Tree Memories - Pt. I

Almost immediately after Thanksgiving, you could feel it starting: Dad would whistle Christmas carols. A few days later, he’d start clearing a space in the living room. Then he’d dig all the boxes of ornaments out a few days after that. Then the moment came when we could no longer ignore it; the moment we all dreaded – it was time to go tree shopping.

When Mike and I were very young, Mom would start bundling us up early: sweaters, gloves, socks, mittens, socks, coats, hoods, hats, scarves, boots and socks covered every inch of flesh – except for a tiny hole around our faces. As we moved outside, steam would fountain out of the hole. We looked like dolphins with feet, lumbering around the tree lots.

At the first of several tree lots, Dad would inspect each tree, eyeing it critically, making sure it lived up to standards agreed upon – by his committee of one – years ago. He’d stand the tree up and look at it standing out against the sky, and then he would comment on how small it looked – failing to realize that to the sky, everything looks kind of small. To me, it looked huge – towering over us, occasionally obscured by a jet of exhaling steam, but it was big. It was green, and it was a tree. And I could no longer feel my fingers.

But the trees wouldn’t stand up to their inspection. A small bald spot here, brown needles there, and by lot three, I’d lost sensation in my feet. And the search continued, until we found the Tree. Up until now, I couldn’t have cared much less about the damn tree. However, watching them bundle it was the most fascinating thing ever. Cutting the bottom off and then shoving the tree through the chute so it came out wrapped was (and still is) the coolest thing ever. I know – I’m a geek.

The tree would come home and stand up in the corner of the living room. We’d remove the lights from their assorted boxes and begin untangling the Gordian knots. And the fun began.

My father was a wonderful man who loved us dearly. He was extremely intelligent and loved greatly by his students and fellow teachers. He knew more about history than I can ever hope to know. But the man couldn’t use a hammer to save his life. Any project involving carpentry, electrical work or plumbing involved much cursing, stomping and several attempts. So when the lights didn’t work, Dad would be chipper no more. Cussing, and stomping and complaining lead to a trip to Target, where we’d buy new lights, and inevitably, a strand wouldn’t work, continuing the process.

But afterwards, the tree would be up, gently glowing in the corner of the room. Dad would sit in there with it; heck, we all did – it was relaxing to sit in the dim twinkling lights. By Christmas, the tree had worked its magic and I was suffering from pneumonia while Mom and Mike were nursing colds. The allergen factory had to go.

This process continued yearly, but as we grew older, it grew less smooth. Add a little teenage sullenness to Dad’s frustration with all things electric and you can imagine how the scene played out. But even grudgingly, we’d help put the tree up.

Because Dad loved Christmas; he loved the idea of the family being together and celebrating the holidays together. He loved Christmas carols, trees, lights and just the time of the year. And while we may laugh it off now and complained about it growing up, we knew where he was coming from. He did these things because he loved us and wanted us to look back on Christmastime as something special and magical. But by then, my heart had been poisoned off the holidays.

Spend several years working retail around Christmas, and if anything will beat holiday love out of you, it’s some crazed semi-drunk shopper blaming you that he waited until the 23^rd to buy his kids the must-have toy of the year. If that doesn’t do it, working the return desk will. So sometime during high school and college, I developed something of a –meh- attitude about the holidays. I liked giving and receiving presents, and I liked spending time with my family, but that was as far as I could take it.

I think it frustrated Dad to no end that we all felt the same about it. Eventually, we switched to an artificial tree, and every year, two weeks before Christmas, Dad would put it up. We’d return from college or come to visit after we’d moved out and the tree would be up. A few weeks later, it would come down.

After Dad died, we never set the tree up again. We still celebrated the holidays, but there were no trappings – it was purely a utilitarian celebration: gifts exchanged, dinner eaten, and then we’d go to the boats – you know, a traditional Christmas celebration.

I never saw a reason to put a tree up in my assorted apartments or house after I moved out, so I never did. And so things continued. Until this year.

Plugging a Hole

How are you? It's been awhile? What? Really? I'm not surprised, and that shirt? It looks great on you.

So yes, I've been somewhat delinquent in writing out here. I could bore you with the usual excuses, but you've heard them all before. I want to write again, but I've been having trouble finding my voice lately. Everything I write sucks. I read it, hate it and leave it sitting in the ether, waiting for a revision that will likely never come.

Part of the problem is focus -- I lack it. I return home from work and don't feel like doing anything, so nothing gets finished.

I pondered this last week as I surfed the 'net, trying to figure out where I left my voice (not that it was so fresh and unusual that the world can live without it), but I missed it. Then it hit me:

I need a goal.

So I'm writing a novel this month. It might suck, it might rock. Right now, it doesn't exist. I don't even really have a great idea. I did, but those bastards Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson stole it. Wedding Crashers, indeed. Fuckers.

In any case, I'm writing a book this month. I don't know if it's something I'll ever share with the world, but it's something I need to do - just to prove I can.

Wish me luck, and please, feel free to kick me in the ass if it looks like I'm lagging. Or, heck, just kick me in the ass -- I probably deserve it.

Jeeee-sus!

That's what I said when Pujols destroyed Minute Maid Park with that bomb he unloaded on Lidge. Anyone who doubts him as a hitter just shut up. I know the Astros did.

I'll admit; I lost faith. I was starting to plan out what I'd like to see them do in the offseason (mostly a .300-hitting young outfielder who can finally protect Pujols in the lineup). But, like many people, I suspect, one swing of the bat restored my faith. This was no wussy Berkman-esque pop-fly home run; this was a statement. I'm curious to see how the Astros respond.

In any case, I'm excited about tomorrow night, and hopefully, we'll be seeing one more World Series played here.

Probably Shouldn't Surprise Anyone, Really . . .

I found this here.

You are a Social Liberal (81% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (25% permissive) You are best described as a: Strong Democrat Link: The Politics Test on OkCupid Free Online Dating Also: The OkCupid Dating Persona Test

Lessons Learned - Summer Edition

As the year enters the final stretch, I thought I would share with you some nuggets of acquired wisdom:

1. Five guys buying one-way plane tickets at the last minute is deemed suspicious; who knew?
   
2. However, those TSA folks down in South Carolina? Very nice and professional -- he didn't even look like he wanted to die when he opened my bag and the toxic cloud from three days worth of clothing over a three-day drinking binge wafted over the area.
   
3. Southern Comfort brings no comfort. None whatsoever.
   
4. 80-lb. Boxer + my crotch = much pain
   
5. My girlfriend may be better than me at Scrabble; my ego is protesting this call, but numbers are numbers.
   
6. Yesterday, I figured out that Jaws 3 may be the worst film ever made -- then Jaws: The Revenge stared.
   
7. Volcano came on next, totally killing theory.
   
8. I've seen more bad movies than any human being should, and God help me -- I like some of them.
   
9. At the ballpark, everything is better in the field-level seats.
   

Passive Aggression

I don't mind having my picture taken, but usually I ask that the photographer introduces himself before snapping away.

So I was kind of curious why this short balding man with a prune face and thinning hair stood in front of his house taking pictures of Trudy and I walking down the street. Normally, I ask that you give me a chance to hide the bag of dog crap before stealing my soul, so I took a more peaceful route.

"New camera?" I asked.

"Something like that," he replied, and walked back in the house.

Now I knew what he was doing. Several times when walking the dog, he just happened to appear on his front porch when we make it by his house. I'm always friendly; he always growls. It's fun.

Yep -- George Freakin' Smiley was scoping me, afraid that Trudy was using his lawn as a toilet. And she does from time to time, but that's why I carry bags around - so I can clean it up. However, my neighborhood is full of the zealous guardians who delight in nothing more than catching a wayward cur crapping in their front yards. I guess the benefit of the doubt is something that we're no longer entitled to these days.

So last Saturday, I return home and take the dog out around 11:30. I'm tired and ready for some sleep. And I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw him standing less than two feet behind me, glaring at Trudy like she's Satan herself.

"How you doing?" I asked.

"Uhhnnn," he said.

"Can I help you?"

"Nope."

I'd like to point out here that Trudy was sniffing and doing nothing more.

"You know, if you're worried about her going in your yard, that's why I always carry these," and I pulled a bag out of my pocket.

"People don't clean up after their dogs," he said.

"I know, but I do."

"Whatever." And he retreated to his house.

His foul mood bothered me for awhile. I'm tired of the glares, the stares and the general suspicion I seem to arouse -- especially considering the stray dogs, stray teenagers and rampant nightclubbers on weekends.

So I left the poop bag on his front porch. That'll show him. Next time, I'll bring a match to light it.

Home Front

Growing up, I think we were each others' worst enemies. Playing Batman when I was four (he was two) - he cracked my skull open with a wooden block. Six stitches later, we were friends again.

Wiffle ball bats made great torpedos while in the pool. Those air/water-powered rockets sure could fly fast, and a few of those "accidental" hits with the wiffle ball bats to the head weren't as accidental as the injurer made it seem.

But like all brothers, we stood by each other. I wouldn't let older kids pick on him (we both wound up getting our asses kicked), and I felt genuine pity for him the day he slid down the gravel-covered street on his back after falling off his skateboard (he was wearing a muscle shirt at the time) - so I didn't smack him in the back . . .even though we'd been beating the crap out of each other the day before.

Age brings maturity --- err, maybe a willingness to put stupid squabbles behind you. We nearly torched the house with fireworks one steamy July night - dousing the smoldering bushes with the garden hose and hoping mom wouldn't inspect them too closely, and we both tried getting kicked out of the go-cart course in what turned into a combination go-cart race/roller derby. Stupid? Slightly psychotic? Sure, but what's life without a little life-and-death struggle at 20 mph?

We drifted apart a little in college -- 800 miles will do that, but we still kept in touch. We even worked together tending bar one summer - screwing over the boss while drinking free booze was a pleasant way to spend an evening.

And despite wanting nothing more than to smack him upside the head when we were kids, I always look forward to seeing him - the good-natured jabs, the quick sense of humor and the shit-eating grin are all infectious, and you can't help but laugh when he's around. It's easy to see why small children and dogs flock to him.

Now he's packed; his body armor sits in a corner - kevlar helmet resting on top of it. It all hides a backpack stuffed with belongings. More stuff is riding on a ship or in a plane, where it will meet him in the desert.

In two months, my brother Michael will be in Iraq. While visiting with him this weekend, it hit me -- Monday could be the last time I ever see my little brother again, and that's a hard thought to swallow.

He's a doctor; he won't be kicking in doors or patrolling the streets -- he'll be treating pilots and wounded soldiers back at the base, so odds are he'll be safe and not vulnerable to wayward explosive devices.

At least I hope so.

Ultimately, there's nothing I can do to affect what happens to him. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow; David could be knifed in a poker room brawl (that's the most likely of the three scenarios I just outlined). All I can do is hope and pray that he'll return to us in a year, safe and unhurt, and in the meantime, I'll be sending care packages and e-mails whenever possible.

I've made no secret of my disdain for this war. I thought it was bullshit when it started, and I think it's bullshit now. But I've never said anything disparaging about the troops over there - they're just fighting to stay alive and sane in a place where death and insanity seems to hold sway.

Keep your head down, Mike, and come home safe.

Hanging

I'm back from the latest Bradoween. I'll have more of a post tomorrow or Wednesday, after I get my life a little closer to back on track. In the meantime, I want to thank Otis and Mrs. Otis for a fantastic weekend.

And I'm never drinking Southern Comfort again. I don't know how Marty survived . . .

Perspective

The aqua blue car stood out in the afternoon's dull gray. It didn't hurt that it was about two inches from my foot.

Apparently, I had the nerve to cross the street in a crosswalk, so the driver, a teenage girl chauffeuring her friends around decided to ignore the stop sign hidden in plain sight and roll it.

Right in front of me, as I walked Trudy.

"THAT'S A STOP SIGN!" I helpfully pointed out.

She drove on, and one of her friends flipped me off. His hand standing out against the backdrop of the car's white roof did a wonderful job setting me off.

"SCREW YOU!" I shouted as I memorized the license plate number.

I've now called the police and my NSO several times regarding the asshats that surround me. Running stop signs, urinating in the alley behind my house, fights on weekends at the club across the street (yes, I'm actually trying to get a bar's liquor license revoked - I'll tell the story some other time). I fear I've turned into the cranky old man I used to snicker at while riding my bike.

But perspective is a bitch. The kid riding his bike while giggling at the old man didn't have to worry about paying bills, keeping the house clean and balancing a job. All he had to concern himself with was cruising the streets on two wheels and finishing his homework.

I'd like to think that that younger me would think that current me is a cool guy, but we know the truth -- he'd just laugh and pedal harder. And probably call me fat.

But the tradeoff is worth it - as I sit with Darcy or friends in my backyard and enjoy a beer in the cool evenings after work, I can't help but think life is pretty damned good.

If only those darn kids would keep the music down.

My Humor Style Kicks Your Humor Style's Ass

Found this here. What can I say? I've always known I was on . . .

the Cutting Edge (66% dark, 42% spontaneous, 31% vulgar)

your humor style: CLEAN | SPONTANEOUS | DARK Your humor's mostly innocent and off-the-cuff, but somehow there's something slightly menacing about you. Part of your humor is making people a little uncomfortable, even if the things you say aren't themselves confrontational. You probably have a very dry delivery, or are seriously over-the-top. Your type is the most likely to appreciate a good insult and/or broken bone and/or very very fat person dancing. PEOPLE LIKE YOU: David Letterman - John Belushi

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 81% on dark You scored higher than 36% on spontaneous You scored higher than 45% on vulgar

Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on OkCupid Free Online Dating

Just Passing Through . . .

If you're seeking solitude, a walk at 3:00 AM is the perfect solution. The perfect, quiet still of the evening is a good way to come down from a crazy night of losing poker and to get the sound of casinos out of your head.

And really, it wasn't so much by choice -- I had to walk the dog.

She'd been cooped up for some time and needed a walk. I needed to get the frustration of constant suckouts and drawing to the second best hand out of my head. So we walked.

I noticed him walking towards us, his whitish shirt and shorts standing out against the black night. But from a distance, I coudn't see what he was carrying. By the looks of it, it was cumbersome, and since he was holding it over his head, I didn't see him as a threat. Besides, I had my trusty watchdog with me. Ahem.

As he drew nearer, I pulled Trudy out of his way, curious to see just what the hell he was carrying. Was it a box? Was it a painting, a work of art. Was he going to bash me over the head with it?

Nope; it was an ironing board. Bouncing over his head as he walked down the sidewalk.

"Just passing through," he said to me as he walked past. I was too weirded out to say much of anything. He continued on through the night, oblivious to me staring at his back.

In my somewhat bland but safe daytime world, people walking down the streets with ironing boards is a touch unusual. At 3:00 AM, it becomes kind of sinister. What, exactly, does he have planned for this ironing board? What does he need to iron in the middle of the night? And if he stole it, why didn't he just go for the television?

I guess I'll never know. And to be honest, I'm not sure I want to -- the answer probably isn't half as interesting as the questions.

Terror at 300 Feet

My hands started shaking as the shoulder harnesses clamped me onto the seat. Strike that -- I was trembling. Here I was, latched into a chair, which in turn was bolted to a cylinder that surrounded a 250-foot tall tower. In mere seconds, the cylinder, with me attached, would be launched up to the top of that tower, where it would fall for a short time, bounce back part way up and then lower itself gently to the ground.

Why in the hell am I doing this? I thought. I don't particularly like heights, but I can tolerate them - as long as I'm enclosed in something. Nor do I like the whole dangling feet ride. On a roller coaster, it's okay - you move too fast for it to really hit you. But on this, the Power Tower? Nope. You get to fly straight up and bounce back down.

Darcy smiled at me as the ride moved into position. She looked around eagerly, ready for liftoff. I clutched the shoulder harness more tightly, and realized the sound I heard wasn't hydraulics tearing themselves to shreds - it was me preparing to hyperventilate.

Why am I doing this?

Liftoff pressed me down into the seat, leaving my stomach somewhere on the ground. The wind burned my face as we kept climbing up up up. Darcy may have said something, but I was screaming too loudly to hear it. I would have looked, but my eyes refused to open.

Finally, we started back down -- and then we bounced back up. I opened my eyes a bit, and saw the sun peeking through the evening clouds, its orange reflection shining up from Lake Erie. The lights from the amusement park glittered like stars.

And finally, we hit the ground. I climbed out of the seat and reached out with a shaky hand to get my glasses from the shelf. My legs shook. I was sweaty, scared and ready to go home.

Why did I do that?

Darcy's smile said it all; for her, being launched into the sky wasn't terrifying, it was exhilerating. And that made the trip worthwhile.

But no, I didn't join her for the second ride. I was perfectly happy celebrating gravity from the ground floor.

Bored?

Try a little civics! Let your Senator know what you think about their wasting time with a ridiculous flag burning amendment when they could be dealing with relatively minor concerns - like say wars, budgets, our standing in the world, Social Security, crime, an executive branch running amok. You know -- inconsequential crap like that.

Spam of the Week

New feature hereabouts . . . my favorite spam e-mail. This week's winner:

Subject line: mcadams Mccown

Text:

Brian (last name removed - though it was misspelled),

our bank has approovted your mrtgagqe request. You can  ref
inance, buy a new house or maybe get some  ca s h m.
Do not worry about bad credxit: we got you covered.

The soonesft you apply, the better deal you get. It is
possiblne to get $300,000 for $250 per month.


Thank you and apply here:
(Link removed)


Lauri R. Sykes

I was kind of worried about my bad credxit, so it's good to know someone's "got you covered".

The Circus is Back in Town

So now that the Schiavo autopsy results have been released, what do you think the odds of Michael taking the high road and living his life in quiet obscurity, content in the knowledge that the Schindlers, Randall Terry, Fox News, and all the "nurses" who saw his "abuses" were wrong?

Yeah, me too.

I'm pretty sure a small army of attorneys are currently gearing up to sue the Hell out of all of them. Much as I would enjoy seeing some of those assholes publicly apologizing and getting run through a ringer, I know that won't happen, and while it'll bring some satisfaction to the Schiavos, it'll just keep dragging this sad, sorry case out in the public eye yet again.

Great start to the summer.

Remember the Batusi?

A few years back, a friend asked me to share my thoughts about Batman and Robin, the big movie of the summer. I told her something like this:

Batman and Robin is like one of those wrapped presents you see in a store display: really pretty to look at, but once you open it, there's nothing inside.

I'd seen the movie twice. Once because it was out and the Bat was da bomb, and the second time because I was sure the movie couldn't have sucked so badly.

I was wrong. It sucked even more, and I had to actually pay for it the second time, which really pissed me off. Batman should be a dark, dreary freakshow - not a gay romp through the streets of Gotham.

And don't get me started about the Governator. -shudder-

So I was a little nervous when I came across a pass for Batman Begins. It looked solid - good cast, with Christian Bale, Morgan Freeman, Liam Neeson and Katie "man-she's-hot-but-Tom-Cruise-is-sucking-the-life-out-of-her" Holmes. Christopher Nolan brings some gritty indie cred to the table - Momento was a kickass film. And David Goyer, the writer, has plenty of nerd cred. But still, could Nolan resist the call of the camp?

I'm happy to say yes.

This movie is Spider-man good. This movie is Superman (the first one) good. This movie kicks all sorts of ass. George Lucas wishes he could make a movie jump up dance like this one does. And no, Batman doesn't dance.

To me, the most interesting part of this film is that Nolan focuses on Batman - he doesn't let the villans run away with the show. Batman is a pretty interesting character - you'd have to be to dress up in a Bat costume and beat up on thugs every night, yet past movies focused on the freak of the week. The villans take the back seat here.

Which is great, because Christian Bale will make you forget Keaton, Kilmer and the other guy. -shudder- He's young enough and has the acting ability to carry out both sides of the characters' personality - the driven, tortured hero desperately trying to forgive himself for his parents' death and the facade - the careless playboy who makes indolence a career.

The fight scenes aren't dances with actors floating around on wires - they're straight out of Fight Club, with a little horror movie thrown in for good measure. Batman uses the shadows, streaks out of nowhere and incapacitates his foes one by one. The remaining few are so terrified they can't fight.

Other than a love story that really goes nowhere and accomplishes little (other than gives the new Bride of Hubbard more screen time - something I can get behind - as long as she doesn't talk in public about her new "spirituality"), this will be the best action flick of the summer. Period.

Oh, and the Batmobile will make you cry.

Housekeeping

For poker posts, go here.

Three Weekends, Three Weddings

The invitations started pouring in in April. I didn't pay too much heed to them; after all, I'd heard about them months earlier - happy phone calls and conversations. Heck, I was going to be in two of them.

So I sent the RSVP cards in sometime in April and went back to life. I had a vacation to go on after all, and thoughts of dancing, wedding cake and mustacolli-filled buffets simply couldn't compete with swim-up bars, margaritas and warm sunshine.

Then May arrived, and I realized something: anyone who finds weddings relaxing is nuts. Simply nuts. However, it was also an educational experience; I learned quite a bit:

• Don't leave a present - especially one made of glass - sitting on the edge of a table where the dog can knock it over. Strangely enough, this wouldn't have been an issue had I actually WRAPPED the damn thing and taken it with me to the wedding.
  
• If the guy at the tuxedo store tells you it's not necessary to pay, ask again. That way, they can't "lose" your tuxedo.
• I still hate Meat Loaf (the food and the singer).
• Why can't they play the Time Warp at weddings? It would spice things up a bit.
• Wedding photographers are apparently paid by the hour.
  
• Corsages don't taste too good (actually, I learned that years ago).
• Being able to field two softball teams (both with a bench) out of the wedding party really isn't something to be proud of.
• Dressing up is exhausting.

Okay. That's it for two days. I'm off to Vegas for a psychotic weekend. Keep it real, kids. I'll be back with more updates soon. (I promise!)

Ten Ways to Be a Better Softball Player

1. Use one of your employees as the umpire; that way, you'll get every advantage over the other team.
   
2. If, when this plan backfires and you still star losing, start blaming your team.
   
3. Start jawing at the other team when you draw a walk.
   
4. Get your umpire to give you an extra inning of at-bats.
   
5. Even though you know the umpire made a mistake, don't acknowledge it -- just keep the game going.
   
6. Stomp off and pout by yourself -- it's especially becoming when you're older than 40.
   
7. And even more impressive when your wife and child are at the game.
   
8. Gloat at the other team before the game.
   
9. Joke around with everyone on your team after the game -- even though they're looking at you with something resembling contempt.
   
10. But don't bother with basic skills like catching and throwing; they just slow you down and take away from the game's competitive spirit.
    

Yes, it's good to know that people still aren't taking coed recreational softball too seriously these days.

Still Living . . .

I'll have a longer post later this week. Things have been pretty hectic, and I lost my internet connection for several days; however, I'm back now.

What's Spanish for Pepto Bismol?

We arrived in Mexico Saturday afternoon with a song in our hearts as the brightly shining sun lifted our spirits to even greater heights. I didn't even mind being subjected to the tourist shakedown outside Customs, where in return for signing away 2-4 hours of my precious vacation time, I'd get all sorts of free, useless crap.

Afterwards, we scampered on the bus and waited for awhile, and then we hit the resort. And for a day and a half, all I did was eat, lie by the beach, or drink Pina Coladas by the pool. Being surrounded by your girlfriend and good friends is a great tonic for the spirit; doing so while at a resort is like some sort of renewal.

Of course, sometimes, to build something up, you need to do a little tearing down.

For some reason, I decided I needed a big breakfast Monday morning. Generally, I don't eat big breakfasts. A bagel and/or a piece of fruit is perfect, but Monday, the pancakes looked fluffy, the bacon called to me and the sausage was especially spicy and sweet.

And so my stomach rolled and rumbled all day and all night.

Now, while I'm not going to get too graphic here, some of you might not appreciate what I say in the next two paragraphs. Just a little warning.

By about 7:30, I knew we had a problem. One doesn't shiver in 70-degree weather. It just doesn't happen - unless you grew up on the sun. But there I stood shivering and shaking. I crawled into bed after sending Darcy off to enjoy everyone else's company; why ruin her night entirely? And I woke up with about 14-seconds' warning. And I made it too the toilet just in time.

Until last November, the last time I had a really close view of the inside of the toilet bowl was when I caught a monster stomach virus back in '95. I laid on the couch for four days, praying for death while enjoying a 102-degree fever. Last November, I really enjoyed remembering that time as I made it to the toilet just in time to taste breakfast once again. And now, in Mexico, known for its world-class doctors, hospitals and prisons, I was enjoying the three plain flour tortillas a second time, along with the mint tea. Good times, good times.

It's safe to read again.

I enjoyed an evening of fever-induced delirium, radiating heat like a furnace. But at least my stomach was no longer flipping. And by Tuesday morning, I was fine. We even walked into town for a few hours.

Overall, it was a great trip, but I'm happy to be home. At least I know where to find the Pepto.

And We're Out . . .

Anyone find it somewhat ironic that the "What's wrong with Blogger" page doesn't display? Just curious.

I'm leaving. Saturday morning. On a jet plane. Headed to sunny Mexico. Until then, keep it real kids. And remember --- don't shop at the Galleria, or I'll have to add you to my revenge list, where you'll sit for the rest of days, along with John Quincy Adams, McDonalds and the Dewey Decimal System, waiting my righteous retribution. Or something like that.

Boycott!

You know, it's bad enough that that asshat, Jimmy Fallon danced around the field at Busch Stadium after the Red Sox kicked the Cardinals' asses.

And it's even worse that ESPN has completely bought into the idea that the rest of the country actually gives a damn about the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry (and they hold the other 48 states hostage with unending footage of their games).

Worse yet, Johnny Damon "wrote" a book, where apparently he brags about all the chicks he's bagged since leaving his wife and daughters. Nice.

But I'll be damned if I'm going to go to a local mall and see posters for that fucking Fever Pitch movie wallpapering the place. No. I'm calling for a Galleria boycott. Who's with me? They injured our pride last October, now they're just slapping us in the face!

Well, Galleria, you're going to have to do without the roughly $50 I spend there every year. Just remember that, punks. We'll show them what it means to keep forcing more Red Sox propaganda down our throats. Power to the people!

Rage

There was once a time where I sat in my car and twitched like a caged animal. Traffic lights caused me to growl. Slow cars ahead of me caused me to alternate between whimpers, screeches and howls. OK. It was last Tuesday.

But I've been trying to work on it.

Take today, for instance. I'm driving home, headed down Kingshighway, when I glance up in my rearview mirror, and all I can see is ECONOLINE. If this car was any closer, we could have discussed the baseball game together.

Once upon a time, I would have flipped him off and started raging. Or I would have taken a handfull of funsnaps from the glove box and tossed them out the window (I have done that to a friend when he wouldn't stop tailgating me), but not the new me. Instead I slowed down.

He finally roared around me and flipped me off. Because, apparently, I'm supposed to want him climbing up my ass. My base instincts screamed "RUN HIS PUNK ASS OFF THE ROAD". So I waved at him, pissing him off even more.

Then I realized that he was driving a contracting truck, and he was probably headed back to the office. Since there was nothing written on the side of the truck, I considered following him back to home base so I could compliment his boss on the quality of employee he's hired.

But that would be crazy and vindictive, so I let him go on his way.

It's hit me lately that life is too short to be driving around pissed off and raging at the world. Besides, it's easier to laugh at jackasses when the jackass isn't looking back at you from the mirror.

Farewell

We weren't cat people; that was one thing we knew. Cats were inscrutable and mysterious. They didn't come to you when called. They're standoffish. But I don't recall ever seeing a prettier face on a kitten; he stood out - no one in that litter was more playful either. Holding him was like lifting a cloud - you barely knew he was there.

After much debate and changed minds, he finally found a name: Tigger.

Tigger was like all cats. He was kind of lazy and did as he damn well pleased. But he also enjoyed curling up in a nearby lap for a quick nap, and he loved being brushed. He would come running for two things: food in his bowl or his brush in your hand.

Over the years, he adopted each of us for a brief time. At first, he was my cat - until I left for a week's vacation; then he was done with me. Next, he moved on to Mike - until Mike went away for school; after crying by the door every night for a week, he moved on to Mom. Where he stayed for several years.

Mom's lap became Tigger's favorite haunt; that, or the arm of her chair. And while he never really trusted Dad (who once sat on Tigger as a kitten), he tolerated him. When Dad was very sick, Tigger finally put aside years of mistrust to rub up against my very sick father. Unfortunately, we figured out how to get the oxygen cylinder working right at that moment, and the hissing sound scared the cat right out of the room, breaking up the long-awaited reconciliation.

Recently, Tigger became my cat. With Mom living in an apartment temporarily, Tigger had to stay with me. After a few weeks of adjusting to one another (and cleaning up cat droppings from around the house), we finally came to an agreement. Tigger, Trudy and I enjoyed a peaceful coexistence, where every morning, I would pet and brush my cat before I headed off to work.

Yesterday, Mom and I had to say goodbye to our friend of 14 years. Tigger was diabetic, and growing very ill. Realistically, I wasn't going to be able to give him two insulin shots daily and monitor his diet enough to guaratee he would be able to live any kind of life.

I know we did the right thing for him, and that he was able to die with two people who cared for him. But I'm still going to miss scratching his head before I crawl into bed at night.

Pawn

This sums up how I feel about the whole feeding tube debacle. It's sad that this poor woman has become a political sideshow and a means to get more votes.

Good thing there's no other problems facing the country right now.

Worry

I couldn't figure out why I was wet. Wet made no sense, but at that moment, nothing else did either. As I began to process what was happening, for a second, I feared it was blood.

No - it was too cold for that. A quick survey told me it was the remains of my Diet Pepsi, flung throughout the passenger compartment, soaking me, my dashboard, my floors, and Darcy.

Jesus. Was Darcy okay? I looked over and there she sat, looking a lot calmer than I felt. She said she was okay, but her car door was buckled in; pushed by the front end of the jeep staring into the passenger side window.

I climbed out of the car, and the other driver was there - apologetic and okay. He ran the red light. He felt awful; I could read it in his face, see it in how he carried himself. I was more worried about injuries. Darcy was hurting; she sat alone in the backseat, keeping warm and not moving. No; she didn't need an ambulance, but she was sore and aching.

Information exchanged. Numbers. Digits. Information. Insurance companies called. Police reports filled out.

I held it together until we made it to her apartment; then I lost it. Seeing someone I care about hurt is like punching me in the stomach; I can't breathe. I can't think straight. I can't talk. While there was something to do - paperwork to fill out, stories to tell, damage to assess, I can handle it calmly and rationally. Afterwards, when the crisis has passed, that's when the panic sets in along with the fear and terror. My car can be fixed or replaced, if necessary. She can't be, and that's something I never want to face.

Later, I sat in the ER waiting room. Hospitals and casinos are similar in one respect - they're their own worlds; they never close; there are always people present, no matter what the time of day or night. But hospitals are the opposite of casinos - instead of garish colors, blinking lights and laughter, you get bland but relaxing paint, calm lighting and solemn silence. But the hell of it is that they're not all that soothing. You're there because someone you love is broken, and you pray to God that he or she can be fixed. How can you relax when all you can see when your eyes close is a jeep barrelling at you with no time to react? How can you relax when your hands won't stop shaking because you haven't eaten in ages but you can't eat a thing?

Families gather, waiting for words about their grandmother (I always wonder why you need to bring the whole clan along to the ER - wouldn't you be more comfortable sending one or two relatives and leaving the kids at home?), friends bring in their friend suffering from too much partying (apparently this was the seoond time she'd been in for a little stomach pumping; and hey, if you can't give yourself a little case of alcohol poisoning on amateur weekend, when can you?). And there we sit, joined in tension, hoping to hear that our loved ones are okay.

Darcy finally walked out of the back; tired and sore but okay. I took her home and made sure she was comfortable.

Tomorrow, I get to deal with more insurance agents, paperwork and probably rental cars. But I can live with that. Darcy is okay; maybe a little bruised and sore, but otherwise okay. Me? I'm fine; a little shaken up and scared, but relieved.

Now I'm sitting here, Duke Ellington helping to soothe me; I'm prepared for bed, but I still see the jeep flying in at us. You go through a lot of meaningless routines every day, worry about many, many trivial problems. Sometimes it takes a cold splash of reality to make you see that perhaps you should treasure these routines and appreciate the pointless problems.

Perhaps there's something to be said for dull routine.

A Little Embarrasment

I had egg on my face. Literally. It bounced off my cheek and flew off into space. More came at me, missed and settled on the table in front of me. More came, and missed my mouth completely. Finally, my tormentor moved on to a new victim.

We had dinner at the Robata Saturday night; one of those restaurants where the chef cooks your dinner right in front of you. Part of the show is the chef chops a small piece of food up and flips it into each guest's mouth. Of course, I couldn't seem to do it, but my mother could. That was a little embarrasing.

But too many restaurants forget the fun factor, and for a little extra money, you get a chef throwing food in your face. For my dollar, it doesn't get much better than that.

Poker Blues

So last week, a couple of us hit the local gambling establishments. I sat down full of hopes and excited about a couple of hours of play.

Two hours I stood up, disgusted and ready to leave.

As the Tool of the Man points out, we were playing gamblers - guys who would play anything and, of course, catch what they were fishing for. So when I raised with pocket jacks in late position, I wasn't surprised when they were cracked - by the guy playing Q8c - because they were suited.

But that was okay, the two times I caught pocket queens, they were cracked wide open.

I was sitting in seventh position. In first position was a guy who would play a face card - rag combo, so long as it was suited. In the second seat, a gentleman who sat down with $200 and gleefully bet it all away as he called every pot down. Third seat was the same guy, only with a smaller stack.

The gentleman in eighth position - next to me - was crazy. His bushy salt-and-peppered eyebrows and wrinkled, leathery skin hid his eyes pretty well, but he was nuts. And he would play anything - ANYTHING - suited.

The guys in nine and ten were actually solid players and good guys - I didn't mind as much when my queens were cracked by him.

But Lord, it's frustrating when the only good pot I took down that afternoon was when I played 59o in the big blind - and paired my nines. It was just that kind of day.

My brother and I have decided we need to move up to a higher-limit game - not because we're so much better than everyone - we just don't want to be tangled up in all the fishing lines littering the table with every hand. It gets rather frustrating after awhile.

The Best Part . . .

Of the interview wasn't the "revelations." We knew they were all juiced up. Good lord, I could sell tracts of land on Barry Bonds' giant mellon.

It wasn't the mental images, no matter how distubing: two burly men, pimples on their backs glistening in the bathroom light, squeezing into a stall the size of a broom closet, one of them bends over, and the other says, "Hold on, Jose, you're going to feel a little prick."

Sorry. I just couldn't resist.

Nope. To me, the best part of the whole Canseco interview was the way he kept tittering like a little kid every time he mentioned injecting steroids into someone's butt. Classic.

Standing Around With Nothing to Do

Freedom was a frustrating 15 feet away, but it might have well been a mile. We all stared at each other in frustration. The couple next to me started bickering again. The kid in front of them shuffled on his feet, bored out of his mind.

And yet we waited.

I went to a local grocery store tonight; I was doing a little cooking and ran out of a key ingredient, so I ran up to a store that promises more saving for more shopping, or something like that. However, they don't promise quick lines, which is good, because I don't like calling anyone a liar.

After running in and getting my things, I caught a small surprise: the lines at the checkout stretched halfway back into the store. Not good. Fortunately, I had an out - a secret weapon: The underused, misunderstood self-checkout. And a scant ten seconds later, there I stood in the short line. And stood.

And stood.

And stood.

At most stores, the self-checkout is reserved for customers with only 20 or so items. It keeps things moving, especially since you have to bag it yourself and you can't continue without bagging an item. There's also not much in the way of space at the stands. Unfotunately, tonight one of the registers was down, leaving only two.

In self-checkout line one: a tall, dirty man with leathery skin, barely able to stand, trying to buy beer and cigarettes. Behind him, his twin, only with beef jerky and vodka. After him, a woman with a cart so loaded, it looked like it might collapse upon itself, creating a black hole and killing us all - not to mention destroying the earth. Fortunately, the fabric of space/time held. Barely.

In line two, a younger, short woman, buying food for her family. One. Item. At. A. Time. She methodically scanned something, gently bagged it. Searched her cart. Scanned it. Bagged something else. Time stopped behind her. When it looked like she might be finished, she whipped out the coupons. Sweet Jesus.

I finally found my way into a regular line - they opened one. The drunks had moved on - probably for the best, I didn't want to share the road with them anyway - drunks are pretty bad road hogs, you know. And the two women were still checking out. One. Item. At. A. Time.

Makes me want to take up shoplifting.

Grr

I wrote a long post, and Blogger just deleted it. Back to the drawing board . . .

Checking In . . . More Wednesday

Life's turned kind of hectic lately, so I haven't posted much. Sorry. Every time I sit to post, I don't know where to begin or what to say. Things are going well - very well, and that's the main reason for my absence.

I do promise that I'll be better about posting here - starting this week. I have several stories - general life, poker, crazed political rants. You know - the ususal.

Recently, I met someone. Instead of the same old thing, day in and day out, I see possibilites, and instead of scowling and shaking my fist at happy couples, I smile and let them walk past without any snide comments.

You've probably gathered from reading this blog that my love life generally hovers somewhere between the pathetic and tragic, with frequent trips to the comedic. To me, Valentine's Day was largely an excuse to pick fights with flower delivery guys and growl at happy people. But this year is different.

I don't know where things are going with her, but I do know that no matter what happens, I'll treasure the time I've spent with her these last few months. So I'm off to have a happy Valentine's Day (or night, since the sun has gone down). Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.

Taking a Step Back

Okay -- here's a poker post, so if these things bore you, don't tell me you wenen't warned.

Anwyay, I'm playing the $2-$4 bad beat tables at Party Poker; the night before I'd gone on an insane run, and ended up quadrupling my buy-in. That's a good evening. However, variance came along and pimp slapped me right down.

Take this hand, for example: I'm dealt pocket aces in middle position. I raise . . . and nearly everyone calls. I don't know if I should jump for joy or start crying, but there but for the grace of God, I continue playing. The flop? A3x rainbow. I start betting, and a few people fold, but there's still two players left. The turn is a 5, and I still have one caller, who just won't quit. The only think I can pin her on is pocket kings, but still - she knew I raised pre-flop, so I must have an ace . . . what the hell is she doing? She calls me down to the river, where she reveals her 24o, giving her a low straight, beating my set of aces.

Then she brags on the chat: "2-4! 2-4!" I took the high road and wrote: "I say nothing".

Here's another hand: I'm looking at QJ in early position, so I limp in, and the flop is AKx rainbow - that's a straight draw there, kids. Player to my right bets, I call, and there's one other caller. The turn is a sweet, sweet 10. I have my nut straight. Player to the right bets, I raise, she reraises, I reraise her reraise. The pot's getting awfully sweet. Then the river comes and drops an A on the table. An ace. A fucking ace. I now know I'm beat. She had a set, and now she just caught her full house. I call her bet, just cause I'm a sucker for punishment, and discover I was wrong: she'd been slow playing aces - she had four of a kind.

Needless to say, my winnings weren't holding out too well. And that's been a problem for me: consistently winning. I have good nights, and I have bad nights. But they're too even.

I know I'm not the greatest player in the world. I call too much instead of raising or folding. I have great instincts as far as when I should fold, but I don't listen to them enough.

So I need a little break. I need to study up on some of my reading material. I need to play a little more carefully, and I need to pull my head out of my ass at the table.

It's not going to be a long break -- I'm planning on hitting the casinos in two weeks, but I need a little time away to plug some leaks in my game.

Basically, that's why I haven't mentioned poker much lately - it's been more a source of frustration than a pleasure, so I had to step away for a little while. But I'll be back in the game soon enough. Besides, my addictions can only be held at bay for so long . . .

Hey Jealousy

There's a jealous girl in my life. She envies any attention that I hand out to anyone or anything - but her. She demands that I spend as much time as possible chasing her, walking her, feeding and rubbing her belly.

I'm talking of Trudy, of course.

This problem became evident a few weeks back when I continued my role of taking in my mother's pets - she can't have the cat in her temporary apartment - hence, I have a cat until April.

At night, when I used to enjoy sleeping, Tigger (the cat) would hop into my bed and rub against my hand or arm until I pet him, and Trudy would immediately hop into the bed too. Which is weird, because she hates cuddling - unless she has competition.

If the cat comes near me, she chases him off. If he looks at me funny, she chases him off. If my neighbor talks to me, she barks at him, hoping he'll run off (doesn't really work - she'd look far more menacing without the wagging tail).

And she'd probably be really happy, except that I have a girlfriend now, and she could probably handle it a little better. For instance, if I'm hugging or kissing D (my girlfriend), Trudy (my dog), will start jumping up and down, greeting us and trying to work her way in.

She hops onto the couch when we watch movies, and she's never, never far from me these days. I feel like I've grown a new limb sometimes. So far, violence has been averted, but Trudy, while kind of dumb, is shifty. But I don't wake up in the middle of the night convinced she wants me dead - which I can't say about the cat, but that's another post entirely.

In any case, it's kind of sweet that she's so possessive and jealous, but it's also a little weird. (And yes - I'm sticking with the girlfriend no matter what). Ultimately though, if this is the worst problem I can muster up right now, I'd have to say things are going pretty well. Hopefully, the dog won't hurt me in a jealous fit of rage - or shit in my shoes. Either one would kind of stink.

Shameless Self-Promotion

See? I'm still alive . . .

What's the . . .

four words that generally lead to horrible injury?

"Hey guys! Watch this!" Or words to that effect.

It's very sad that she died, and my heart goes out to her family and friends.

But don't you think she might have tried her little trick say, ON THE FLOOR BEFORE THE BALCONY? Good lord! It's not rocket science! Sigh.

Hey! Two posts in one night! Do I rule or what?

I Feel a Great Disturbance in the Force . . .

Ego is a powerful motivator. Normal, simple statements of fact, when given an ego wash, become exercises in hyperbole. But still, I consider myself a fairly honest person, so in my eyes, when I mean I make some pretty damn good cookies, it comes out that I make the Greatest Chocolate Chip Cookies in the Western Hemisphere.

That's a tall order to live up to, let me tell you.

So you might have divined that I'm dating someone right now (subtle hints like the layer of dust and clouds of moths around this corner of cyberspace), and she invited me over for dinner last night. "Of course!" I said, looking forward to a quiet evening with her. "What would you like me to bring?" I asked, expecting a wine request.

"I keep hearing about those cookies - I want some of those," she said. (Okay, actually, I offered to bring them, but the story sounds so much better this way - like I said, honesty).

So Monday evening, I crept down to the basement and unearthed The Recipe. I dug out the Golden Bowl. I gathered the ingredients. I put on my apron. Yep - Brian was getting his bake on.

I sifted the flour, mixed the dough and folded in the chocolate chips. The oven? Preheated. I put the parchment down on the cookie sheet (no amateur here, kids), applied the dough with my special Cookie-only ice cream scoop, and sat down on the couch, dreaming of the sheer appreciation in her eyes.

The first sign of trouble was the smoke alarm going off.

Smoke seeped from the open oven door, and there was a mess of burned chocolate chips all over the parchment paper.

Now, I've been baking cookies since I was about eight. My father and I used to do this a lot. He showed me the basics, and I've developed a few tricks and wrinkles along the way. But I've never, never, never, never burned a cookie. Until now.

The appreciative look in her eyes turned to scorn. I started sweating. What the hell was happening?

I put the second round out on the cookie sheets and cut the time by a minute. And still they burned. Tragic. What could I do?

Baking relaxes me; it's easy - I think while I do this, my hands know the motions, so it's a simple activity for me. And yet, here was a black, bubbling mess - a chocolate chip holocaust.

No longer can I claim the Greatest Cookies Ever. No longer can I brag about my baking acumen. But, more importantly, what the hell was I going to do about tomorrow? A bag of Oreos? No. Store-bought chocolate chip cookies? Never!

I went with a nice cheesecake, and a healthy helping of humble pie. My tinkering with my recipe finally blew up in my face - at a most inopportune time. It's back to basics - and hopefully appreciative looks (as well as no scraping black chocolate residue off my cookie sheets).

In any case, it was a lovely evening. Even if my ego took a little slap-down.

2004 in Review (Briefly)

Since 2004 has been over and gone for about two weeks now, I thought I would mention my favorite things about it . . . and that's it - no more mention of it ever again. Ever. Not a bit. None.

So here we go:
Favorite albums from the year (in no particular order):

• Arcade Fire - Funeral
  
• Brian Wilson - Smile
  
• Hem - Eveningland
  
• Rogue Wave - Out of the Shadow
  
• Garden State Soundtrack
  

Favorite books I read (again, no particular order):

• Chasm City - Alaistair Renolds
  
• To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee (I know, I read it in high school, but it's just that damn good)
  
• Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow
  

Best night of sleep:
May 29 - We'd just come off the trail. Two hours later, we were in a small cabin near Olympic National Park, and as cold rain pelted the roof, I collapsed on the futon, warmed by the propane stove next to me.

Other stuff:
New job, new car, plus a few other changes that I'm excited about. All in all, 2004 was a good year. Now, I promise not to be as lazy and start writing daily again. Okay - weekly.

Bullies and Table Etiquette - Final Vegas Post

If Chris were any more a retiree, he would have been wearing his bathrobe. I kind of figured that out when he sat down at the table - his plaid shirt, knee-lenght shorts, salt-and-pepper mustache and black socks told me all I needed to know.

And since we were reveling in stereotypes, he was crabby, but to be fair, I ate too much - playing the role of chubby white kid.

Our first encounter started when he started yelling at me over where I held my cards. He proceeded to lecture me when he almost mucked my cards along with his. The second time it happened, I snarled, "Dude! My fingers are on my cards? What the hell do you want?"

He muttered something under his breath, and then our rivalry really began. I was dealt K2o on the button and limped in. Generally, I don't play this hand, but I was bored - not having seen anything in awhile, so I figured what the hell? Rainbow flop - but there was a 2. Everyone checked to me, so I bet. And everyone but two callers folded - Chris being one of the foldees.

My king popped up on the turn, so I started betting in earnest and wound up winning the pot. Chris lost his shit. Badly.

"I knew you had a second pair. Knew it. You guys always just get lucky. You don't know how to play. I know how to play the game - it's not luck." Blah blah blah.

I'm not going to lie. I didn't like this guy. At all. And for the next two hours, when I went on a monster rush and wound up $100 (at a $1-$3 table, to boot), he seethed and muttered.

Then he gave the luck speech again. Finally, I looked over at him and asked "If you're so damn good, why are you short stacked at at 1-3 table?" He shut up and moved to a different seat. After that, I contented myself with raising him every time he tried limping into the flop.

Eventually, I left the table and moved out into the cool night. I shouldn't let jackasses like that bother me, but bullies just push my buttons and I can't seem to force myself to turn the other cheek. He's just a lonely old man trying to feel important somewhere. And maybe I saw more than a little of myself in him as well.

In any case, the trip ended the next day. The real world beckoned off in the distance, and like all things, this trip came to an end. I swore no more Vegas for at least a year - or at least six months. I just need a little time to forget the exhaustion.

Lessons Learned

Here's what I've learned so far in 2005:

• Ear infections are painful
  
• Without constant vigilance, my house and life will revert to utter chaos
  
• Is there anything more fun than a wedding reception where you know virtually everyone?
  
• My couch is not a good make-out couch
  

Now that the holidays have ended, I'll revert to a more normal blogging schedule - and there may be a few changes hereabouts.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Tilt-a-whirl - Vegas pt. 3

My hand throbbed. It hadn't started swelling yet, but it hurt. A lot. People looked at me somewhat curiously, but a solo guy muttering to himself after midnight in a Vegas Strip casino probably isn't that uncommon a sight.

I fed some money into a slot machine and checked out my hand; the pain was starting to fade into the backround, and I pounded the keys on the slot machine, settling in for a good think.

I'd arrived in Vegas 48 hours earlier. I sat down at a poker table and began cleaning out a drunk. I was making money - plenty of money, and I was kicking all sorts off ass at the tables.

But winning is always fun.

I could do no wrong - outside of Saturday's tournament, but around midnight on Saturday, the horseshoe fell out of my ass, and everyone at the table started beating me over the head with it.

By Sunday afternoon, I'd lost a ton of money. People playing crap hands were catching their breaks. I would go 45 minutes to an hour without catching any good cards - then I would draw dead on the flop. Painful.

I'm not a particularly patient person. I'm far more patient than I once was, but there are limits. And when I sat down at the table of drunken frat boys, I could see the line. When my two pairs lost because one of them caught his straight on the river (with his pocket 6-8o) I could feel the boil building. Walk away! said the voice in my head. One more hand. I seethed.

Pocket aces peeked up at me, and the little voice called for the attack. I raised preflop and found four callers. Not what I expected, but I'd happily take their cash. So of course, two queens come up on the flop. By now, I was tilting so hard people playing the slots were trying to figure out what that ringing sound was. I began throwing money in the pot, even when I knew I'd drawn dead yet again. I finally folded - fortunately, because one of my opponents showed the third queen.

So I smiled. Cashed out my few remaining chips, walked out of the poker room and slapped the wall. Hard.

Stupid. I was playing badly. Trying to force hands that I'd clearly won. Pocket aces lose 50% of the time. Patience. I had it yesterday, but I'd lost it. I needed to rediscover it. And most importanly, I'd stopped having fun.

And really, that was the reason we were there: to have fun. Not to win a fortune - though it would be nice. So lighten up, dammit!

I walked back to the Excalibur and sat back down at a 1-3 table full of cowboys and college kids. Lots of action - lots of calling down to the river. Patience. Patience.

Finally, pocket aces showed up. I raised pre-flop and had three callers. Better. Two sevens flopped. Crap. But this table wasn't very good, so I might be able to steal the pot right here, so I bet. Two folds - and the remaining guy - a younger guy with a mess of curly hair pushing out from under his red baseball cap - stared at his cards for a long, long time.

This was stupid. He just told me that he didn't have the seven. It should have been clear to him that I had overcards, so unless he paired the board, he was hosed. Then he called. And the third seven came up on the river. Now I knew I had him beat, so I bet him all the way down. And his 10-6o didn't hold up to the aces.

It was a nice pot and a nice confidence-rebuilder. I was ready to face Monday - a day of poker "experts" and a very nice rush.

Standby . . .

See? I still exist. It's just with Christmas, two colds, a couple of dates and general post-Vegas exhaustion, something had to give, and it was, sadly, my poor little blog.

So, I'm working on two long posts to finish out Vegas, then it's back to my usual right-wing rants.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

Playing Scared - Vegas Part 2

My throat was dry. Parched. Like a desert. Like the freakin' Sahara. The only thing drier were my eyes. Three hours of sleep after a hard night of drinking and poker will do that to you. So of course, I was playing more poker.

Down about $20 for the session, I was hoping to catch a nice hand soon. Marty had already taken off, and we were supposed to leave for Sam's Town soon. I caught my pair of sixes when the waitress brought bottles of water to the table. "Thanks," we croaked in unison.

I slow played my sixes into a full house and a nice $60-odd pot. And we headed off to Sam's Town.

Now there's been plenty of tales told about the tournament. You can go here, here, or here for far better descriptions than I could give overall.

I shall say this, however - I was sitting at a table with two poker professionals and people who made my six months' experience look like about six hours. My only goal was not to go out first, which I made. And it was a piss poor way to play a tournament.

If you're going to play in a poker tournament, it's easy to play not to lose. And I can safely guarantee you will not win. You need to be willing to take chances and go balls out to take down pots. I know I didn't do this, and I bounced early. To be fair, I hadn't eaten in about 18 hours and was still nicely hung over.

I'll also say this: everyone at the tournament was very friendly and made me feel very welcome, which I greatly appreciate.

So I celebrated my departure from the tournament by joining, David, Jeff, Joe and Ryan at a $5 blackjack table, where I dropped about $40 - because I'm such a strong blackjack player. A good sign for leaving is when the dealer turns her fourth blackjack straight, but I'm a slow learner. And I was on a sandwich and diet coke high.

We returned to the Excalibur where I caught a nice nap, only to hear a loud clanging sound. Little did I know that it was the horseshoe falling out of my ass, and needless to say, many, many people picked it up and hit me over the head with it.

Landing a Juicy Fish

I woke up from my nap with dollar signs dancing through my head. We'd just landed in Phoenix, and I had the itch. One more hour to go.

Wolfing down my cheeseburger at the airport, we joked and laughed, eager for the flights to end, to fall out of the clear skies and into the smoky depths of a casino. Couldn't wait.

Lest you think I have some sort of gambling problem, well, I probably do, but mainly I was looking forward to see how well I stack up against other poker players; how I handle myself in these games. And in that regard, the trip did not disappoint.

We breezed through the airport and flew from the cab into the Excalibur. Ignoring the statues of knigts and dragons, we made it from the lobby to our room to the tables in minutes flat.

And the poker began.

I'd made some modest gains and was enjoying a cold beer when Joe Frat Boy strutted over to the table. He settled in the third position and began buying hands like crazy -and I do mean crazy - K-2o, 3-6o, no difference. He played 'em all - and kept winning.

Patience counseled my inner voice. "Man I want a piece of him," I said to the guy next to me. "Good luck," he said. "You've got the stack, but he's lucky as hell."

The poker gods finally smiled when black nines smiled up at me. I limped into the flop and prayed Joe Frat would ride along. He called, and the flop came up: 9-4-2 rainbow. There it was. I checked to him, and he bet. And nearly fell out of his seat when I raised him. How dare anyone raise him? Hadn't happened yet. And he wasn't going to take it, so he raised me back. And I reraised him.

On the turn, I saw a lovely sight: another 4. All I had to do was ride my boat down the river. But before that, I had a fish to land. We bet and raised each other to the maximum through the turn and river.

The look on his face when my full house beat his two pair was priceless. I honestly wish I had a camera. I'll give him this: he was classy - he congratulated me on a well-played hand.

As he grew increasingly drunk, the table all had a turn at him; hell, I had another, but he eventually busted out.

All told, I was up about $40 for the night, and I really needed sleep. It was nearly five in the morning after all, and I still had to play in a tournament against a bunch of people who would likely kick my ass and send me packing home.

Back

I'm back, light on sleep and somewhat lighter on cash. I have plenty of stories, like being splashed when water started flowing from the ceiling. How I played poker against two world-class players (and received the expected ass-kicking), and exactly why I'm in the red (I planned to lose it, so it was no problem) for the trip: Black Sunday.

But now I'm home and thinking of crawling into bed shortly. Four days of next to no sleep will do that to you.

The Lights are Out and No One's Home

My bag is packed, and short a few minor preparations, I'm prepared to climb on the plane tomorrow evening. After the longest week I can remember in quite some time, I'm leaving on vacation. So basically, no new posts for a few days.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

It's Time to Play the Music . . It's Time to Light the Lights

Best news I've heard all week.

Three-And-A-Half Days

That's 84 hours. 5,040 minutes. That's the countdown until vacation. I'm becoming increasingly useless at work. Visions of dancing big slick is running through my head.

Needless to say, I'm excited. But I'm not going to bore both of my loyal readers with my dreams of degenerate gambling, so it's going to be a nice miscellaneous post.

• After years of therapy, my commercial hatred is down to only two entities: McDonalds (grr) and all the damn diamond commercials they play at Christmas. Can they make an ad more nauseating?
  
• I'm a concerned parent tonight. Trudy is pretty sick and lying around the next room. I brought her water bowl upstairs along with her bed, so she can sleep upstairs tonight. Hopefully, she'll be back to her usual self tomorrow. Whether that's a good or bad thing, I'm not sure, but I much prefer my dog to be healthy and happy.
  
• Why does the KMOX staff subject us to this God-awful Christmas show every year? And who do they get to shell out money for this thing? And more importantly, who told Carol Daniel she can sing? Ouch.
  
• If anyone's really bored tomorrow night, I'll be appearing at the Maryland Yards in Maryland Heights tomorrow night, playing in a free poker tournament. And when I say appearing, I mean showing up. A friend called me out, so I need to defend my honor. I'll be the one leaving four minutes after it starts, muttering to himself about "calling stations" and "big blind specials".
  
• Barry Bonds. Steroids. Who knew? I mean, the way his body shape changed in his mid-30s didn't indicate anything. Oh wait, Barry didn't know - he thought it was flaxseed oil. Nice, Barry. Now you're a jerk AND a moron.
  

Good night all. Keep warm and dry.

I Certainly Sleep Better at Night

I keep Trudy's food in her largely unused crate in the dining room. The crating experiment was a miserable failure, and rather than see Trudy hurt herself trying to get out of the crate, I just use it to store her food and water. Her bed rests on the opposite wall.

Sunday night, I sat in the living room, watching my sixth hour of poker (it's not a problem yet -- I can quit any time), when Trudy roused herself from a nap, staggered over to the side of the crate and stared.

I looked at her curiously, wondering just what the hell she was doing. She held her head low, staring at something. I began thinking senility was starting to affect my old dog, when her tail started wagging and she bolted into the kitchen.

Yep. She found a mouse.

And then she spent the next two hours searching for her new playmate, despite my shouting at her to catch it, but no - she just scampered around, wanting to play with it.

Heaven help me if someone busts in here at night. I'm not even sure she'll wake up.

Picking it Apart

I love Thanksgiving. I don't think that's neither too unusual nor crazy. But for me, the best part isn't seeing relatives I haven't seen in a year or walking in parades - it's spending all the time with my family.

Like most families, we've scattered. Mom still lives in the old house, but I now have an old house of my own. David has his apartment, and Mike lives in Tennessee. I spend a lot of time with David - we play kickball together, we both enjoy playing poker, but for Mike, visits home are somewhat rare. I don't begrudge him this - he has his own life, plus a visit to Iraq or Afghanistan looming, but spending time together is still welcomed.

We spent our post-Thanksgiving dinner at Mom's, watching The Donald kick poor Andy out the door after he self-destructed (Andy -- don't give professionals cash as a bribe - they find it insulting. Me? I'd take it, but I'd still probably be insulted - and $100 richer). Then we found the turkey.

It happens every year - by 9:00, no matter how stuffed we were a few hours before, we're ready for the next course. So Mom prepares the backup turkey.

Now, we didn't eat at Mom's - we always spend Thanksgiving at my aunt's house, but Mom still prepares the turkey breast, knowing we'll give it a good home later. So there we stood, David, Mike and I, hovering over the bird, carving off slices and eating them. Some would say it's uncivilized. Some would call it uncouth. But I would say that we don't like washing plates, and my family has a long, proud tradition of picking at food. So while they may have their movie watching or night of bowling, we pick at a turkey breast.

The carnivorous display didn't last too long. We dug out the Trivial Pursuit and I handed out the whuppins - because who knows more about trivia than me?

In any case, these days, with war, travel hang-ups and demanding work schedules, it was a great way to spend a Thanksgiving.

You've Taken Your First Steps Into a Larger World

I'm sitting here relaxed and happy. Trudy is busy gnawing on her kong in the next room, and there's a nice pile of cash on the desk next to me. Yep -- daddy won a poker tournament tonight, so he's on a bit of a high right now.

A few weeks back, David let me know that his friend Jason was organizing a tournament. $25 buy-in no-limit Texas Hold-'Em. I was in, because I want the practice for Vegas. Plus, when I win big at Vegas, it'll impress Wayne Newton (I threw that one in for you, Aaron).

So now, I'm going to bore all you non-poker players with tales of how I outlasted 16 players and walked away the big winner.

Two Rules

Going in, I set two rules for myself:

1. Play only premium hands; and
   
2. There's no such thing as "pot committed".
   

And there but for the Grace of God I went.

The First Turning Point

I opened the game by stealing blinds. I sat at the tight table early, and no one made a bet larger than $25 - we each started with $1000 in chips. So I stared betting $50 - $75 and the other players just handed me all sorts of money. The funny part is I caught NO flops at any time. Not one.

But they started figuring out that I was playing with them, so I started having to fold. My stack started dwindling down, until I caught a pair of fives. I decided to switch gears and play it slow, so I limped into the flop - K-5-8 rainbow. I checked, hoping someone would open betting, and Dan, sitting next to me planted his foot right in the trap. He raised. I reraised. He went all-in and I followed suit. He showed KTo, and unfortunately for him, the King he caught on the River only gave me a Full House. One down.

That Flashing? That's the Tilt Sign Over My Head

Neil was short-stacked. I wanted his chips. I caught a QTo and limped in again, figuring he was more likely to call if I played it slow. The flop? AQ7 rainbow. Neil pushed in his stack and I stepped into the tank. I had second pair. Did he have the ace? Probably, but if he's clever, he went all-in figuring I would figure him on the ace. But maybe he knows this is what I'll think, and he does have the ace. So yes, I sounded like Daffy Duck just before he pulled the trigger and blew his beak to the back of his head. So I called. And then doubled Neil up when he showed the ace.

I went on a nice losing streak then, catching NO cards for awhile, so my stack looked a little anemic when I moved to the final table.

The Worm Turns

I went from a big, snarling mean dog to a yappy little mutt within about 20 minutes, and the blinds were starting to sting. Fortunately, the poker gods smiled on me and I was looking at KJh in the big blind. Play it smooth, said the little voice in my head, so I checked and hoped my head wouldn't explode when the flop came up K-J-4. Being a good student, I recently read my Brunson, so I checked, keeping two callers in the pot. The turn? A Jack. Angels sang from on high, and I hoped my hand wasn't shaking as I threw in a modest bet to start the action. Dave (not my brother, who was already out) went all-in, so I had him figured for a straight draw - he hadn't raised the pot yet. All aboard! shouted the little steamboat conductor in my head. The other caller folded, and Dave showed his QT, meaning I just doubled up (and had the satisfaction of taking out the dude who had taken out my brother a little while back).

Don't Play a Player

Thom had a slight edge on me, and there were only four players left. One more player out and I was in the money. I looked at my cards, and saw a pair of sixes staring back at me. I raised the pot and Thom called. The flop showed A75 rainbow, and Thom moved all in. I crawled back into the tank for a good think: Thom had been playing many, many bluffs all night, and he was showing signs that he wanted the game to end - meaning he was playing reckless. I knew he didn't have a pair - he tried limping into the flop (slow play wasn't in his vocabulary), and I didn't figure him on the ace, so he had to have KQ or QJ. I called, and sure enough, he showed QJ. After getting no help from the turn and river, I had a comfortable chip lead, and Thom was all but out.

Endgame

Thom finally handed me all his chips, and it was down to Mike and I. I was dealt A2c in the small blind and raised, with Mike calling. The flop was A72, so I bet $1000, forcing Mike all in. He had ATo, and after he drew dead on the turn and river, I was counting my cash.

I drove David (my brother) to Dairy Queen and bought him dinner, then dropped him off so he could play in the second game. I needed to head home and get some sleep, plus Trudy was probably eager to get out.

In any case, it's nice to know the lessons I learned at the boat and in various other games and tournaments have been paying off. And it just means I'm feeling that much better about my odds on taking other degenerate gamblers' money away in a couple of weeks.

When Faeries Cry

I stumbled from my warm bed just before dawn and slipped on the clothes I laid out five hours earlier. Trudy looked at me like I was insane. Why would anyone be up at this ungodly hour?

The answer is simple: I had to get my parade on.

Every year, I volutneer for my friend Keith, who has a balloon in the Thanksgiving Parade downtown. And every year, I go, despite the cold and general lack of organization. People always ask why I subject myself to this -- if you're cold and miserable, they ask, why not sleep in? Why not indeed? The reason I put myself through this is because every year, something just cool enough, just out-of-the-ordinary enough happens to make it worthwhile.

Enter the faeries.

We were light on volunteers this year. Instead of 20 of us huddled together for warmth like a herd of sheep, there was only 12 or so, and that's not enough to carry a baloon. Those things are mighty big. How big, you ask? Well, as I walked up to the staging area I watched one balloon float away. An organizer tried grabbing it - without wearing gloves - and he cut his hand to the bone. Heavy AND dangerous.

So anyway, short on volunteers. Next to us was a large group of renaissance fair enthusiasts - there were kings; there were pirates; there were faeries. So after some discussion, they sent the faeries over to us.

Keith now ran a group consisting of the much-coveted 30-something-semi-alcoholic-yuppies and the under-21-faeries. Interesting combination.

Our crew took to their ropes, where we discovered that there weren't enough ropes on the balloon - a big elf, and they were all on the backside. Oh, and the balloon had a slow leak. As we began walking, our elf looked kind of limp, like he'd just come back from a wild night of partying with Dasher and Blitzen.

But before that, we waited. And waited. And waited. Our balloon was at the end of the parade. So all of the balloons at the end stood in line waiting. I froze. The faeries froze and huddled together. The pirates appeared to be getting restless - one liberated a fallen cotton candy and distributed it to her fellow pirates. Finally, our part of the parade started. Well, not really.

Due to the aforementioned problems, the elf just couldn't get it together, and our professional, who set up the balloon - incorrectly I might add - took the time-honored route of blaming everyone else for his mistakes. So halfway through the parade route, he started screaming.

And that's when he made the faerie cry.

Imagine you're a teenage girl (no, it's not something I do regularly), you're dressed in a pretty light costume, it's cold, you don't really know what you're doing, and some jackass starts yelling at you. Me? I'd hand him the rope and go home (or hit him with an empty whiskey bottle), but she stuck it out and was upset. And I don't blame her. The whole thing was a joke. The lone pirate with us comforted her and calmed her down.

That's when they gave me the golf cart.

One of the parade organizers drove up and asked if I'd mind driving it alongside the balloon for the rest of the parade while he straightened things out. So I hopped in and drove the last half of the parade route. One of my fellow parade-walkers hopped on the back and shouted instructions and encouragement through her bullhorn while I drove along.

Finally, the parade ended. Our "professional" threw a temper tantrum at the end of the route. While I generally don't wish this on anyone, I hope he gets fired. There was no need for that. Some of us who had done this before went around to the faeries and thanked them, telling them they did a good job.

And I hope they come back; they seemed like nice people and they wanted to have fun - not be screamed at by some dipshit.

In any case, I returned to my car, drove home, cleaned up and enjoyed a nice Thanksgiving with the family, which I hope everyone else did as well.

I Want to Thank You All . . .

For Nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all. Sorry -- I was feeding my iPod and listening to Wilco. Misunderstood was playing, and I realized I need to do my Thanksgiving post. So here it is, things I'm thankful for this year.

• My brother gets to remain in country for at least a few more months.
  
• My family is all safe and generally happy.
  
• Vegas.
  
• I have a new job, a new car and a much-improved outlook on life these days.
  
• Trudy, for helping me to realize that to truly enjoy life you need nothing more than a long nap and a belly rub.
  
• Did I mention Vegas?
  
• My iPod (which I've renamed to "My Precious").
  
• Recovering from illness.
  
• That I have the greatest friends a person can ask for, and that they're all succeeding in whatever ventures they choose.
  
• Vegas, anyone?
  

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Enjoy the holiday and spend lots o' time stuffing yourselves and spending it with friends and family.

New Hobbies, Challenges, and Vacations

After I fired my return salvo against the invaders Saturday (I poisoned the hell out of them). I sat down to enjoy another hobby that has been taking more of my time lately. I call it my retirement plan. Some others call it poker.

I've always enjoyed poker, but I wasn't very good at it. I always figured folding a hand was a sign of weakness, and by God, no one calls me weak. Except for my mother, friends, co-workers and family - but no one else. So I would stick it out to the bitter, bloody end.

There was also the sad, sad day when some slacker dude somehow tricked me into thinking he had a better hand than a full house, which I had. So I folded. That's weak.

But I stared playing more hands against friends, and I still sucked -- but I was having fun.

Then two things happened: The Mt. Willis Tournament and I discovered the Internet; well, to be more precise, Internet poker. I've always known the Internet was there. It's a great source of information. And porn. But mainly information.

I never really played Texas Hold 'Em until that tournament, but I played fairly well against people who REALLY played. I bounced out in the middle of the pack. So I started playing. And playing. And playing.

Okay, so I'm thinking a call to 1-800-BETSOFF may be in order, but I can live with my problem. Haven't missed a mortgage payment yet . . .

Then I found the poker rooms at the casino. I took an ass kicking, but I learned valuable lessons, that I applied to home games.

In a few weeks, I'm returning to Vegas. I'm excited about this trip, but I'm also curious to see how I stack up against people who play down there. I won't be in any high stakes games, but the competitive beast is awakening. And I really want to take some poor tourist's money. Forgetting, of course, that I'm a poor tourist down there.

Ultimately though, it's great to have a new hobby. Something to pass the time and learn. Challenges are always welcome and good; in the past, I tended to shy away from them, but lately, I've figured that challenges are what makes life liveable.

So, in a few short weeks, I'll be hitting the tables for a much-needed vacation. The clock is ticking and I can't wait.

Mice!

I walked in from dinner, deposited my leftovers in the frigde and crawled upstairs, wet and worn out.

A change of clothes later, I felt almost human. Trudy pranced into the room, so I pounced on the floor in front of her and proceeded to rub her belly for awhile. We wrestled around the floor while the television babbled and the mouse watched on. I grabbed Trudy's nose and . . . the mouse?

No, that CAN'T be right. There's no mouse. I looked back up, just to see the little guy scamper right out of my sight. I jumped up to follow, but he was gone. No trace. No tracks. No mouse.

Maybe I hallucinated? Maybe this was my subconscious telling me I needed to listen to the little voices in my head more (even though I've spent years trying NOT to listen to them)? Maybe it was my spirit guide? No -- I covered that - hallucination. Well, I must be plumb crazy.

So this morning, I bounced downstairs into the kitchen and found that I'm not crazy.

My name is Brian, and I have mice.

By the time I returned home tonight, my imagination turned two or three rodents into millions. Mice clinging to the ceiling; climbing out of the drains; carpeting the floor. I envisioned running into the house with a shotgun, blasting holes in the floor, ceiling, walls, just to excise the cancer out of my home.

And that's the worst part. They're invaders; uninvited. My house has been violated by dirty rodents who want to eat my food and tear up my shit. I alreay have someone who does that. Her name is Trudy, and she does a fine job of it. She doesn't need help.

I considered bringing in an expert to handle the problem. He's lazy and fat, but only one mouse has ever survived contact with him . . . but he eats like a fat kid at a buffet. Tigger. Destroyer of mice. Hunter. Cuddler. The only reason he hasn't batted 1.000 is mom scared his prey off one time. Otherwise, he's perfect. But I don't need another pet. Besides, he's my mom's cat, and he whines.

So eschewing millions of years of evolution, I'm going for 10 years' experience and calling in an exterminator tomorrow. I prepared by scrubbing down my kitchen, depriving them of any food. I'm not a neat person, and cleaning doesn't come easy. But I did it with gusto tonight. And no mice ran out to take away the broom; to bite my finger or cause me to chase it around the house.

In short, my home is again my home, leaky shower and all. Tomorrow, the mice will no longer be an issue and I can return to normalcy.

Until I envision the next disaster to befall.

Wish I Could Say This is Surprising

I've read this series approximately 16 times. I pulled this here quiz thingy from Meshuggenah. Stop on by and give a big shout out to her.


J.R.R. Tolkien: Lord of the Rings. You are
entertaining and imaginative, creating whole
new worlds around yourself. Well loved, you
have a whole league of imitators, none of which
is quite as profound as you are. Stories and
songs give a spark of joy in the middle of your
eternal battle with the forces of evil.


Which literature classic are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

My Mission

Shortly after I started my job about six week ago, I noticed them, huddled around a table in a conference room. Young, good-looking, and they sit in the same position from before eight until after five, inputting documents into laptops.

This is unnerving. I can't sit longer than an hour, before I become restless and start twitching uncontrollably. If restrained, I start sweating. Then salivating. Finally, I convulse, shrieking, screeching and . . . what was I talking about? Oh yeah. These people don't talk. They just crunch numbers. Then it hit me.

They're androids. And they're slowly taking over. How do I know this? There's more of them now then there was a few weeks ago. The stacks of paper? They're growing.

How do they communicate? Through their laptops - that must be the answer. I've started watching them more closely in order to discern their nefarious plot; I haven't uncovered anything yet (other than the blonde is very cute), but I don't buy the whole lame "auditors" argument. It just doesn't fit, dang it!

If I disappear suddenly, you know why. I think they've gotten to the dog. She's been looking at me funny lately.

No, I've been getting plenty of sleep lately. In between bouts of coughing. And caffiene. Oh, and there was that stomach bug that gave me weird dreams. But I'm okay. I just lie there and dream about coffee. And soda. And tea.

Must go save earth . . .

Sickness

To me, the worst part of being sick is not remembering what it was like to be well. When I catch a cold, or say, a really fun stomach virus, I crawl into a shell, cut myself off from the world and try to remember what sunny skies and a non-churning stomach feels like.

Perhaps its the self-inflicted isolation; however, even my own mother wouldn't come into the house - she just left some supplies on my porch (which I do appreciate; I was in NO shape to drive that night).

But the funniest thing is how when I'm really sick, it becomes the norm. I think wistfully about being well, only remembering that it was better than how I feel at this moment. Generally, my stomach rumbles in agreement.

Returning to work today, people gave me a healthy distance in the halls. Plague. Infected. Unclean. Avoid contact. All that was missing was a biohazard sticker over my cubicle.

But even though I'm feeling better, part of me still clings to illness. As I picked at my lunch, I carefully monitored my stomach, wondering if it would turn against me again. It didn't. The sickness lingers.

In a few days, I will have forgotten all of this. I'll eat chicken for dinner and not worry about Immodium, Tylenol and NyQuil. But until then, it's soup, crackers and Gatorade for me.

Music Matters

So I've become cool and picked up one of those iPod thingys. Yep. Now I'm hip. I could feel my hipness just flow forth from me the minute I began playing it.

And I'd share my "Guilty Pleasures" list with you, but frankly, I'm not up for the relentless teasing. However, if you can guess three songs on it, I'll share the whole list with you. But I'm not giving any clues. Because once you saw the list, I'd be shunned from human society forever.

But that started me thinking. As I organized my music collection into something more cohesive, I know I have several albums that few others have. Everyone does. Here's some of mine:

The Complete Works of Goober and the Peas - WAY back in college, I went to see this band called Uncle Tupelo. They'd just released their second album, "Still Feel Gone" and my buddy Ryan convinced us to go. My musical tastes were never the same. The second time I saw Uncle Tupelo, this small band of guys in cowboy suits opened for them; they were tight; they were fun, and they threw straw all over the audience. They were Goober and the Peas. I found this album in a used record store six years ago, and I shall never, never, never, never part with it.

Hem - Rabbit Songs - I heard about this band on NPR one day. Their lead singer has one of the most beautiful voices I've heard (and they found her by placing an ad in the Village Voice); they sing traditional folk songs, and every song on this album is perfect. I always return to this album; it's comforting, reassuring and simply lovely.

Josh Rouse - Under Cold Blue Stars - How many albums do you know that tell the story of a young couple, recently married, who inherit a house in the South, start raising a family, suffer through poverty, marriage troubles and ultimate reconciliation? Not too many, huh? This one always finds its way back onto my playlist, and with good reason. "Miracle" and "Nothing Gives Me Pleasure" capture the sheer joy of being alive and in love.

The Innocence Mission - Glow - Acoustic songs about growing up, faith and friendship. It's a nice change of pace from a lot of "music" you hear on the radio or elsewhere today. I frequently write while listening to the Innocence Mission. Hell. I'm listening to it now. It's slow, quiet and reflective - perfect music for a Sunday evening - or any time you're looking to just have a nice sit and think session.

So now I've told you some of my selections, what are yours?

Open Letters

To the nice couple ahead of me in line at Subway:

You seem like nice people, who strive to do the right thing, but perhaps you're a little slow, so here's some advice:

Waaayyyy back, before computers, before the internet, before Ronald Reagan, communication wasn't particularly good. In fact, if you wanted to make a long distance call, you had to learn semaphore or smoke signals.

But then Samuel Morse came along, and invented the telegraph. This allowed people to communicate nearly instantaneously over large distance. The drawback? You needed to learn Morse code.

Fortunately, Alexander Graham Bell popped up, along with the telephone. NOW, you could TALK to people over long distances. All you needed to remember was a 7- or 10-digit code to input before making your call.

But what's this? What if I don't know the number, you ask? Well, some people came up with the idea of a book, listing ALL the telephone numbers, called the "telephone directory". This "directory" later split off to the Yellow pages, which lists only business numbers.

So now that you know how these things work, you won't think of going into a Subway at noon with orders for 12 sandwiches, two wraps and two bowls of chili - along with chips and sodas in hand, effectively holding the restaurant hostage while the staff worked to complete your order during the lunch rush, instead of, say, CALLING IT IN TWO HOURS EARLIER! Jackasses.

To the guy in the TrailBlazer making a left turn onto Olive at the aforementioned Subway.

Dear sir, since you can afford a TrailBlazer, I can only assume that you make lots o'money. And, to make said money, you must be educated. But I can't wrap my head around this simple problem: why would you try to make a left turn on Olive, when there's a clear "NO LEFT TURN" sign right next to your vehicle, and there's about 20 or so cars waiting to turn right behind you. Prick.

Thanks to all three of you fine people for wasting my lunch hour.