains of a deranged lunatic. I can live with it either way.

I just finished going around and saying my goodbyes, and it was a little bittersweet. I have genuinely enjoyed working with everyone there for the past six years - even though I considered throwing empty scotch bottles at some of them from time to time. (Uhh -- Although anyone who reads this isn't on the list - honest!)

In any case, it's time to move on to greener pastures, happier times and new adventures.

Truthfully, I need to leave because I lost it in my exit interview and started screaming "YOU DON'T KNOW ME! YOU CAN'T CONTROL ME!!!" while pounding the desk with both fists and jumping up and down like an angry ape. The HR representative huddled in the corner, shaking back and forth. She's coming out of it now, so I should probably beat a retreat while the gettin's good.

Quiz Time!

Try to guess how I'm going to spend my last day on the job tomorrow:

• Asleep
  
• Setting fire to my desk - if I can't have it, no one will.
  
• Drinking a case of Pale Ale at my desk
  
• Stealing anything not bolted down
  
• Downloading pornography (OK -- I do that EVERY day, but it'll be the last time - honest! I can quit any time!)
  
• Putting my terrible plan for world conquest into motion - all the pawns are nearly in place . . .
  
• Cutting myself
  
• Cutting everyone else
  
• Dancing the monkey every time I walk down the aisle
  
• Unscrew all the lightbulbs around my cube, closing the blinds, and every time people pass by, I'll grab their ankles and whisper "It's warmer down here. Join us!"
  
• Sing Joni Mitchell's classic "Big Yellow Taxi" over the intercom
  
• Repling to any e-mails one word at a time
  
• Three-Card Monty!
  
• Banging my head off the desk and walls because the voices won't stop - they just keep talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and
  
• Tequila Thursday!
  

Any other suggestions?

Reception Blues

Is there a word with more personal meanings than wedding?

To a happy couple, it seals the bond they've forged - making a pledge to love one another for the rest of their lives. To their parents, it's a bittersweet milestone - a marker of a job well done, as their children continue travelling down their own, separate road. To friends, it's a chance to welcome a new friend in their midst, as well as get blind, stinking drunk at the reception.

Yes, the reception. That mecca of hooking up, where booze flows like water, memory is a hazy dream and a chance for even the least talented to pull on their boogie shoes.

I find receptions to be kind of melancholy; I'm happy for my friends, but I inevitably feel my life passing by a little faster with each reception.

However, I was looking forward to this one, even though I really only knew the bride and groom and two friends who would be there. I didn't bring a date, because I didn't want to ruin my nearly perfect record of receptions without a date - my last girlfriend nearly lasted through two receptions, but she kicked me to the curb two weeks shy of the second one. C'est la vie.

Any hopes of hooking up at the reception were dashed within .002 seconds of my arrival. You can generally classify receptions pretty early on: your younger couples will have a great party reception, and there's several singles around - both men and women. But the older the couple, the more likely it's a family affair. It'll be a great party, but if you're looking for love, try the bar across the street.

Of course, there was a single woman sitting at my table, but . . .

The Electric Slide* started playing. "WHY DON'T YOU GO DANCE?" she bellowed while downing her sixth martini.

"Old war injury." I said. "Might cause the tremors to return."

"I THINK YOU SHOULD SING KARAOKE LATER." she shrieked. "WHAT SONG ARE YOU GOING TO SING?"

"Do they have anything by Joy Division? Husker Du? Old Cure songs?"

"OH YOU'RE ONE OF THOSE - MR. MELANCHOLY MUSIC."

Yep. And proud of it, I thought.

"MY GOAL TONIGHT IS TO GET YOU TO DO SOMETHING YOU'LL REGRET IN THE MORNING. DON'T YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING CRAZY? SOMETHING YOU DON'T WANT TO DO NOW BUT WILL NOT WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT IN THE MORNING?"

Jesus. Transference. "Look lady, fuck off, okay? Leave me alone. I don't want to fucking dance. I don't want to sing. I just want to sit here and drink and get comfortably numb! You don't know me. You're not me. If I want to dance, I'll fucking dance. Otherwise, shut the fuck up!" I didn't say it, but I thought it. My temper was flaring, my face was flushing and the hammer in my head was pounding away at the back of my eyeballs. I stood up and walked into the breezy night.

It was a rough week. It opened on a high note, but by mid-week, I was sure Trudy was going to have to be put to sleep, and my brother called home to let Mom know he had a detached retina - something that could permanently end his career. Oh, and my bathtub was apparently leaking again. I was getting pissed - at the world for threatening my brother's career and making my dog sick; at myself for watching anothe milestone come and go, with little to show for it. But moping in a parking lot wasn't going to help anything. Sitting at home alone was an even worse option.

After awhile, I returned to the room in time for the dollar dances. I watched a woman built like Marshall Faulk wrestle the bouquet out of three sets of grasping hands, and it made me laugh. I drank free beer and soda and learned some happy - yet highly confidential - news. I danced when the DJ played Shout (from Animal House). I didn't even think of beating the DJ with my shoe when he played Paradise by the Dashboard Light.*

The night ended. My antagonist was escorted out by two of her friends; judging from the way she bandied her cell phone, I was sure she's going to regret her bill in the morning. I hugged the bride, shook the groom's hand and headed home to bed.

Ultimately, Trudy recovered, and Mike's eye is healing well - but they're keeping him under observation for the next week. The bathtub might still be leaking, but I can deal with that (gasoline and matches are looking like a viable option, though). Sometimes, all you can do is laugh, go with the flow and dare to hope that everything will turn out for the best. And sometimes, despite the bad stuff, you need to put a smile on your face and celebrate - especially when life spirals out of your control. And what better place to celebrate than at a wedding?

*If I ever saunter down the aisle, there are three songs I'm banning from my reception: The Electric Slide, Paradise by the Dashboard Light and that damned Summer Loving song from Grease. If the DJ plays those songs, not only will he NOT be paid, he'll owe me $100 for each infraction AND a free ass kicking (me kicking his ass, that is). God, I hate Meat Loaf.

This Virtual Life

I've been sitting in a virtual waiting room for the past two hours; waiting the opportunity to spend many, many dollars on playoff baseball tickets. We've come a long way over the past 100 or so years - instead of sitting in a waiting room on standing in an endless line, we sit in virtual waiting rooms.

Sure, I can sit at my desk here in the office, whiling away my time while working; hoping that at some point, I'll move to the front of the queue, but there's no end in sight. In fact there's nothing in sight but the same message, asking me to wait patiently.

And really, I find this kind of depressing. There's no '80s issues of Time to while the hours away; nor can I partake of one of my favorite waiting-room activities: people watching.

When waiting for the doctor, I can peek over the top of my magazine article about the SALT treaty or how the kids today are spending lots of time and money in these "video game arcades" and playing games like "Pac Man" or "Asteroids", and spy on my fellow patients (and usually comparing illnesses - man, at least I'm better off than than guy).

But not here. No virtual magazines; no virtual patients; no virtual line attendees with whom to commisserate about the slow service.

Sure, I could actually do some work while I'm waiting, but I'm too busy wallowing in my virtual loneliness.

I thought computers and the Information Age were supposed to bring us together, so why are the Cardinals holding us apart? And more importantly, why are we standing (or really, sitting) for this?

We should be together, griping about the long waits, talking baseball and feeling the solidarity of the line.

But no - instead I'm staring at the same countdown, endlessly ticking the seconds away only to refresh every 30 or so seconds, possibly moving me closer to some vague promise of baseball fulfillment off in the dim future.

I'd be depressed if the alternative wasn't actually doing work.

Another Sign of the Impending Apocalypse

Yet more evidence that we as a people are really, really bored.

Fresh Air

So I quit my job today. I marched into my boss's office and screamed, "FUCK YOU!!!!! I'M OUTTA HERE!!!!! NOW BURN! BURN! BURN!! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!!!!!!!!"

OK - that's not entirely true - I didn't laugh.

I know - lies, lies, lies. What can I say, I can't have a warm conversation without the lies, lies, lies.

But I did quit. And I told my boss exactly why - frustration and boredom mainly. The president of the company made it clear I was never going to go anywhere when he promoted one of his lackeys to be my manager. I probably wouldn't have cared that much, but it's hard to take someone who looks like the Indian Harry Carey very seriously. Plus, the only skill he'd really exhibited was a strong aptitude for surfing the internet.

I won't even start to mine the depths of my loathing for HR, other than to say I did get a few good jabs in at the head of HR when I quit today.

However, I can't help but look back on the last six years with a little sadness. Just once, I'd like to leave a company under happier circumstances, but I appear to gravitate towards the jackasses.

In any case, it was time for a change. All I did at work anymore was sit at my desk and read or work on crossword puzzles. And while it's fun for awhile, it's not particularly fulfilling or entertaining.

Since my job search wasn't going anywhere, I considered just roaming the land and having adventures - like Kane in "Kung Fu" (or more like David Banner in the "Incredible Hulk"). Or perhaps I could work my way into the World Poker Tour, but the damned restraining order won't let me within 200 yards of Doyle Brunson (c'mon Doyle - I said I was sorry!). So I finally went out and found a new job.

But as I stepped into the hot evening sun, it hit me - I was free. Two more weeks and I never have to walk into that office again. No more handyman jumping in front of my moving car to check my parking pass. No more pointless company-wide meetings (which were thinly veiled excuses to bring Jesus to our heathen souls). No more frustration - at least for now.

As the cool air brushed against my face through my car window, I smiled as I pulled out of the parking lot.

Running on Empty

Sorry I haven't posted this week; work's been kind of a slog, and there's a lot going on that I don't want to talk about yet.

Oh, and I'm painting the first floor of my house, which I thought would be a fun project. And yes - it's fun in the same way Chinese Water Torture is fun - slow, monotonous and maddening.

I also went to the most boring, poorly-played baseball game I've seen in a long time, so that was fun. Anyway, keep it real, and I'll be back online soon. I have a pretty long post I'm preparing, but it kind of sucks right now, and believe it or not, I have some standards - some.

The Truth Revealed

I'm a total geek.

Trapped

Read this. I've been there. I feel his pain (well, not the colon pain, but the pain of being trapped like a fluffy little bunny by a pack of ravenous wolves while my fluffy little bunny friend runs off and leaves me to my fate).

Vacation Daydream

I'm looking at the calendar hanging on my wall; it's a scene from a lake somewhere - where the fading daylight flows through the orange leaves, causing the air to glow.

The mirrored surface of the water reflects the perfect still of a dying day, and I can practically feel the cool air wrapped around me as I watch the light slowly recede over the mountains in the distance.

Afterwards, I'll crunch through the fresh coat of leaves on the ground back to camp, where the campfire crackles its greeting. The air brings a chill, but the fire chases it away. Insects chirp their night songs as the creatures of the night begin to stir.

Finally, I call it a night, crawl into the tent and sleep. Waking early to catch the sunrise, I carry a mug of steaming tea to the lake shore, watching the sun creep over the hills, breathing the orange air. There's not much to do today, other than sit and watch the world slowly go by.

That's where I'd like to be right now.

Trudy and Terror

I've decided my dog suffers from multiple personality disorder. I really think there's two seperate dogs in her little head - which explains her bizarre lapses in behavior. She can figure her way out of any barrier or hinderance, but then she goes outside and tries running under moving cars.

I think these personalities are often at war with one another; dancing a lethal dance where they dodge, thrust and parry day in and day out waging a war for HER VERY SOUL - or at least making her extremely tired, because I've never seen an animal sleep more than her. And I really like sleep. A lot.

On one hand, we have Trudy - the Dr. Jekyll personality. Trudy is sweet, she would never, never hurt anyone or anything. She loves playing with people and other dogs. Children can walk up to her and pet her, and she'll just eat it up. Trudy is the dog who jumped in my lap to keep me warm all those years ago.

Then there's Terror - the Mr. Hyde half. Terror is willfull; Terror is stubborn. Terror is the dog who walked into my bedroom all those years ago, looked up at me, and relieved herself all over the room. (She never pulled that trick again, I might add - while I generally don't hit the dog, she caught hell that day.)

Trudy sleeps peacefully when I leave her during the day. She's very happy to see me, since she acts like a convict who's just been released from six weeks of solitary.

Terror is happy to see me, but just because she wants me to see that she just crapped all over the floor after tearing up all the blinds.

(I'm not sure which one barks all day, but right now, she sounds like she's spent the last three nights smoking cheap cigarettes and drinking even cheaper whiskey).

Trudy lets me know when she needs to go out. I take her and all is well.

Terror is more considerate; she doesn't want to wake me from a solid night's sleep, so she just poops at the foot of the stairs, figuring I'll take care of it in the moring.

So as you can see, neither side has the upper hand -yet. Trudy is currently sleeping behind me, but I'm afraid Terror is planning on rigging a trip wire over the stairs or dropping a plugged-in blender into the shower with me.

In any case, I'm putting this in writing, so if I disappear under mysterious circumstances, you all know where to look.

Four Words

Sugar Hill Alarm Clock

The Sad Part is That I HATED Atlas Shrugged

I found this at Blog on the Run, a blog I enjoy reading regularly. You take a survey that tells you which philosopher's ethical philosophy most closely match your own.

Here's my results:

1.	Ayn Rand (100%) Click here for info
2.	Jean-Paul Sartre (69%) Click here for info
3.	John Stuart Mill (65%) Click here for info
4.	Kant (59%) Click here for info
5.	Aristotle (52%) Click here for info
6.	Aquinas (51%) Click here for info
7.	Plato (48%) Click here for info
8.	Prescriptivism (47%) Click here for info
9.	St. Augustine (38%) Click here for info
10.	David Hume (35%) Click here for info
11.	Jeremy Bentham (35%) Click here for info
12.	Epicureans (33%) Click here for info
13.	Thomas Hobbes (33%) Click here for info
14.	Nel Noddings (31%) Click here for info
15.	Nietzsche (30%) Click here for info
16.	Cynics (24%) Click here for info
17.	Stoics (23%) Click here for info
18.	Spinoza (21%) Click here for info
19.	Ockham (18%) Click here for info

First Rule of the Men's Room: Don't Talk in the Men's Room

I drove home through the rain, traffic slowed to a snail's pace on Kingshighway, and I was cursing the iced tea I drank about an hour ago.

Finally, I made it to Home Depot, my destination, and sprinted to the restrooms. I made it in and up to the urinal, where I took care of business.

"It's dagnerous to blow."

I looked over; the guy at the stall next to me was looking straight at me and talking.

Now I live by a few simple rules, and one of them is that you don't talk to someone while he/she is taking care of business on the throne or in the trough. You just don't do it. Some drunken fool starts talking to me in a bar bathroom, I'm liable to ignore him or just tell him to shut up.

What makes this more galling is that he broke a few other key rules in the process. For those of you not in the know, the rules of the men's room are very simple:

1. When in a stall, keep your eyes front. Up and down is acceptable - especially if there's a newspaper, ad or photo of a scantily-clad woman in front of you.
2. Unless you walked in with him, don't strike up a conversation with the guy next to you; especially if what you're saying is patent nonsene or just plain crazy.
3. Wash your damned hands.
   

See? It's not brain surgery. But unfortunately, I'm forced to reply, because I'm afraid this dude is nuts and he's preparing to bang my head off the urinal pipes.

"Excuse me?" was my witty reply.

"It's dangerous to blow like that. You sighed when you started up; it affects your aim," he said.

"Oh. Yeah," I said, trying like hell to finish up. Fortunately, he walked out of the bathroom. Without washing his damned hands, so not only is he crazy, he's also unhygenic. I'm not sure which is worse.

So gentlemen, follow the rules of the throne room. You'll live a happier - and much cleaner - life.

Roller Coaster at 20,000 Feet

I love roller coasters; I love the wind blowing through my hair; the butterflies in my stomach as the car rockets down the track. Take me to an amusement park, and I'll ride the coasters three, four, five times.

I also love air travel; it's convenient, (generally) fast, and even though I'm inevitably consigned to sit next to guy with bad BO or small, loud children (rather than, say the really cute girl who smells desperation and sits six seats away), but other than that, it beats driving.

However, these are two things that should never be combined, like chocolate and peanut butter, peanuts and bubble gum or cocaine and baking soda.

We flew to Cleveland on Friday, flying through all the storms. The plane shook. The plane rose; the plane fell. And while I didn't have the feeling of wind in my hair (probably for the best), I did enjoy those butterflies, who were staging a loud, angry protest in my stomach.

Fortunately, we landed in once piece, even though it felt as if we simply dropped straight out of the sky for the last 100 or so feet straight onto the runway, kind of like dropping a stone of a 10-story building. You bounce back briefly, but end up on the ground.

But as they say, any landing you can walk away from . . .

Scenes from the Sandusky

The water lapped gently against the boat's hull as we languished in the cool morning breeze. Some geese squawked overhead.

"Boat here yet?"

"Nope."

"What's keeping them?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe that's it."

"Are you kidding? That's too nice."

"Well hell. I don't know. It's a damn boat, isn't it?"

"How long ago did you make the call?"

"About 15 minutes."

"Good thing you brought the cell phone."

"Come on. We still have the radio - which no one knows how to use."

"I can hear it now: hello? Hello. We're stuck on some river by the marina. Can you come help at your earliest convenience? Thank you!"

"Yeah -- that might not work."

"There's the boat -and John's on it!"

"Okay gang - when the rescue gets here, women and children first, then you two, and I'll go down with the ship."

"But doesn't that mean you'll have to admit you killed the boat in the first place?"

"Good point. David, you stay."

"Hey! Thanks for coming out!"

"No problem; I'm going to hand over the gas can. Mike, can you get it? Great. Go ahead and fill it up. Hey -- where'd that gouge come from?"

"Oh, my dad did that when he collided with all the docks on the row."

"I see. You guys HAVE taken a boating class, haven't you?"

"Oh, yeah -- definitely." "Sure." "Absolutely."

Lies to the marina owner and running out of gas 150 feet from the marina entrance aside, it was a great weekend - we even made it back to Cleveland in time for the flight.

Nerd Alert

I was looking over some stuff on the net today - that's right, I was goofing off at work. I wish I could say it was the first time, but I digress.

What I figured out caused my nerd heart to go all a-flutter.

Next year opens with the new Battlestar Galactica television series; follow that up with Serenity in the spring.

Toss in a little Batman Begins with a side of Revenge of the Sith and I think I'm going to be broke all next summer.

Oh, and Doctor Who returns to television next fall as well.

So basically, if I'm having trouble finding a date now, next year really isn't going to help things much. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to dig my Jedi robes out of the closet.

Dr. Rao

I read this Monday; it was Jan Brody's column in the Health in Fitness section of the Post-Dispatch. Unfortunately, the letter that ran with the column isn't printed on the web, which is too bad, because it was one of the more moving things I've read in some time.

A grieving husband wrote the letter to his late wife's oncologist. The gentleman explained that he wasn't impugning the doctor's medical ability, but felt it was inappropriate and sad that the doctor essentially turned away from his wife when it became apparent that she was going to die soon.

I've had some firsthand experience with this; nearly three years ago, my father died of colon cancer. We'd been living with the cancer for so long that it became an everyday part of our lives. When an ambulance took Dad to the hospital before dawn that final Monday morning, I couldn't accept that he wouldn't be going home in a few days - despite the fact that he'd been growing weaker daily, was hallucinating and lived his days in ever-growing pain. We delude ourselves into thinking that those who are dear to us will never, never leave.

The sad truth hit me later that night when mom called to tell me that Dr. Rao, the surgeon who removed the colon a year ago came by to visit Dad in the ER that afternoon, after I had left. Dr. Rao was kind of a cocky prick. He walked with a swagger and had a cocksure glint in his eye that made me want to smack him. I didn't like him when I met him, but he fixed Dad up, so I did respect him.

Dad's regular oncologist was nowhere to be found. She finally returned a call after several hours; the residents acted much the same. Dad was clearly terminal, yet they would basically look in very briefly, tell us how he was doing (in doctorese, which is slightly less decipherable than Russian, yet more decipherable than the bookshelf instructions I read recently), and leave. However, Dr. Rao heard Dad was in the ER, awaiting transfer to Barnes, and he went to visit. He sat with Dad for an hour, hugged him, and gently told him that it was okay to die; that at some point, fighting for a few more days of life filled with nothing but medicine, doctors and pain really isn't much of a life; that there was no dishonor in giving up.

I hope that, Heaven forbid, if I'm ever in that situation, I have a doctor that will do the same thing. Oncologists and other doctors fight battles they constantly lose; the few clear wins become that much sweeter. And it's human nature to pull away, to put a little distance between yourself and the pain. I'm sure that for many oncologists, a small piece of them dies along with each lost patient. But the sad truth is that these patients who are facing death need their doctor's guidance and strength more than ever during the final stages of their illness, even if it's just to hold their hands and stand with them until the end - especially if that doctor has been with the patient from the beginning.

I don't know what Dad went through the last week of his life. All I know is that I sat beside his bed and watched him grow weaker and more dim from the blinding pain and the pain killers, and that when he finally passed, in one small way, I was relieved; he was no longer suffering.

Not a day goes by that I don't think of Dad; I miss his booming laugh and arguing politics and history with him, but he lived a full, rich and good life. I'm also happy that a surgeon took a few minutes out of his very tight schedule to meet with him, offer him comfort and let him see that he could die with dignity, surrounded by his loved ones.

More doctors need to take a page from Dr. Rao's book.

Otis

Plenty to post this week, but I'm going to start off with the happiest news of the weekend: My man Otis is a father.

Dylan Price was born Saturday morning; mom and dad, while both sleepy, are doing well.

Otis inspired me to start this blog; he's a hell of a writer and he'll be an even better father.

Congratulations, Otis!

King of Softball

The King resides in a world where the sun perpetually shines, the emerrald grass beckons and all people come from miles around to see him grace us with His presence on the diamond.

His teammates wait for him to dispense His wisdom upon them; for they would be lost without him. His girlfriend, she looks at him adoringly, while he gently admonishes her for not living up to His image by turning the double play. For some mere mortals, only one out will have to suffice.

When a ball passes him, it's because the field is uneven or the ball took a nearly impossible hop. Someone must take better care of the field.

If he pops out, the wind caught it. If, Heaven forbid, he strikes out, it's because the umpire is out to get him or the catcher interfered with him.

And He never, never, never sits an inning out. Let the other, lesser players do it.

Off the diamond, He might wonders why no one ever talks to him. Don't they want to know His OBP, WHIP and slugging percentage?

Let them ignore him; they don't know greatness when they see it. Someday, they'll understand that they actually got to play with the King of Softball.

Learning Curve

We stared at each other across the table, neither one blinking. The noise in the room receeded, leaving only the two of us engaged in a battle of wills.

"I call," I said, and plinked six one-dollar chips in front of me.

I watched as he flipped over his hole cards, showing that he, indeed, has a full house. My two pairs just didn't stack up. Those are the breaks in limit poker.

The boys and I hit the casino Friday night; the lure of bright lights, cheap booze and easy money was simply too strong, and sadly, that saying about a fool and his money? It's true.

I fell in love with my hand twice; both times, had I just examined the table, I would have known that I had no business staying in the hand. At least I won two hands, which is two hands better than Marty did.

In any case, I learned a lot:

1. Don't fall in love with two pairs - especially if one of those pairs comes from the flop.
   
2. Pay attention to the hand as it's played.
   
3. Don't bet against little Chinese guys who keep raising you, and don't convince yourself he's bluffing - because there's NO bluffing at a $3/$6 table.
   

I'll apply these lessons when we return - in a month or so.

In any case, It was fun watching the people at the table with me - there was the hard-luck young man sitting a couple spots from me; he couldn't catch a break to save his life. You could see the frustration mounting with each Budweiser and folded hand.

There was the jackass sitting across from me, who kept raising me every time I was on the big blind. He was middle-aged and you could see that this was the one time of the week he enjoyed - no family or job - just a stack of chips and a table full of new best friends. I still wanted to beat him with my shoe the third time he raised me on the blind. Jackass.

You see all kinds in the casino; at least in the poker room, people interacted rather than endlessly feeding the insatiable slot machines.

In any case, it was a good evening, and even though I came away with a little less cash, I'm ready to head back - in a few weeks, though; I need to recoup some of my losses first.

Oops

Read the caption. Be warned, though, I don't know how long it'll stay out there.

EDIT: It's been fixed. It was good for a chuckle while it lasted.

Crazy Magnet Pt. II - Waste Management

I have a special place in my heart for old, bitter men - you know, the ones who wear pants hiked up to their necks; who scowl at you as you walk past, daring you to be friendly or say hello; who come after you for the smallest provocation - because, well, dammit - they're entitled - because they're old.

Before people say, "Ooh, he's an ageist. Man, he's going to become just what he hates - we all get old." Well, you're wrong -- I just signed a deal that will guarantee that never happens. I'd give you the particulars, but my business partner values his privacy; plus, it was kind of hard to find the office, which was surprising considering all the open flames and screaming. But I digress.

Seriously, I love talking to my grandmother; I liked visiting my grandfather when he was alive; I joke with the seniors at the polls. I enjoy hearing about days gone by and learning that life today really isn't all that different from yesterday. I'm a people person, dammit! But there's a subsection of the elderly that loves minding everyone's business and they will come after you with both barrels. And for some reason, it seems like the bitter old bastards are drawn to me like flies to stink.

Take Monday morning for example. Usually, when I walk the dog, I carry bags so I can clean up after her. Unfortunately, I forgot them Monday. I figured I would just come back and take care of it when I left for work.

We walked along the narrow strip of grass belonging to my reclusive neighbor -- you know, the shabby house on every street with one light burning, weeds peeking out from behind the fence and shingles falling off the roof - THAT house. And Trudy starts taking care of business. No problem - it's right around the corner from my house.

Then the car drove by.

The dark tan sedan inched by us and parked around the corner. It's passenger remained in the shadow of the building. I kept walking.

When we were about five houses away, I saw him get out, tall, with a t-shirt, fedora and plaid shorts. The dark socks and shoes complemented the outfit quite well. He grabbed a bag and walked over to the side of the house we'd just departed.

We kept walking.

I looked back when we reached the corner; there was the car, parked along the side of the street, halfway up the block. With his lights on.

We kept walking.

The car appeared at the corner we just rounded; it was parked, lights still illuminating the sunny morning. At this point, I began to feel like Christine was slowly pacing us, and at any moment, she would tear out in a squeal of smoke and rubber, plowing into us.

We kept walking.

The predator/prey relationship continued, until we reached my alley. We took off down the alley and into my yard. After I situated Trudy, I grabbed a bag and returned to the scene of the "crime" - there was nothing to be found.

I could see what was coming, and sure enough, when I climbed out of the car that evening, on the back step leading to my yard was the offending dropping. With a sigh, I cleaned it up, and went about my business.

Now, this guy followed me for two blocks while carrying a bag of dog shit in his car. He clearly was watching my house, because he dropped it AFTER I had left for work, so he probably saw me go back to the house to clean up the mess.

Don't you think that the well, SANE, thing to do here would have been confront me with the issue, so that I could take care of it myself, instead of stalking me and avoiding any confrontation?

That's because the man's insane. And therefore, he's drawn to me, like a magnet.

To be honest, I'm not sure he lives in the house he was guarding. I haven't seen his car since, because I wanted to leave him a note telling him not to be such a coward in the future - that way, he doesn't have to carry crap in his car for several blocks, but I haven't seen it after Monday.

I'm chalking this one off to crazy old man who has little better to do with his time, because frankly, I have better things to do than fight over someone over a single small piece of shit.

Crazy Magnet Pt. I - Weary is the Heart that Bears the Badge

I've long suspected that God's plan for me involves drawing all the crazy people in the world to my doorstep. I've been accosted by schizophrenics while working at Target, assaulted (verbally) by old men, and I won't even go into some of the women who have come and gone through my life.

This weekend, I was driving two friends to Aaron's graduation party in Columbia, MO. We cruising along Highway 70, approaching the bridge into St. Charles when I noticed a police car, driving well below the speed limit with his lights flashing.

I also watched two cars pass him, and nothing happened.

While staying below the speed limit, I crept up on the police car, which swerved into my lane and swerved back into his old lane.

At this point, I don't know if he's drunk, confused or just messing with me, so I pass him.

And he pulls me over.

"Step out of the car, please, sir." I followed him behind my car.

"Sir," he said, "I was trying to protect you and your family."

"From what?" I asked.

"If you see my lights are on, you don't have the right to pass me." he replied.

"Well, sir. I saw two cars pass you, and I didn't know what you were doing."

"NO ONE PASSED ME!"

"Okay. No one passed you. I still don't know what you were trying to do. For all I knew, you'd left your light on by mistake."

"I didn't! We had reports of a car stalled on the bridge, and I was going to check it out."

Now this was bullshit. Traffic wasn't slowed at all, and there was no indication of it slowing down - except around him. Plus, if there was indeed a stranded motorist on the bridge, what the fuck was he doing driving like Miss Daisy up the highway instead of quickly going to help this person?

I pointed out the first part, figuring the second would be pushing my luck.

"Well, sir, that wasn't the case. Pay more attention in the future," he said, curtly.

"Yes, sir. Thank you." And I returned to the car, rather pissed off about the whole thing.

I support the police; I believe they have a thankless job where, for the most part, they do to the best of their abilities. But then someone does something like this; where he was looking to make an example of someone. I don't appreciate that one little bit. We all make mistakes, but if I make one, I don't have the right to pull someone over and tear him a new one over it.

In any case, he didn't give me a ticket, so I can't complain too much. Hopefully, next time he forgets and leaves his lights on, he'll be in a better mood.

Arc of Excruciating Pain

I play softball two nights a week; I enjoy getting out on warm summer evenings, running around, catching, hitting and throwing the ball. A little fresh air, some exercise and possibly a beer or two usually makes for a fun evening.

Perhaps I mentioned that I've been playing catcher a lot lately, and the position has grown on me. At first, I didn't like the kneeling down, but now, I enjoy the occasional play at the plate and the night-long game of catch with the pitcher.

But let's talk about last night - sound good?

I'd spent the day working on the house, and I was tired. I sat back to watch a movie, but then I realized that I had softball in about 45 minutes. So I ran upstairs and got dressed.

While dressing, I thought, "Maybe I should grab my cup."

"Nah," said the other little voice inside my head."You've never needed it - why bother? It'll just slow you down. Besides. What are the odds of a shot straight to the twins?"

"Yep, little voice, you're right," I thought. "Let's get to the game!"

Top of the third. One out. I crouch down. Pitcher lobs in the pitch. Batter lets it pass, where it bounces on the ground - once, twice, thrice and right into my crotch.

I sprung up and teared up at the same time. Walking in circles didn't seem to help, nor did cursing. Finally, I tossed the ball back to the pitcher and finished out the inning. Crouching back down and finishing the inning didn't do much, either. Finishing the inning was tough, because, well, I couldn't really see too well - the tears kept getting in the way.

I made it back to the bench, where I could sit and ache in peace.

In my grand tallying, this particular shot to the marbles ranks as number three - number one being the paintball incident and two being the umbrella incident. But that's scant comfort.

All I can say is tomorrow night and next week, I'll be properly attired.

Hey You! Drop That Candy!

Thank heavens that DC's finest are protecting the citzenry from all the ne'er do wells who seek to undermine society.

Good thing there are no other problems demanding police attention these days.

Girl Fight!

Girl fight. Are there two words in the english language better guaranteed to cause every male head poke out of every hole, doorway or window? It's never pretty; it's rarely fun; yet you always seem to walk away with a smile.

Let's turn the clock back to last Friday evening. Trudy and I were walking up along Christy, coming back up to Delor when we passed in front of an apartment building. A young woman stood in front, her dishrag blonde hair bobbing as she shouted something up to the swarthy young man standing in the balcony.

"Rebecca, you bitch! Get your drunk ass off my front yard before I call the cops! Leave my brother alone!"

This was new. I glanced around, seeing that swarthy young man in the balcony had been replaced with Italian princess.

"Call the cops bitch! They won't do nothin'! I'll go when and where I want!" Rebecca's reply.

"Don' mess wit' me, bitch! You'll get smoked!"

"HA! You can't smoke me. You don't got the guts!"

I kept on walking, trying not to smirk as I passed Rebecca, who was glaring up at the princess on the balcony. This is where I noticed many male heads popping out of windows and doors along the street, like prairie dogs checking out the plains.

"I so will smoke you! You're nothin'! Bitch!" At this point, I'm not sure who said it. I really didn't care. The princess wasn't going to come down to give Rebecca her richly-deserved ass-kicking, and watching two white girls screeching in street talk to one another, while funny at first, gets old after awhile.

My fellow spectators agreed with me, and returned to what they were doing. The last I saw, Rebecca stomped to her black TrailBlazer and tore out, leaving a trail of rubber and smoke in the street.

Hiding Behind a Wall of Spin

This found its way onto my computer screen this morning. Another spin doctoring triumph!

You're celebrating a failed assassination attempt in an effort to show that not all Germans were behind Hitler? One small problem: many of these same "heroes" were behind him - until they realized just how crazy the man was.

Not having lived in those days, I can't really say what I would have done in those situations; I'd like to think that I would have opposed the Nazi rule, but that's easy to say here in Missouri in 2004.

The main reason this burns me so much is that rewriting history to hide the sins of the past isn't the answer - making sure that nothing like this ever happens again is, but in this day and age, where instant gratification and the quick fix rule, sending history to rewrite looks far more appealing.

Random Crap, Part XXXIII

Every once in awhile, I feel the need to clean out the inbox that is my brain. Odd thoughts clutter things up, keeping me from giving my usual witty insights and razor-sharp social commentary. Man, I really need to lay off the brandy before I start writing here . . .

• I honestly believe that if you spend more than three days watching daytime television, you can be declared legally insane. While waiting for some plumbers to come out this morning, I was dividing my time between Star Trek (and the Space Hippie episode to boot!), Highlander and some makeover show where some nosy friends took a pretty redhead and turned her into - I'll admit it - a gorgeous redhead. Usually, I have nothing but scorn for these shows, but given my options this morning, I found it oddly compelling. I blame the opium.
  
• Why do I keep driving up Morgan Ford? There's always some car driving at five miles per hour up the street, causing my blood pressure to spike dangerously.
  
• I've been involved in a lot of drama lately, which I can't really get into details yet. However, I find it funny that there's been tons of bile and vinegar spilled over this - mainly by people who hide behind anonymous tags on various web sites. What ever happened to boldly stating your convictions? Heck, I might not agree with you, but I certainly am more likely to listen to what you have to say. I'm bet that most of these people who are so full of righteous anger and conspiracy theories won't be coming forward to speak their piece at the elections.
  
• There's a gaping hole in my kitchen ceiling, but at least my wallet is $300 lighter. On the plus side, my pipes don't leak anymore.
  
• I no longer believe that the Cardinals really need Randy Johsnon, but I would still make a move for him. Can you imagine the bedlam with the Big Unit in a Cards uniform? Bring on the playoffs!
  
• Last night, I played catcher at our softball game. The position has really been growing on me of late. I really enjoyed how our pitcher SHOWED UP to the game drunk as hell. Every pitch careened to the left. Amazing. I try to time my drunkenness to hit by the fifth or so inning - you get a few solid innings of play in followed by a few solid innings of being drunk. I'm a big fan of the golden mean.
  

Next Time You Tell Someone to Light a Match, Be Careful . . .

This guy lights up a cigarette in a portable toilet and KA-BOOM!!!

I love the fact that he drove himself, burned and stinking to the hospital, where emergency room attendants probably had to don biohazard suits and gas masks to treat the guy. Wonder if he views this as a possible reason not to smoke any more? Probably not.

Pimpin' Ain't Easy - Especially at Nine

Cool summer nights mean the old neighborhood starts a-hoppin'. People walked, laughed and cooked out, enjoying the cool, breezy night. I returned home and decided to enjoy it by taking Trudy for her walk.

We followed our usual route and closed in on home when we came across five boys playing in a front yard. They all had dark, mostly unkempt hair and wide eyes. At first, I thought they were brothers, but they were too close in age to be brothers, unless Dad was going in for some serious extracurricular activity.

"Vat's your dog's name?"

"Vat's his name? Vill he bite me?"

"Her name is Trudy, and no -- she doesn't bite."

"Oooh. She's nice. Ken I valk her around the block?"

"Uh. No." Much as I bitch and moan about the dog, she's still my dog, and generally, the happiest two minutes of my day is when I walk in the door and she greets me. I don't want her being carried off by some kid to God knows where.

"Vere do you live?" they asked.

"Up the street."

"How many kids do you have?" they wanted to know.

"None." This threw them for a loop.

"None? Do you have a wife?"

"Nope." Now they were flabergasted.

"Do you want one?" Now I was flabergasted. "I know a 17-year-old."

I didn't feel like explaining consent laws to these nine-year-olds, not to mention the whole dirty old man thing that would come up. So I kept from laughing out loud and said no thanks.

"How about a 27-year-old? I know one who vorks at poosline." (I really don't know what the hell he said, but I figured out what he meant really fast). "You know, where they dance." And he stood up and started writhing while rubbing his hands all over his body -- doing a passable stripper impersonation. That in itself was a little shocking -- I'm not sure I knew strippers even existed until I was 13.

"That's allright. Thanks, guys. We're going to go." And I headed home.

So basically, opportunity came knocking in the form of a bunch of nine-year-old pimps. Except at that age, I used to enjoy ringing doorbells and running like hell before the homeowner could answer the door, so I decided to let them keep knocking.

In any case, it's nice to see that the entrepenurial spirit is still alive in the area's nine-year-olds.

I've Got Them Dog-Howling-Ceiling-on-the-Floor-Money-Burning Blues

Home.
Home is where I always want to be
Home is there for you and is for me
Home is where I never want to leave

-Josh Rouse, Nothing Gives Me Pleasure

Vegas is taking odds on when I'm going to snap and how it's going to happen. Me? I'm leaning towards the drink, but you never know what form a good nervous breakdown's going to take.

Let's review this evening, shall we? I return home from another soul-crushing day at the office and find my half-crazed dog, bouncing around the room like a pinball. After I calm down her barking and whining, I go into the house itself (I keep her in an air conditioned sunroom) to find that a good chunk of my ceiling has found its way to the floor.

I may not know much about drills, hammers, plumbing and electrical work, but I know for a fact that the ceiling does indeed belong on the ceilng. Otherwise, it would be a floor. Or so I've been told.

After checking to make sure gravity didn't reverse itself and I wasn't at that moment spinning towards the sun, I examined the remains of the ceiling (that was still attached to the ceiling) to see that my toilet is leaking. Great.

Plumbers. I fear plumbers. I don't undestand how plumbing works. All I know is water comes out the faucets and everyone's happy. When something goes wrong, I know it's going to take a lot of time and even more money to make things right. The last time I called a plumber, he came in for 15 minutes, told me I need to caulk my tub and charged me $60. I nearly asked him where he hid his ski mask and gun, but fearing for my life, I refrained.

Fortunately, I had yardwork to distract me from my problems. And even better, my trusted hound wanted to join me in my yardwork. So I mowed the lawn and repeatedly screamed "GET OUT OF THE WAY DAMMIT!!!!!" "JESUS DOG, DO YOU WANT TO DIE?" "NO!!! NO!!!!!!!! DON'T EAT THAT!!!!!!!!"

Mental note: the cries and howls are far better than what I went through tonight. Especially when I walked in a different door, and she thought I left her. If you've never seen a dog have a panic attack, consider yourself lucky. It's not a pretty sight.

So here I am; preparing for bed. I'm exhausted. I'm sick of things going wrong with my house. I'm tired of my dog going hysterical when I walk out the door for five minutes. Fortunately, I'll be asleep in about a half hour, so I won't have to think about all this until tomorrow.

However, on the plus side, after early next week, all the issues with my kitchen ceiling will be resolved and I can finally start repairing it, I'll hopefully have my gutters repaired, and I can start painting the house like I've wanted to do for several months.

Of course, the dog will still be a nervous wreck. C'est la vie.

Adventures in e-Dating Part II - Hell Hath No Fury Like an Oprah Scorned

Previously -- I was lonely and bored, and rather than settle into a life of dedicated, bitter alcoholism, I decided to troll for women on the internet.

My new relationship lasted about a month. I'm not complaining; she's a sweet person, and we still talk regularly. We both realized that we weren't a good couple, so we both moved on with our lives.

But I returned to my original problem - no women. I thought about talking to some of the perfectly lovely women I see at the bookstores, but after the dreaded macing-in-the-Faulkner aisle incident, I felt a new approach was needed.

"Try Match.com!" a friend suggested. "That's how I made a lot of friends and ultimately wound up hanging out with you guys." A ringing endorsement, if I've ever heard one.

If Yahoo! personals are the Chevy Cavaliers of internet dating services - safe, generally reliable and rather boring, then Match.com is the Grand Am - bigger, prettier to look at, but it doesn't seem to work as well as you think it should.

And Match wasn't a total loss; I learned that I'm really big in the sticks. I received tons of e-mails from wild, hard-drinking women who live about 80 miles from St. Louis.

Now, I'm not a babysitter; a few drinks? Great! Happily social? Great! Falling down drunk every night and looking for someone to watch over you while you drink yourself into oblivion? Call a cab. I only drink alone.

That last sentence was a joke, by the way. The Lord is always with me. And the dog - she's there too. She counts, right?

And the three dates? One of them made it to the second date, when I made an important discovery: no matter how tempting it is; no matter how badly you want to say it, don't call a book "too Oprah book club."

Now, I probably should have thought a little before making such a comment, but I made it. So men, if you want to see a woman go from zero to pissed in no time flat, don't insult her father. Don't insult her mother; just insult Oprah. I guarantee, you won't be getting any sweet loving that night. You'll be lucky not to have a black eye.

I should also point out that it's rather odd when you stumble across a friend's profile on one of these services. What's the protocol? Do you mention it to her? Do you send her an e-mail just to say hello. I'm always reminded of that Southwest ad where the two women anser the personal ad only to find it's the nebbish guy from the next cube. I decided to leave well enough alone.

But after awhile, you can only read the same profiles so many times. You can send witty and funny e-mails only to receive no reply so many times. Connections that look good on paper mean little in the real world. So I withdrew from Match, and entered the summer with a song (albeit an angry one, but no angrier than usual) in my heart and the clouds in the sky.

Strangely enough though, I'm not bitter I did it. I pissed some money away, but I also learned a lot during my experience. As Annie pointed out in the comments section of the earlier entry on the topic, "Real people are much more fun." Which they are. There's only so much you can pick up on and see via a monitor and keyboard.

Of course, now I actually have to leave the house to meet some of these "real people".

Hey! Here's to Your Health!

Another story from the "Hell in a Handbasket" file.

The really funny thing here is that she teaches classes on home safety!

Do you think her brother-in-law grew suspicious when she stood there staring at him intently, waiting for him to chug down this smoothie?

And what do you say to your husband after murdering his brother? I don't think "sorry" would cut it. I'm curious to see if they stay together after all this.

How was she planning to "control his money" when he grew really sick - there's a reason animals and people die when chugging anti-freeze - IT'S FREAKIN' POISON!!!!! It might taste sweet and smooth going down, but it leaves a nice empty feeling when all is said and done.

I wonder how she explained the empty bottle of Prestone in her kitchen cabinet when the police came a-callin'.

At Least He Didn't Ask to Use the Bathroom

Check this story out.

They're charging him with making a terrorist threat? How did what he do remotely involve terrorism? Sure it was stupid, juvenile and potentially dangerous - for himself, the clerk and any other patrons, but terrorism?

He's more guilty of falling into the trap of bad radio - you know, that medium where sight gags work so well, than being a threat to the country.

Memo to overzealous prosecutor: in these troubled times, the most important thing you can have is a sense of humor - even for lame on-air radio stunts.

Adventures in e-Dating, Part I: Fortune Favors the Bold (or is that the Desperate?)

About nine years ago, I was sitting at a wedding reception with a friend discussing dating; at some point in the conversation, personal ads came up.

"A haven for the desperate and lonely," I said. "Only freaks, fetishists and people who don't play well with others use them." I think I nodded sagely after saying this, because that's what I do when I make profound observations.

The ironic thing about me looking down my nose at the lonely is that I'm not exactly setting dating records myself. I have this uncanny knack of causing women to slowly back away after 30 seconds; that is, if they don't reach for the can of mace first.

So needless to say, you can probably see where this entry is going.

Fast forward to the fall of 2002; I was a new homeowner. I was recently dumped by my girlfriend. I had a car. I had a job. Heck, I even had some money rolling in from time to time - at least when I kept myself from the fire water and one-armed bandits, which wasn't too often, but I was willing to forego it once in awhile.

Digressions aside, somehow, I decided to put my writing skills to good use and find myself a woman. Yep. I tell myself that I can write. It's one of those illusions we all live under - like how we're all witty and charming, and people think we're really funny . . . wait - that's what I tell myself! Go find your own illusions!

But this left me with a different dilemma - which service to use?

There's Lavalife, Match.com, e-Harmony (that spokesman scares the bejeesus out of me - creepy little troll), Bubba's Dating, all those ads you see at 3:00 AM on weekends, Yahoo! - no shortage of possibilities!

After reviewing my options (i.e., seeing which service offered the most hotties), I made my choice - Yahoo! it was!

Armed with a special issue of Men's Health giving me advice on how to navigate these potentially treacherous waters, I boldly logged on and prepared to be overwhelmed by all the responses I would receive.

I opened my foray into e-dating by e-mailing an attractive woman who had just turned 30 (like me), recently returned to town (I know it well, so I could show her around), and works for Wal-Mart (I have nothing there. I hate Wal-Mart, but what the hell, she was cute). And I never heard back from her.

But that was okay. To hell with her! I didn't need her! I posted my profile, and promptly started two weeks of correspondence with a woman who wouldn't answer my questions but demanded I answer hers. She wouldn't show me a picture of herself, even though I sent her one. Oh, and she insulted all of the answers I provided. It was a lot of fun, in a self-loathing-maybe-this-is-all-I-have-to-look-forward-to-please-God-kill-me-now kind of way. However, she grew weary of playing with me and found a new mouse, so I was left to my own devices. Then I found another Amy.

Like everyone, I have a name that is the bane of my existence. Being with someone with this name is bad news; it means the train is rushing down the track with the broken bridge, and the engineer is laughing maniacally while taking a swig of whiskey, pouring it into the fire box followed by three more logs. The funny thing is that you really don't care while it's happening - it's a fun ride, until you go flying off the tracks. That's how I feel when I meet a new Amy.

Fortunately, she blew me off after a few e-mails back and forth.

I gave up for a brief time, then I jumped back in with a new message sent to a new girl. She seemed nice, fun and pleasant.

Yep. Her name was Amy. We corresponded for about two weeks, but she ran off as soon as I suggested we meet. I'm guessing it wasn't meant to be.

So I was discouraged, frustrated and generally pissed off; where the hell were the 30-40 women that writer promised me? Where were all the dates? Dear Lord, would a publication actually lie in order to increase circulation? Fortunately, I didn't have to face down this crisis of journalistic faith. Fate stepped in and I stared dating someone new, so I bid Yahoo! Personals a nice "adieu!"

"I don't need these losers anymore," I thought while giggling and canceling my account. Happily, I shut off the computer and the lights, and went off to start a new chapter of life.

A rather short one, as it turns out.

Test

Testing this remote publishing thingy . . . technology is neat! Technology is your friend! Say nothing evil about technology, it may be watching . . .

Kangaroo!

Be on the lookout for large, angry joeys.

Man, what's this world coming to when peaceful, playful roos run around assaulting people and dogs? I blame the Republicans.

Walking Life

I believe one of the main reasons people are so in love with their cars is that they serve as a shield between themselves and the rest of the world. It's sort of like watching television -- you can see and in some cases, hear what's going on, but you're not involved. You don't like what you see? Drive a block down the road and it's like you've found a new channel.

After all the walking I've done this summer, I really think I'm onto something. In the car, you roll up a window or turn down the air conditioning and the problem is solved. When walking outdoors, you either find shelter or hope the bad weather lets up soon.

You notice things from the streets that the car windows hide: life - rabbits, opossums, snakes -- all of these things live in my neighborhood; until I stepped out of the car, I never saw them (save as the occasional bit of roadkill); details - people striving to improve their houses, streets and living conditions.

Instead of driving down to the riverfront this year, I walked the dog the night of the fourth. I was treated to several dozen small firework displays as we walked through the warm night.

Ultimately, walking makes you a participant in the world, as opposed to a spectator. You're forced to acknowledge others and even (gasp!) carry on a conversation with a stranger, instead of smiling and nodding with the radio personality.

What I'm getting at here is that if you're looking for a change and have somewhere to go that's not too far, walk to where you're going. I think you'll find it a whole new experience.

Hey, You! Out of the Gene Pool!

While searching for a parking spot in downtown Clayton this afternoon, I noticed a tall, balding gentleman striding up the middle of the street, tie flapping in the breeze.

As I passed, he said to another gentleman, also in the center of the street, "Man, you could get run over out here."

Now, the nearest crosswalk was approximately 15 feet away. It was around noon, in Clayton - a business hub in St. Louis County. People are bustling around, foraging for lunch and running errands.

That means there's a lot of cars on the road. Strangely enough, there weren't any on the sidewalks - That's where the people roamed. The cars stuck to the streets.

And here's this jackass and his friend, jackass junior, walking up the middle of the street bitching about how the mean cars might run over their stupid behinds.

I almost felt regret when I backed over them.

New Look for a New Day

Thought I would try out some shiny new threads. Enjoy!

I Think He's Puffing the Magic Dragon . . .

The sunrise was golden and beautiful, but it guaranteed I couldn't see much else. As we walked up the street, I kept my eyes to the ground. The dog walked on, sniffing here and there, taking care of business.

That's when it hit me.

He walked out from the house towards the waiting minivan. I smelled him long before I saw him, and he smelled as if the party had been going on for quite some time.

Yep, my man apparently took a few very liberal hits off the bong before heading to his McJob for the day.

Now I'm not condemning him for hitting the pipe at 6:30 AM. Far from it; we all need a little pickup. Lord knows what I would be like without a stiff belt of scotch to open my eyes and put things in perspective.

But brother, maybe you should find a habit that doesn't leave such a mark on those around you. I mean, c'mon man, I was getting a contact high just walking past you for six seconds. What's the poor fry cook next to you going to do today, fight off an urge to start eating the product around 11:30?

Not to mention you, my friend - how are you going to handle being surrounded by all those burgers, fries and god knows what else all morning? Think, man, think!

Perhaps there's a reason he's going to that McJob at that hour, and that he'll be going to the same job for years to come.

I am Trudy, Destroyer of Homes

I'm a bad parent. I feed my child drugs, and I feel myself losing patience with her. However, before you grab the phone to call social services, bear with me a little.

As I mentioned, I took in Trudy about three weeks ago. Trudy is old. Trudy spends much of her days sleeping. She likes to take long walks and longer naps. She's very quiet, and while she has been known to root through the trash from time to time, she's generally a good dog.

All this was true three weeks ago.

I figured that she would be a little nervous at first, but she would settle in. I figured things would be much like they were when she lived with my mother. I figured I could deal with all the problems. And I did - she hasn't relieved herself in the house since the first day, and she hasn't gone through the trash.

So now she howls.

From about three minutes after I leave until I return home, she serenades the house and block with a symphony of barks, howls and whines. If she frees herself from the kitchen, she leaves a trail of wrecked newspapers, destroyed blinds and noseprinted windows in her wake.

I've tried leaving and returning several times to accustom her to my schedule. I've tried Clonicalm (doggie downers - although given the results thus far, I'm thinking they gave me sugar pills and charged me $20). I've tried doggie toys. I'm thinking about spiking her drink with whiskey, because I'm approaching my wits' end.

I love this little dog, but I don't know what to do with her. If she doesn't calm down soon, I'm going to have to find a home for her, because my neighbors and roommate are starting to get pissed, and I don't blame them.

This wouldn't be so frustrating if she wasn't so damned smart. She's figured out ways around virtually every barricade I've built to keep her in the kitchen. She figured out how to scoot the base out of her cage. She knows how to open cabinets. But she apparently can't figure out that I'm going to return every time I leave.

Lord knows I probably should be home more throughout the week - and I've done that to accomodate her thus far, but I'm not willing to completely revolve my life around a dog; heck, I have enough trouble relating to people.

I'm hoping that she'll start calming down soon, because otherwise I'm going to have to make some unplesant choices soon, and I'm not sure I can live with the outcome.

Weekend Aftermath -

My stomach is rolling and rumbling like a thunderstorm and I really want some sleep. I haven't been able to eat all day, and I need to do a lot more cleaning before I can finally call it a night.

Seventy-two hours ago, I was downing my second or third beer of many for the night, until I finally slept sometime around three.

Forty-eight hours ago, I was watching the poker tournament I'd been recently bounced out of and, yep - drinking another beer.

The night before, I found that I played better poker when I was a little on the drunk side. Unfortunately, I was going from a data sample of one. Probably should have done a little more homework.

Personally, I think the reason I was bounced was because I wasn't drunk enough at the time.

Of course, it may have had something to do with the poker gods laughing at me by giving my opponent trip eights on the river after I went all in on a pair of aces.

In any case, with the night and lots of beer in my veins, I didn't roll into bed until five in the morning. Then we woke up and drove ten hours back home, eating nothing but McDonalds, Wendy's and any junk we could find.

So let's recap the weekend, shall we?

Twenty-two hours in the car with four good friends, a DVD player and a ton of movies. Playing poker all weekend and going to a great party in South Carolina thrown by another good friend. Eating bad food and drinking enough alcohol to probably run my car.

Basically, what I'm getting at here is even though I'm not sure I'll be able to go more than three hours without hitting the can or eat solid food again, I'm ready to go back.

A little drunken irresponsibility is definitely a good thing every once in awhile. Thanks for a fantastic weekend, Brad.

Revelations

If you ever get the chance, take the dog for a walk while drunk. Good times.

Mimi

It was always the cards that stuck with me.

Every time we would leave for the drive to her University City apartment, I knew the plastic pilot wings and a deck of cards would be waiting.

We'd lie on the floor - my brother Mike, my grandmother Dorothy (but she'll always be Mimi) and me. We'd play Go Fish, War and Old Maid, drink Cokes and talk until Mom or Dad came to pick us up.

And Mimi would always have a deck of cards ready for us. To this day, I can't pick one up without thinking of those days.

We celebrated her 90th birthday on Sunday. Friends and family met for a brunch; a rare occurence these days, given the distances (physical and emotional) and the way that everyone's lives seem to be flying along faster than a bullet train.

She was born before World War I - Woodrow Wilson was the President, survived the Great Depression, met my grandfather, converted to Judaism, made it through World War II, lost my grandfather and raised two children alone while running the buying department for several department stores in the area - without a high school diploma.

Even without that piece of paper, she's one of the most intelligent people I've ever met; she has a sharp wit and she's forgotten more than I'll ever know. She knows the city streets from memory better than I do - and I've lived here for the past two years.

Nowadays, her knee hurts when she walks, and her vision is failing. But she still can talk baseball with the best of 'em, and she tells us wonderful stories of growing up in her old North City neighborhood along with stories of my mother when she was growing up.

Even though she may have lost a step or two physically, she's still sharper at 90 than most people at 30. She still knows exactly what to say and when to say it.

So happy birthday, Mimi, and here's to many, many more.

My Shadow

I grew a shadow over the weekend. It follows me wherever I go - to the basement, my bedroom, my bathroom.

My shadow has four legs and a bushy tail. It sleeps a lot, and it's going to require some major adjustment in my life.

Yes - I am now a dog owner. My mother decided she no longer wanted our family dog, Trudy, so I agreed to take her. She's at least 12 years old and doesn't have the same old spring in her step - long naps, three walks a day and occasional petting is how she likes spending her days.

And it's going to be a pain. I'm still not sure how I feel about this. Don't get me wrong -- I like the dog. She's sweet and funny, but she's not a lot of fun - if you roll a ball at her she just looks at you like you're speaking in tongues.

But I enjoy my freedom. I like being able to stay out all day and leave at the spur of the moment. A dog just gets in the way. And when I left for an hour this afternoon, she left me a present in the sunroom. I replied by buying her a new cage.

It always comes back to this, though: on a cold winter night about ten years ago, I was returning home. I still lived with my parents at the time. It was so cold it hurt to take a breath. I was tired and ready for some serious sack time. Unfortunately, the door was stuck.

After a good 20 minutes of pounding on the door, someone finally let me in the house. I sat by the dying embers of the fire, hoping to coax a little warmth from them. Trudy walked over to me slowly and hopped up on my lap - something she had never really done before. I warmed back up, and she hopped off and went back to sleep at my feet.

A little act of kindness by a dog that has stuck with me all these years. So welcome aboard, Trudy. Enjoy the ride.

This single tree stood atop a sea stack next to our first campsite; it was about 75 feet high. I took this after a relatively short day on the trail.

Footprints in the Sand

We traveled two miles on Sunday; it was a clear, breezy day under an unbelievably blue sky. The going was a little rough for two reasons: my pack and the sand.

If you've never walked with a backpack before - and I'm not talking about the cute little pack you wore in high school or the slightly larger one you tore the hell out of in college, imagine giving a child a piggy-back ride for a full day, carrying him from six to eight miles. And he doesn't let go.

A walk up the beach is simple; a walk loaded down with clothes, food, shelter, water filters, sleeping bag and other assorted stuff becomes complicated. You just don't move as fast; it also changes your center of balance a little, so you need to be careful.

The sand was another story altogether. Normally, a nice walk along the beach is pleasant, but for traction, the sand is a real bitch. It's hard to get a solid foothold, so it's hard to move along at any real rate of speed.

There were also patches of small round rocks - billions of them, slowly being ground into sand. They weren't much easier to walk on, but when the waves hit them, you could hear the water hissing through the stones as it returned to the ocean.

So two miles might not seem like much, but it was plenty on the first day. Plus we would have had to climb over a headland to make any distance.

Another note about the Pacific Coast -- you're at the mercy of the tides. You MUST time your hikes so that you can pass headlands while the tide is out, or you're going to be finding a small overhang to spend the night on - because a six-foot tide crashing into the rocks all around you will kill you.

That's how we ended in a secluded spot about 100 feet off the beach. Early in the evening, a gentle breeze kept the bugs away, and thanks to the piled logs and high grass in front of the campsite, passers-by didn't know we were there.

At night, the major sound was the waves hitting the coast.

Perhaps it was exhaustion - we'd only managed about five hours of sleep the night before, and it had been a long day, but this was a perfect campsite and a great way to end the first day on the trail.

. . . And We're Back

The post below is a test for a new photo-posting system I'm trying out. I'll be posting photos from my vacation out here with some commentary. If you want to see all of them, click here.

I had a wonderful time; I could talk about the majesty of nature; wax poetic about the glimpses of wildlife, the breathtaking views and all the generally cool stuff we saw - and I'll probably do some of that later. But here's a few thoughts on returning.

It's funny how little priorities change; three days ago, I was worried about warm food, bears and keeping the rain off my head. Three hours ago, I was worried about warm food, bad drivers and still keeping the rain off my head.

I'd hoped to return to a clean house and some serious relaxation; I nearly was involved in two car accidents on my trip from the airport and found my kitchen ceiling had partially collapsed this morning - a victim of the spring storms that have rolled through the area lately. I'm thinking this means there's a new roof in my future.

But I'm not complaining; not yet. I'm relaxed and happy to be back. It was a fun week; I slept on the beach two nights, lulled to sleep by the waves hitting the coast. I clambered over slick boulders and scrambled over headlands. I raced the tide in the cold rain; I staggered back to the car one afternoon, carrying what felt like half the Pacific Ocean in my shoes and shivering in the wind and rain.

And I wouldn't trade these things for the world.

While out on the trail, I enjoyed the scenery and would have killed for a hot shower.

I saw some of Seattle, and I want to go back to explore it.

In short, it was a great week, but it's good to be back.

It's 6:30 AM, and a cool breeze blows off the Puget Sound. To the left is the ferry that's going to carry us across. You can see the mountains off in the distance.

On the Run

The heat's on me, so I need to make a quick getaway. If anyone asks about me, you last saw me Thursday night; we had a few drinks and I talked about going to work the next day and how I had a lot to do on the house over the weekend. Everything was nice and normal.

No, I didn't talk about fires. I did not talk about the deal going bad, and I certainly didn't mention the item in my trunk (I don't know how it got there).

Have a great week, everyone.

So, Bobby, Do You Like Gladiator Movies?

I saw me some Troy this weekend. You know, that movie where the camera moves lovingly over Brad Pitt every six or so minutes? The one where a bunch of guys who look sort of like Brad Pitt fight each other?

Yeah -- that one.

Now, I'm going to be honest here - I was pretty excited about this film when I started seeing trailers for it. It had a lot going for it: war, cast of thousands, war, Helen of Troy, lots of killin' (What can I say? I like watching movies where things blow up or people stab each other).

To prepare, I even reread the Iliad. I dragged my eyes over every page, slowly feeling my will to live fade, as Mr. Evola's (my high school English teacher), voice kept repeating in my head: "See? Right there? That's a list! In the oral tradition, this is instructions for doing everyday things! Here's how you sacrifice a calf! Here's how you build a funeral pyre!" I have yet to actually put this knowledge to use, but if you need to know how to keep Zeus happy, give me a call. I'll hook you up.

And really, I kind of enjoyed the Iliad, but if someone I was fighting started telling me his lineage before we fought, I'd go ahead and stab him. Honor is nice, but it doesn't keep you breathing.

So now we come to the movie. No gods. Helen's basically an afterthought - a spark to start a war that was a long time coming. Brad Pitt. The dude from The Hulk (I think the movie would have been much more interesting with a Hulk appearance, but that might have posed some problems). Orlando Bloom played a pretty boy who was good with a bow (typecasting has struck again).

Basically, they gave the story the old Hollywood treatment, and they did a nice job of cheesing it up. Too many characters talking about how history would view them; Achilles' death is laughable, as is the situation that leads up to it. (Sorry if I ruined the story for you, but had you paid attention in high school English like I did, you'd know that Troy falls and Achilles ends up on the wrong end of an arrow).

Does every movie really need a contrived love affair? Why pretend that people will be interested in two pretty people hooking up under ridiculous circumstances?

I guess because it's easy; it's what people expect and what they pay for. Hell, I'm one of them, but I was hoping for a little more depth in this movie - something that it fell short on.

Don't get me wrong; it's not a bad film, and it's worth seeing, but unlike the gift horse the Greeks leave the Trojans, there's little inside the pretty packaging. (Although I'm pretty sure the Trojans would have preferred it that way).

Window to the Past

In my need for a post-Apprentice reality show fix (damn you, Mark Burnett!! Bring back the Eco Challenge!), I've found something new to occupy my mind - Colonial House.

People from all walks of life come to a "colony" set up on the coast of Maine, and they have to live as if they're in the 17th century.

They're eating peas, salted meat and raising corn using only hoes (the gardening tool - get your minds out of the gutter) and hand tools. It's cold. No television. Bad coffee. Plus you get to relieve yourself wherever you please. Man, I want on this show.

There probably would have been trouble when I really tried to be authentic in my 17th century experience by cheating the natives out of their land by handing them some beads and coins.

All bad jokes aside, this is a fascinating look at how the settlers lived, and how people adapt to living without power tools, running water and a quick trip to the grocery store. Oh, and they have to attend church every Sunday - 17th century style - two-plus hours of hellfire and brimstone. Hallelujah!

In sympathy, I've opted not to turn on my air conditioning until June. Well, it's sympathy and I'm cheap. What can I say?

Reading Time!

I found this here. A few thoughts while I went through this - I need to read more of these books. And yes -- I've read "War and Peace". It took me four years and three tries, but dammit, I did it. (And I didn't even snicker when someone asked me "What'cha readin?", and I said "War and Peace" and they said "What's that?" - I really don't miss Centralia).

Oh, and if you want to play along, copy the list and put the ones you've read in bold.

Beowulf
Achebe, Chinua - Things Fall Apart
Agee, James - A Death in the Family
Austen, Jane - Pride and Prejudice
Baldwin, James - Go Tell It on the Mountain
Beckett, Samuel - Waiting for Godot
Bellow, Saul - The Adventures of Augie March
Brontë, Charlotte - Jane Eyre
Brontë, Emily - Wuthering Heights
Camus, Albert - The Stranger
Cather, Willa - Death Comes for the Archbishop
Chaucer, Geoffrey - The Canterbury Tales
Chekhov, Anton - The Cherry Orchard
Chopin, Kate - The Awakening
Conrad, Joseph - Heart of Darkness
Cooper, James Fenimore - The Last of the Mohicans
Crane, Stephen - The Red Badge of Courage
Dante - Inferno
de Cervantes, Miguel - Don Quixote
Defoe, Daniel - Robinson Crusoe
Dickens, Charles - A Tale of Two Cities
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor - Crime and Punishment
Douglass, Frederick - Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass
Dreiser, Theodore - An American Tragedy
Dumas, Alexandre - The Three Musketeers
Eliot, George - The Mill on the Floss
Ellison, Ralph - Invisible Man
Emerson, Ralph Waldo - Selected Essays
Faulkner, William - As I Lay Dying
Faulkner, William - The Sound and the Fury
Fielding, Henry - Tom Jones
Fitzgerald, F. Scott - The Great Gatsby
Flaubert, Gustave - Madame Bovary
Ford, Ford Madox - The Good Soldier
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von - Faust
Golding, William - Lord of the Flies
Hardy, Thomas - Tess of the d'Urbervilles
Hawthorne, Nathaniel - The Scarlet Letter
Heller, Joseph - Catch 22
Hemingway, Ernest - A Farewell to Arms
Homer - The Iliad
Homer - The Odyssey
Hugo, Victor - The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Hurston, Zora Neale - Their Eyes Were Watching God
Huxley, Aldous - Brave New World
Ibsen, Henrik - A Doll's House
James, Henry - The Portrait of a Lady
James, Henry - The Turn of the Screw
Joyce, James - A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Kafka, Franz - The Metamorphosis
Kingston, Maxine Hong - The Woman Warrior
Lee, Harper - To Kill a Mockingbird
Lewis, Sinclair - Babbitt
London, Jack - The Call of the Wild
Mann, Thomas - The Magic Mountain
Marquez, Gabriel García - One Hundred Years of Solitude
Melville, Herman - Bartleby the Scrivener
Melville, Herman - Moby Dick
Miller, Arthur - The Crucible
Morrison, Toni - Beloved
O'Connor, Flannery - A Good Man is Hard to Find
O'Neill, Eugene - Long Day's Journey into Night
Orwell, George - Animal Farm
Pasternak, Boris - Doctor Zhivago
Plath, Sylvia - The Bell Jar
Poe, Edgar Allan - Selected Tales
Proust, Marcel - Swann's Way
Pynchon, Thomas - The Crying of Lot 49
Remarque, Erich Maria - All Quiet on the Western Front
Rostand, Edmond - Cyrano de Bergerac
Roth, Henry - Call It Sleep
Salinger, J.D. - The Catcher in the Rye
Shakespeare, William - Hamlet
Shakespeare, William - Macbeth
Shakespeare, William - A Midsummer Night's Dream
Shakespeare, William - Romeo and Juliet
Shaw, George Bernard - Pygmalion
Shelley, Mary - Frankenstein
Silko, Leslie Marmon - Ceremony
Solzhenitsyn, Alexander - One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
Sophocles - Antigone
Sophocles - Oedipus Rex
Steinbeck, John - The Grapes of Wrath
Stevenson, Robert Louis - Treasure Island
Stowe, Harriet Beecher - Uncle Tom's Cabin
Swift, Jonathan - Gulliver's Travels
Thackeray, William - Vanity Fair
Thoreau, Henry David - Walden
Tolstoy, Leo - War and Peace
Turgenev, Ivan - Fathers and Sons
Twain, Mark - The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
Voltaire - Candide
Vonnegut, Kurt Jr. - Slaughterhouse-Five
Walker, Alice - The Color Purple
Wharton, Edith - The House of Mirth
Welty, Eudora - Collected Stories
Whitman, Walt - Leaves of Grass
Wilde, Oscar - The Picture of Dorian Gray
Williams, Tennessee - The Glass Menagerie
Woolf, Virginia - To the Lighthouse
Wright, Richard - Native Son

Boycott!

I spent Mother's Day in the traditional way -- at the casino with my mother and grandmother. Needless to say, I was kind of excited; it's been months since I've been to the boat, and I always enjoy sitting at the tables with my brother.

We made our way to the Pai Gow Poker tables, which were full. We stood. We waited.

We waited some more.

The dealer was actually talking to us while we were waiting for a seat to open.

Finally, a gentleman had enough. He stood up to leave, David gave me the nod. I was excited, and I eagerly went for the seat -- only to be cut off.

"I'm sorry. We're holding that seat for someone," said the dealer.

"Huh?" I eloquently replied. "You're what?"

"I have someone waiting for that seat."

"Well I don't see this person waiting for that seat."

"They're calling her right now."

"Jesus. I'm out of here." We turned to move, and the dealer and one of the gamblers tried talking of leaving - which they gave up when the VIP walked up to the table.

Now I know I'm nowhere near a VIP. But I think if you're standing around waiting for a spot on a lousy $10 table, you should be given priority. Instead, I was cut off because someone called "Dibs" - and I wasn't even around to hear it.

So I paid Harrah's back by winning $12 at the slot machines and drinking three free Diet Cokes. Oh, and I used the bathroom and flushed twice.

So Harrah's, you're going to have to survive without my $30 every four months.

Who's the big winner now?

More Commercial Deconstruction

Have you seen the ad where a cute redhead is out on a date, presumably her first - and she's wondering why the guy is single? The cute couple walks down the street to their destination -- McDonalds.

I think I see why he's still single. You don't hit McDonalds until the second date - it gives you something to work up to. Heh. What a sucker.

I Could Make an Easy Joke Here, but I'm Going to Pass

Since I have great love for you, my reader, I'm giving you a bonus second post tonight. (OK, the real reason is I left my checkbook in my desk drawer at work and can't pay bills like I originally planned, so I have some extra time on my hands).

So I just watched the end of that 10.5 movie on NBC. You know -- the one about the giant earthquake that comes along and eats LA, and wipes out Western Civilization as we know it - well, at least the West Coast.

This movie is resplendent with B-level stars -- Kim Delaney (playing a brilliant geologist - insert your own joke here), Beau Bridges, Dule Hill, John Schneider. They fought the earthquake. They saved lives. They mended fences.

Needless to say, I haven't lauged so hard since I watched Volcano - previously the most unintenionally hysterical movie ever made. Volcano had it all -- earthquakes, lava down Sunset Ave, poignant messages about race relations and Tommy Lee Jones. Oh, and a scene where a guy gets grilled on a ladder. I spent an entire summer watching that one; it actually became funnier each time.

Seriously though, during the pitch meeting, when the guy said "Let's model this after Volcano!" Did someone really say, "Great idea!!!" Good God, man. Of course, I did just have it on my television, but I was waiting for the news to start, and I was playing Civilization. Honest!

So consider this my public service to you, dear reader. Don't watch bad television. It'll warp your brain. It's too late for me, but there's still time for you.

Commercial Deconstruction

A cute kid walks into a room. Two puppies run up to him and start licking his face, because, you know -- it's a commercial, and if you want to sell something, use a cute kid, and if you REALLY want to sell something, throw in a couple of puppies. But I digress.

The cute kid's parents debate which puppy to take home. The cute kid cutely says, "I have an idea." Cherubic smile brightens screen.

Cute kid grows up to be cute young adult, and he works at Petco, where he convinces some poor little girl to take two kittens home.

So I guess my question is this: is this ad saying that Petco is the place for employment for those with little or no ambition? Because I'm tempted. Really.

Of course, maybe I'm jaded and cynical. That may have affected my interpretation somewhat.

Wasting the Days

I ended up with an unexpected afternoon and evening of freedom today when all my athletic endeavors were cancelled. The sheer hell of it -- it didn't rain one little bit.

The problem is that I don't handle found time like this very well. I cleaned a little. I watched movies - Big Fish and The Crow. Had a really stupid argument with my mom over the phone. But I really didn't do any of the 3,000 things that needed doing around here.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm not one of those really handy guys who can pick up a screwdriver and a saw and build a new garage. Spice racks are probably out of my reach.

So I sat on the couch and watched television all afternoon.

But what the hell -- it's the weekend.