It's not that I'm afraid
There are a few things that have given me pause lately.

1. It's a little intimidating knowing that Kristin's mom is reading this thing while on vacation. What if I let her down? What if I turn her vacation sour? What if she is using this as a cure for insomnia and I accidentally slip something entertaining in? Then what? I know. I KNOW!

2. It's a little intimidating knowing that at least 3 professional copy editors and numerous (like at least 6) other real smart folk read this thing.

3. It's a little awkward when a coworker announces her pregnancy and everyone has to feign full-fledged joy, when what they really feel is that mix of joy and dread.

4. It's a little awkward when a coworker mentions that your sense of humor is not so broad today, but seems shocked when you agree.

5. A disgusting weekend of Ultimate is still better than a disgusting ball of pus and mucus.

Tale of a failed metaphor
They tore down a house at the end of my street except for two walls. One of those walls has a door and a window. It's not difficult to picture a couch and a TV in what could have been the living room. Look through the house and the whole world is right outside the door and the window. Walk around. Look inside the house and the whole world is right there in the living room.
There's a metaphor there and it's just struggling to get out.

We interrupt this struggle to say, "Watch Wonderfalls." We now return you to your regularly scheduled struggle.

Is the whole world inside the house? outside the house? What does it all mean?

The simple pleasures
Cherry blossoms- yer perdy.
Reflecting pool- yer empty.
Stew- yer tasty.
Clutch- yer loud.
Smile- yer welcome.

Cheers
For every friend's email address, we'll give you...
If you could just put your name and address here...
To win, we'll just need your phone number...

They all want my statistics. My age. My name. My occupation. My place of residence. They want it for their databases, for their credit cards, for their demographics. Usually I feed them. Have my name and email address so I can win a trip to New Zealand. Take my phone number and salary range so I can have get a trial subscription. Here's my address, now let me use your slot machines. They've all got it now. They can trade me like baseball cards, though some of them swear they won't. And mostly what I get in return is a chance, a hope...and more marketing asking me for more personal information. Are they trying to build a robot of me?

More often than not, I'm tired of it. It's not worth it anymore. Can't they just share with each other? I don't have the energy to fill out the little boxes. Free isn't free, 20 dollars isn't 20 dollars.

I had a 20 dollar Gap gift certificate, a gift from my mother, a Gap card holder. The certificate was in my hand and so were some designer skivvies, when I realized that I was going to have to fill out an application for a Gap card. With my new Gap card I could get 15% off and I could use the "$20" in my hand. I picked up an application and internally I sighed, the exasperated sigh brought on by marketing efforts. I asked the woman in front of me if she would be using her Gap card today. She eyed me suspiciously and said, "no. I don't want a Gap card."

"I don't either," I told her as she turned away trying to avoid whatever sales pitch I didn't have. I asked the woman in front of her the same question and she just glared at me. So I gave up, returned the skivvies, and left the Gap.

I was heading toward a mall exit when I realized that this "free money" was going to end up in a landfill. Surely someone could use $20 at the Gap, but for the life of me I couldn't think of anyone else who had a Gap card. I turned on my heels and marched back to the Gap. The smartly dressed young man (are there any other kind at the Gap?) at the counter beckoned me forward with a flip of his hand. I walked up and pulled out my certificate and handed it to him.

"I don't have a Gap card," I explained as he got that frightened look that accompanies the fear of both not knowing the answer and not knowing how the customer is going to react. "I don't really want a Gap card," I continued. He turned the certificate over and slightly shrugged his shoulders ready to say something sing-songy along the lines of "We're sorry. This offer is only for card holders, blah blah, blah, blah."

"So if you could just give it to the next person who uses their Gap card? Can you do that for me?"

"Sure," he said, quite unsure.

After I left, I imagine the two cashiers looked at each other and said, "Who was that?"

At least they'll never know.

Long live ZANY
I don't travel that much with Ultimate teams anymore, having settled down to this adult film...er... just adult lifestyle. I would travel, but I can get Ultimate once a week (or 5 times a week) right here, just a magical Metro ride away. So I see the same people a lot. There are so many of them that it may not really look like the same people, but in terms of Ultimate they are same. This city has made them so. I am thankful for the heartiness and the volume of Ultimate here, but where OH WHERE are the characters?

It's been a long time since I've seen anyone's bits and pieces, kilt on or kiltless. I can't even remember the last Roshambo or Bear-Ninja-Cowboy (rock-paper-scissors games used in making decisions). There was a time in my life that I assumed all major decisions were made by Roshambo. Steak n' Shake or Wendy's? Bed or Floor? To be or not to be? 1-2-3-scissors... When was the last Ultimate game where someone offered me a grab box filled with surprises in return for the right to pull? Or where my team exchanged an Afro pick for the highly-coveted pink parachute man? I don't know either.

It's the conservatives. They don't sing. They don't do limericks or haikus or even more than a handshake. They're taking over the hippy sport and the hippies are just letting them. It's like they don't even care. They won't even fight to save the game. The hippies won't fight!

It's a travel issue. The community has too much inbreeding. Where are the Canadians, with their Spirit-of-the-Game ideals? Where are the Peters with their, um, well peters flapping in the wind? Where are the Mikeys laying out and cracking jokes(on ESPN as it turns out)? The Arts with the man bringing them down? The Marks with capes for every occasion? The Houli's doing what Houlis do? The Lybrads growing to 10x their original size? Where are the Richards living the Tequila and nudity mantra? The Footes monster hucks? The Scaduto parking lot pasta nights? Or how about Joey's famous new throw? And all the rest?

Yes. It's a travel issue. A time travel issue. If I must admit it, I would say those things I'm missing were leaving even as I was. Ultimate is changing before our eyes, (fine. My eyes. But it's not my fault that you're not watching). It's getting more competitive, more organized, and more mainstream. It's a great game, some might argue the Ultimate game, but it's a game rooted in wackiness.

There's a special place in my heart for wackiness. Time travel or no, it would be a tragedy to let the wackiness go out. If you're headed to a Fool's Fest this weekend, do me a favor. Put your wacky foot forward. These are our roots. And to let them fade away would make us fools.

Bowling for Giants
All those faux-muscle types who go bowling and use the eight-pound ball so they can spin the heck out of it, should head to Maryland for some Duckpin bowling. Three pound balls with five-inch diameters can be spun like heck at the short stocky pins. Duckpin bowling is 101 years old and was born just up the street in Baltimore. It was said that when the pins were knocked down they looked just like a flock of ducks. I prefer to think that the balls were so small that angry bowling patrons starting throwing them at one another and screaming "DUCK!"
That would've been fun until someone got hurt.

Duckpin bowling, like its more traditional parental unit is frustrating. I found that it hurt me in different ways- more in the forearm rather than the wrist. Duckpin has the late Saturday night Cosmic effect that now comes with every bowling alley. Exactly when did everything become better with loud music, flashing lights and fog? The 1970's if I had to wager a guess.

Duckpin bowling, as you may have guessed, is not the sport of champions, but man you can spin the heck out of that little ball.

How hot am I?
Wait. Don't answer that.

Yesterday I had not one, but two, rather unusual but entirely mundane exchanges with the opposite sex. One involved trying to make change for a dollar and the other involved a wave. Is spring bringing out this friendliness? Does the safari hat serve to negate the otherwise intimidating look the beard and buzz seems to create? Or is my hotness and charm oozing from my every pore?

Wait. Don't answer that either, because I'll tell you. At 74 degrees, hotness and charm are oozing from my every pore and just for today we're going to call them perspiration.

Oh, you said Death Metal
I do not have an electric guitar, but tonight I would like one. It's hard to be angry with a banjo. You cannot jam your frustrations away. You can pick some sad songs (and when I play them I bring a whole new dimension of sad), but you cannot ROCK. And if you can't rock, how can you rebel? How can you roll? How can you take your day and wad it up into a little ball and then blow it the #$@% out the speakers while you scream at the top of your lungs "DIE DIE DIE YOU FILTHY THURSDAY."

You can't.

Talk about mean
I know Mean Girls is old news, but as a later early screener, I feel the need to spread my version of the "buzz". I offer my opinions with a distinct feeling that "I can't win". This movie isn't aimed at me, but here I go anyway.

I like Lindsay Lohan. This isn't some dirty old man crush, it's just that I like her. I liked her in Parent Trap, I liked her in Freaky Friday. She plays well on the screen.

I like Tina Fey. This might be a dirty young man crush, but I have to get some credit because at least part of this crush is cerebral, right?

I like the rest of the supporting cast- the janitor from Scrubs, the high schoolers, etc. etc.

I'm glad the movie was free. It wasn't the cast, obviously. The movie just didn't have enough laughs to be funny. It was still too Hollywood to sell its moral. So, I felt like I ended up very much in high school. The immediate conclusion is that I must have been traumitized by H.S. I don't think I was. It wasn't my own pain I was feeling in the theater. It was the pain of friends and acquaintances. And it seemed all too real. It made me feel awkward and uncomfortable.

Perhaps, I've been reading too much Bitch magazine, but the way women (girls) treated each other in the movie was horrible. (That was the point, I know.) And the way they tied things up in a pretty bow at the end wasn't deep enough to satisfy me. It was sweet, but if a filmmaker is going to put a real message out there, then why not sell it all the way? Because it won't sell all the way like that. Which makes me sad, too.

But Dave, it's Mean Girls with Lindsay Lohan for crying out loud, what did you expect? Exactly. I expected a sappy high school/teen comedy. I'm saying give me the teen comedy, with a superficial "Let's all be friends" message or give me a movie with a real message of "Look at how we treat women", but if you give me both, I'm not going to be happy.

This may be Bitch talking again, but I thought feminism was tougher than that.

I may have a new hero

Check out this "Indie Rocker" in the Washington Post. I've never heard his work, but his life sounds copasetic.

It's one of those annoying logins, I recommend you lie to them, nay encourage you to lie to them. I apologize to marketers, but enough is enough. Be like me. I'm a CEO who does mostly administrative work. I think I also make truckloads of money, never read the Post, have more than 4 children, and live in Granby, CO. And that's just one of my identities.

Free haircuts are priceless
Whenever I cut my hair, I think about my grandpa. It’s probably because we have the same haircut, his a leftover buzz cut from WWII, mine a lazy buzz reaction to balding and high priced hair cutteries.

Today my hair past the comfortable buzz length into that silly stage. Grandpa’s used to do the same thing. I remember his big smile under that funny German nose, little patches of hair sticking up, accentuated by the hair that wasn’t there.

When I was quite a bit younger, one of our favorite games was “Trap me, Grandpa.” He’d sit in his La-Z-boy pretending to read, or just smiling mischeviously, and I’d crawl up to the edge of his chair with a sly grin of my own. I’d stare at him while he pretended to be interested in the newspaper and then suddenly SNAP his legs would close around me and I’d be trapped. I’d struggle to break free, grabbing at his shoes or his ankles until he released his grip just slightly. I’d see my opening and break for it, when SNAP his legs would come back together and we’d go through the whole struggle again. As soon as I did manage to get free, or looking back, probably as soon as he let me get free, I’d crawl back to the edge of the chair with that sly grin and say, “Trap me”.

Sometimes he would, but other times he’d just say “Settle down”, or he’d make me go wash up for dinner. Grandpa and the bathroom we washed up in always smelled like a combination of three things: lawn mowers, Lava soap, and Listerine. Once I bought some black soap just to play a trick on him. He came in from working on the lawn mowers ready to wash up for lunch and my grandma said, “Try this new soap we got you,” with a wink in my direction. He took that black soap, the kind that turns your hands black, and he lathered away. He lathered and rinsed and lathered some more, but he didn’t notice the blackness a bit. His hands were already so covered in grease that even black soap was a step in the right direction. He probably would’ve washed all afternoon if we hadn’t told him the joke. It wasn’t much of a joke anyway. I can’t remember if he laughed, but I bet he smiled. He did that a lot.

I remember getting up early in the morning when I stayed over and he’d be drinking his coffee halfway through a crossword puzzle. He’d smile as he offered me breakfast and the sports section of the paper. It didn’t matter if I could read or not, he’d still offer.

He was a big baseball fan, and a Royals fan. He’s the reason I can never truly hate baseball even after the strikes, the steroids, the scandals break my heart, I’ll never forget my grandpa and the Royals. I’m sure I’d heard that he had played semi-pro, but all I really understood was that he loved the game and he knew it better than anyone in my world. When we’d go to the Royals games, he’d buy a scorecard and we’d keep score. He always knew what was going to happen next and as far as I can remember he was always right.

I played baseball for a little while and he was my biggest fan. I bet it saddened him when I tossed aside the mitt after just a few years. He never complained though. And he cheered just as hard when I ran in Cross Country meets.

At his funeral, that first week after my freshman year of college, a recorded trumpet played “Take me out to the ballgame”. It was as beautiful as it was sad. Those that spoke at his funeral said wonderful admirable things about this man and his life, about his spirtuality and his personality, and about baseball. So much of it I never knew. The bits that I did get- the smells, and the smiles, the baseball and the love; those things are with me forever.

You can’t get that with a $20 haircut.

Cursed block
I chase her through the lines.
She winks and blinks and
eludes.
The more I chase, the farther
she goes.
With no return,
she doesn't leave.
She doesn't enter
From beginning to end
she pauses and ponders,
always escaping
Down
Down
Down
she goes,
when she'll rest my mind knows, but on and on she seems to go to the end of the line then below.
The winking
The blinking
Eluding my strokes.
I chase her
like the crafty cursor
she invokes.

He's a man, baby
I do manly things. I (tried to) work on my bikes to get them suitable for riding. I dive around and fiercely compete for a (flat)ball. I burp out loud, (once and a while.) I don't put down the seat (all the time). I stare at women. I have been known to drink from the container (only to finish it). I walk around my house with my shirt off. I don't iron well, if at all. I eat SPAM. My hands aren't soft.

Now you're thinking, you didn't bring me here to list the "sort of" manly things you do. I'd like to point out that I didn't bring you here at all. You came of your own free will.

Then I'd admit, that you were right. I bought silk flowers today. I'm having a little trouble coping. I didn't set out to buy silk flowers. I was in search of elastic for my duct tape skirt. So you can see how the dramatic turn to silk flowers could embarrass me.

On a bookshelf in the carriage house we have a vase. It's a pale marbley vase. It's very nice. That vase has been empty since we moved in. I was at a certain arts and crafts store in search of elastic and they had tons of silk flowers. A good friend of mine had mentioned that we could put silk flowers in the vase when I mentioned that once and a while I considered buying flowers from the florist to put in the vase. I scoffed, a manly scoff at her suggestion. Tons of flowers, and I was starting to look at them because there was no elastic. No elastic?! I know; but tons of fake flowers. I didn't want anything too bright and springy, because it isn't my vase and its owner has certain tastes. Bright and springy, those tastes are not. I found some pale silk hydrangeas or something and I was feeling pretty good about it. I knew it wasn't enough. So I searched a little longer until I found a nice sprig?, twig?, something maroon and spiky to compliment it. And I bought them knowing they would look good in the vase.

When I got home, bruised and scratched from a manly game of Ultimate, I revealed the flowers to my unsuspecting roommate. Up to this point I was confident in my silk flower buying decision. It would be a nice decorative touch to put some silk flowers in that vase. I folded up the stems and placed the flowers in the vase. And they looked good. I dare say even "real good." And that's when I started to be embarrassed.

My room may smell like man, but outside my door there are silk flowers in a vase and I know they look real good.

In a few days I'll get over my embarrassment and it's quite likely that I'll do it without any tears. Because I'm a man, baby. Just barely.

Even I don't want to do what I want to do
There are times when I complain, "Nobody wants to do what I want to do." While that might be true, I'm afraid that there are just as many times when I'm perfectly happy that nobody does want to do what I want to do. Somehow my ideas seem to collapse under their own weight. I'm struggling with why the source of an idea or a plan seems to have almost as much effect on me as the actual plan. I know I'm not alone in this. I've seen parties planned and then cancelled due to exigent circumstances that were neither exigent nor circumstances. I myself have responded to the same idea in exactly opposite ways.

An example: Person A says, "let's go paint pottery. Wouldn't that be fun?" I say, "no".

One week passes and Person B says, "let's go paint pottery for so and so's birthday." I say, "Ok. That sounds like fun."

Person A is understandably baffled by this behavior. So am I.

From Eggers AHWOSG

"Are you sure you want to be telling me all this?"
...
"What am I giving you? I am giving you nothing. I am giving you things that God knows, everyone knows... I give you all these things...but you still know nothing. I tell you and it evaporates. I don't care- how could I care?"

From me BSWTFmate?

"You can't really know what I'm thinking because by the time I get it down on paper man, I've already moved on. So, like what you're reading is like so totally five minutes ago, man. You can't know me, because you can't keep up, man. I can't even keep up myself. 57 words per minute and still I can't keep up... I think we're all better off for it; man."

The rest of the story
I'm without Sports Night because I finished it and because they didn't make any more. I think that Jeremy and Natalie ended up together. Natalie took on production of CSC when Dana left. Dana and Casey never ended up together but they remain good friends. Neither married. Both are happy. Dan and Rebecca got married, but Dan went mad and joined a cult. Their two children are coping. The cast and crew are good wholesome family people that deserve their own show, but won't ever get it. That is their lot in life. Dave and the CVS girl never saw each other again. The CVS girl used her new found confidence to drive Delaware men wild. Dave used his new found confidence to prepare to meet his challenge- get a date in '04. He also used his "CVS girl" story whenever talk got dull. Reuben learned to play an electric ukelele. His band will go on to make the hardest rockin' uke music of all time. That is his lot in life.

Stringing along
Remember love seasons? I'm afraid that I may have funny stringed instrument seasons.

Last year around this time I started craving a banjo for no apparent reason.

This year I'm starting to feel that same way about ukeleles.

I'm not sure there's room enough in my life for two stringed instruments. I don't even play the banjo that often. Although maybe Reuben would like one. It's funny just to picture it.

What could be better than that?
Have you ever found yourself in that place? The one where you're thinking deep and philosophical thoughts like, "I wonder how Dave would spend 100 dollars at Borders on a rainy day in March."

Your deep philosophical inquiries can be quenched right HERE:

You are here by Wesley Gibson, The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield, The Best American Non required Reading short story collection, The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank, Bringing Down the House by Ben Mezrich, The Queen's Fool by Philippa Gregory, The latest issues of Bitch and Adbusters, and some groovy (or more appropriate 70's slang) stationery.

See Title
If Paul, a.k.a. P, a.k.a. P-diddy, a.k.a. DJ Usurp, would give me his address so I can send him his freakin' Valentine. I'm tired of having it on my desk.

See Title again
Pizza and Sports Night.

One more time
I got two of the coolest envelopes in the world today containing personal letters, and I got nothing from Citibank. AWESOME.

Now that Martha is convicted
I think I'm going to make a duct tape skirt.
Don't give me that look, it's doable.
What I need is something for the waistband. I'm also concerned that it will be too heavy and won't move properly. It's got to be the kind of skirt that's good for diving. Maybe I should call Louis Vutton. Or does he just make handbags?

Why? I hear my mother asking. Because I'm playing on a team called "The Duct Tape Experience", that's why. Oh, and also because duct tape pants would look ridiculous and probably chafe.

The disc doesn't lie
They have names like Hump, Spanky, Saw, and Hash. To them, I'm D.A. or The Prostituter. If I met them at a party, I'd probably try to find my way to the other side of the room. They call women "bitches". They travel with beer and less legal drugs. They swear like sailors and talk about fecal matter the way my friends talk about words. They're disgusting, childish, and I like them.

I wouldn't want to spend all my time with them, but I spent the better part of two days with them and I enjoyed it, a lot.

Spanky, Saw, Hash, and the rest are Ultimate players. They can do things with the disc that are beautiful to watch. They can make it fly. And they can rip it out of the sky. They pour their guts out onto the field, even if their guts are filled with alcohol.

Inside those cones and occasionally outside as well, we have entered a brotherhood. We trust each other. We won't let the other down. I'll be there streaking down the field when Spanky wants to let one fly. If Saw overthrows me, I'll come back and fight for a "D", trying to force a turnover, so that the brotherhood can live on and Hump can take another shot at it. It's teamwork and it isn't really interested in personality.

I fear I'm giving the impression that this brotherhood has reprehensible brethren. Things are never that black and white. Many of them have charisma like you wouldn't believe. Stuck between the swear words and the fecal matter are truly nice guys. When the whole team became engaged in an argument over whether one member of the team could be half-pirate and half-Indian. Someone loudly asked "Are you born a pirate or do you become one?"

I laughed hard. And it wasn't the only time. I can't tell you why Ultimate players love "Your mom*" jokes, nor can I tell you why they are so funny. But say anything; say, "I like pickles" and an Ultimate player will likely tell you that "Your mom likes pickles."

Whether your mom likes pickles or not isn't the issue, the issue is team. Spend two days with people pouring your heart out in pursuit of the same goal and I think you'll form a bond as well. The bond won't die when the weekend ends. Bonds are stronger than that, even with people you aren't sure you like.

*Moms, it's a joke, please don't take it personally.

An emotional tale
First I have to mention that the team I played with was not a particularly emotional team on the field. A few plays warranted a holler, or a high-five, but very little could make the entire team erupt into a roar.

Second, I have to mention that at the start of each game the team captains will often "flip" to decide things like jersey color, starting side of the field, etc. The flip involves each captain taking a disc and flipping it into the air while a predetermined teammate says "same" or "different". Will the discs land both face up, or one face up and one face down? The correct answer gets to choose the things like jersey color, starting side, etc.

Third, in the interest of full disclosure, I should probably mention that at least some of the beer had been consumed on the sidelines by this point in the day.

Late in the day on Saturday, our captain was flipping near the bleachers the team was seated on. As the discs careened to the ground the entire team watched in silence for a rare moment. One disc landed face up, the other hit the ground and started to roll. It wiggled and wobbled and rolled along the ground and the team seemed to suck in their collective breath as we waited for it to fall. It fell face up, seeming to buck physics in the process and we leapt to our feet in triumph and erupted in cheers. We would continue to wear dark jerseys. It was our finest hour.

An interview with me
Interviewer (Q) will be played by one of my alter egos. I'll play me, or one of me, or something.
Hold on to your hats.

Q: By now all our readers know that you like at least 4 things: group dynamics, blogs, Ultimate, and women. What we want to know is what's your type?

Dave: Blood type?

Q: No. Women.

D: Oh. Right. I don't really have a type.

Q: Really? What about the short-haired cutie?

D: I like short-haired cute women, but I wouldn't really call that my (air quotes) type.

Q: We'll ignore the air quotes, and say what about Natalie from Sports Night?

D: She's cute and she has short hair, but I don't see your point.

Q: Would it be safe to say that the last two women you were enamored with for longer than a week were short-haired cuties?

D: I suppose they had short hair, and of course they were cute, quite lovely actually, but...

Q: And the girl in CVS? How long was her hair?

D: It was on the shorter side.

Q: Do you see a pattern?

D: Perhaps, I see your pattern, but a "type"?

Q: All right then. How about your favorite TV show in college?

D: Ed?

Q: Carol Vescey- short hair- you see where I'm going?

D: A little bit.

Q: Ok then. Reese Witherspoon. Explain that.

D: She's a good actress?

Q: SHORT-HAIRED CUTIE.

D: Really?

Q: Yes. Aren't you seeing it?

D: I'm seeing that this interiew had a pretty strange agenda.

Q: My hair is pretty short. What do you think of me?

D: I think we're done here.

TV on DVD
I've been watching Sports Night on DVD and I've noticed some things.

1. My office lacks the witty banter of a well-scripted show. It's not the one-liners so much as it is the follow-up.

2. My job lacks the appropriate supporting cast who love their jobs, and wacky me.

3. DVDs lack commercials. I don't miss commercials, except when I have to grab a snack. Maybe it's ok to ignore your sequence.

4. The woman who plays Natalie needs more television parts. Someone employ her. Cancel a reality show if necessary.

5. No TV is a fine thing for a home, but sometimes mindless escape is really great.

YOU CAN'T HAVE MY PANTS!

I think* this will be the battle cry of the next great revolution.


*Generally, I don't get paid to think.

Stuff that made me smile
or laugh really hard.

The first two are probably not worth the wait if you have dial-up. I'm sorry I've become one of them. Go to the last link to feel better about yourself.

There's My Gay Boyfriend, which is pretty much hilarious.

There's Kittens singing Independent woman and playing instruments. Funny, though I'm not sure it ever ends.

This isn't as funny, but I think it's an error message we all need to see. Don't be afraid. You deserve the praise.

That big hole
I've got a little business trip coming up in a few months in Phoenix and I'm thinking, "Do I know anyone there?"

Tonight it was suggested that I rent a convertible and drive to the Grand Canyon once business is finished. On the surface this seems like a remarkably good idea. Below the surface, this seems like a remarkably good idea. We're talking sun; we're talking convertibles; we're talking wonders of the world. This is something I can totally get behind, but, and you knew there was a but, I don't know if I can do it.

What?!?, you're saying, but you're pretty adventurous. What about that wonders of the world talk?

And I know you can picture me cruisin' down the highway in a convertible, desert wind blowing through my thinning hair, Christie Brinkley pulling up along side in a Ferrari. I can picture it too and it looks pretty good.

But, and you knew I'd get to the but eventually, I made plans to go to the Grand Canyon with a girl. A girl? you say, p-shaw, you say.

It wasn't just any girl. I loved that girl. I loved that girl like no other. She made me crazy, and we never travelled particularly well together, and we haven't spoken in months, and it ended so long ago that it's supposed to really be ended by now, but if I do this, then it might really end.

It wasn't supposed to ever really end. It was supposed to be happily ever after and the craziness was supposed to take us places like the Grand Canyon, where we could rough it and be together and be ridiculously happy even when we were driving each other up the wall. Because we were together and together was more important than our differences of opinion. Together we were stronger, smarter, better. And even in the moments where we ended up weaker, dumber, and worse, we had each other and there was something beautiful and pure about that.

And maybe that's exactly why I should go. Or is it exactly why I shouldn't?

A new frontier
In the last month I've made a life-altering discovery. It's called Saturday morning. Admittedly, I remember hearing about Saturday mornings in college, but I thought they were myths. A fairy tale invented by those coming down after a lenghty Friday night.

Because there aren't very many of you and because I know we can keep a secret I'm going to let you in on my discovery.

Saturday mornings are real and they're fantastic. They're full of freedom. The day is laid out before you and it wants to be molded into whatever you want it to be. And the best part, and this is the reason we have to keep the secret, is that not many people know about this time. They're still in bed. So even as you experience this fantastic time, try to keep it down. There is no sense in waking "them". You can scream in ecstasy later, for now try to enjoy your freedom more serenely. Bake some cinnamon rolls, go for a bike ride, get an oil change (Cartoons don't count, though they can be satisfying for different reasons.) The key here is to accomplish something. Because if you get something done, before the rest of the world gets up, you'll feel good knowing that you've already got a notch on your belt, while "they" are still wiping crusty sleep from their eyes.

Saturday mornings- now with more freedom.

I guess most of us keep going through it because we need the eggs.
-W. Allen

I'm tired of being afraid that I'm going to miss something.
It's time you were afraid that you're going to miss something.

The girl of my dreams this week
or I'm still in 6th grade, but looking forward to 7th

I asked her a simple question, "Do you have postcards?"

She looked at me quizzically and then said "No". And at that moment I discovered two things.
1. They don't have postcards at CVS.
2. Mary, behind the counter, has beautiful eyes.

I left, but those eyes kept my mind occupied. I wouldn't mind another look.

2 hours later I returned to CVS. I was going to tell Mary that she had beautiful eyes.

I marched up to the door of CVS and immediately turned around and took two steps toward the street. I steeled myself, turned back and walked through both doors of CVS.

I saw her at the counter reading and immediately turned around and walked right back out the doors. I stood outside CVS, hovering, shifting my weight from the "going-in-to-CVS" foot and the "going-back-to-the-car" foot. The car foot won that battle. Defeated, I walked back to my car.

I unlocked the car, sat down, and made fun of myself. "David's afraid of girls" I chanted disgustedly.

I got back out of the car. Locked my door and walked back to CVS. I got to the doors, paused, turned on my heels and headed back to the car. I couldn't do it. It was too embarrassinng. It served no purpose. It was silly.

I got halfway back to the car, turned on my heels and headed to CVS. It's a beautiful day. This girl is stuck inside. What harm can it do to tell her you think she has beautiful eyes? Just do it, wimp.

I paused at the doors. I took a deep breath and I charged inside. I walked up to Mary. Looked her right in the beautiful eyes and stuttered, "I was in here earlier looking for...uh...postcards."

"Yea." she said, wondering what my point was.

"I just came back to tell you that you have beautiful eyes."

And then the eyes and a smile to match suddenly lit up as she said "Thank you".

I smiled back. Tugged at my safari hat, and said, "Have a good day," as I bolted out the door and back to my car to celebrate my victory.



That should be the ending. It isn't.

More or Why can't you just let things go?
Fueled by this triumph and intrigued by the matching beautiful eyes and smile, I've let the vision of Mary carry me through the week. Eventually I convince myself, why should this stop at a compliment? Why not see if you can get a date? Because of course, a girl with beautiful eyes and a beautiful smile that you've exchanged less than 20 words with is going to want a date. Oh yea, and have I mentioned that this girl is in another state? She is.

No matter. The Internet is a magical tool. I find the CVS in another state and I write down its phone number. I would return to the scene, but that seems especially overzealous. No need to get completely carried away...yet.

After careful planning and consideration of how to best not sound like a total psycho, I call CVS.

"CVS. This is Barbara"

"May I please speak to Mary?"

"No one by that name works here."

"Short hair- worked on Sunday?"

"No."

"Oh.
Thanks."

The sticker is mine
Maybe it's because I expect a Sousa march to be playing in the background, but voting never lives up to the hype. In a fit of guilt and some vague ideal, I managed to saunter to the ol' polling place and get my vote on. I don't know why, well other than the guilt and that vague ideal. I'm sorry, but I don't see how my uninformed vote in a primary really helped anyone, especially "Uncommitted to any Candidate". I didn't even know he was running.

Why does voting always feel like picking the best booger? They're all kind of gross, but the big one is probably the most satisfying pick (at least it might win).

But "yay!" I say with all the democratic sarcasm I can muster. I rocked the vote. I got the sticker. E plurbus unum, life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and all that other rhetoric that means something until it becomes a sound bite just like everything else. Deep down they've probably got someone's best interests at heart, but are they mine?

Play it John Phillips. Play it loud.

Everybody isn't doing it
Just because blogs blow my mind every two seconds, it appears that I'm in (probably we're in, if you're reading this) the minority. The AP will tell you that between 2% and 7% of adult Internet users have blogs and of those only 10 percent update daily.

Tell-a-Clare, I spent the night in Delaware
Somethin’ ‘bout a college town,
the other side of M, D.
Spent the evenin’ waitin’ and scrabblin’
with my extended family.
I do like those college towns.
Eye candy for all to see.
That First State t’ain’t far from here,
and them goods are tax free.
Something ‘bout a college town
they do love a hippy.
The rest of Delaware, well I can’t say,
‘cause I’m part of the conspiracy.

Coming clean
For a second there I was starting to think I was becoming pretty hip. My CD player is spinning The Postal Service, Josh Ritter and the newly beloved Hem. So, I'm thinking, "I'm grown up. I've got these sophisticated indie music tastes now. I'm enjoying the subtleties of lyrics and the powerful harmonies of instrument and voice." And then it hits me, I'm not hip. Because, I'm wailing, I'd warble if I knew how, but I don't, so I'm wailing, in my finest falsetto, "LET THE RAIN FALL DOWN" and I'm loving it. The hipsters can't handle Hilary D. They don't even try.

And that's why they'll never be as cool* as me.


*They will also never be as cool as me, or I as hip as them, because they no longer use the words "cool" and/or "hip". I would tell you what they do use, but they won't even look at me.

Proof that I am not meant to run an all-night diner
I don't know how to cook bacon.

Proof that I should not give up dreams so easily
The bacon comes with cooking instructions--that is cooking, frying, and microwaving instructions.

My friends
are rock stars. They're out there doing it and if they aren't huge by the definition that most of the world will give you for "huge", they're huge to me.

They're making things happen. They're becoming Masters of Creative NonFiction and Masters of the Universe. They're changing the way you read the paper and the Internet. They're making families and saving kittens. They're buying houses and growing roots. They're searching for happiness and figuring it all out.

It's amazing to me. And it's so cool that I get to watch, to participate, to help take over the world.

Rock stars. Solid and Far out.

A chance of a hint of something I might like to do
I went to a little presentation on Personas today. "They" swear they're different than just thinking about demographics, but I'm not convinced it isn't just a different way of thinking about the same things. However, demographics are kind of interesting. Web site behaviors- kind of interesting. Some sort of demographic, marketing, website reasearch gig? maybe? Might satisfy my "group dynamics" urges and my "paycheck" urge.

No one get carried away yet. I'm not making any changes until I'm good and ready.

Do you realize?
-That Sex and The City (everybody else is going to blog about it) is over and I've only been a fan for two months and I still almost cried.
-it was the Miranda stuff if you wanted to know what got me.

-That this was one of the most satisfying weekends in a long time and I have a funny feeling most of that satisfaction came from a punishing 18 minutes.

-That Do Topia only represents a fraction of the nonsense that comes out of my brain, but my kind housemate is generous enough to listen to a big chunk of the rest of the nonsense.

-That I fully expect tomorrow to be just another manic Monday.

Slow twitch muscle fibers
Ah. Race day. It's been more than 2 years since I've had one. Bits of running have been mixed in with a steady diet of Ultimate; game day had replaced race day. Not today.

Today the old routines came back like the last race was last weekend. The old routines still work. I left the warm-up "I'll- never -run- faster- than- molasses" jitters after a nice stretch. I would at least beat molasses today.

I eyed my competition wavering between confident "Whose ass will I kick today?" and supremely unconfident, "Do I remember how to do this? Everyone looks like they are going to kick my ass."

I had moments of zen, peaceful calm as I touched the grass and eyed the Potomac river on three sides of this penisula 5k. Those moments alternated with something more like wild drunken butterflies in my stomach. The zen was pleasant, but the butterflies were more familiar and thus a greater comfort before the race.

The flag dropped and we took off, or rather plodded slowly off. I'd forgotten the starting pace of the average road race. I have never been much for plodding and so I began to eye the leaders and move with them. Since lately I haven't been much for training, this strategy worked for something like 600 meters. By 800 meters I had what is commonly called the "Gut Check." I know it's been a while since I raced, but I distinctly remember the gut check coming at 2.5k or 4k, not this early, not this early at all.

I've got guts and I checked them, and I checked them, and I checked them some more, at one point I even checked them in my throat. The guts checked out at acceptable levels, but would appreciate not being checked so often in the future.

I struggled all the way to the end, battling it out with several runners and my arch nemesis-- me.

It wasn't the fastest race I've ever run, nor the smartest, nor any other -est that I can think of, but MAN was it satisfying.

That's not the deal
Just make it past Valentine's Day I told myself. I just miss her because everyone is falling all over each other with candy and flowers. It's a symptom of the season. The season, yea, I just miss her because it's cold and dark. There were always nice moments in the cold and dark. Love hangs better in the crisp night air.

Wait until it gets warmer, then it'll be fine. Warmer? Like spring time? The season for falling in love? The season when short shorts make their triumphant return? No. No. after that.

Oh, summer then? It'll be fine when summer hits? When I'm on the beach sipping lemonade and rocking silently on the front porch of a cute little inn farther north sharing the sunset with yours truly? Or when I walk the scorching streets, disc in hand, knowing she'd throw with me?

Fall? How about Fall? When I'm out looking at the leaves change color? Out on a Sunday drive stopping at the overlook and exchanging smiles with myself in the rearview mirror? That Fall?

No. No. The next one? That's winter again. It's cold and dark again.

Yeah. I know.

Blogging adds 5 kilos (11 pounds, if I must) to your weight
In a recent scientific study involving the exhaustive survey of someone, as well as extensive field research, or at least searching in a field, Scientists, or men and women with white lab coats, determined individuals appearing on blogs, like those before them who had appeared on television, are saddled with a perceived addition of at least 5 kilos (11 American pounds) to their weight.

Men and women in white lab coats are unclear as to what causes this paradigm shift, or even what a paradigm shift is. They have, however, confirmed that a paradigm shift sounds "pretty nifty".

Survey results did reveal that the additional imagined 5 kilos were also accompanied by a perceived extra level of cuteness. More searching in fields is in progress, but for now the men and women in white lab coats are content with the assertion that "blog writers are perceived as cuter and chubbier than real people".

I, for one, look forward to the outcome of further study and urge you to support this research in whatever means possible.

It's hard to be a jerk...er...coach
The point I was trying to make was "Be patient. Don't just throw the disc up and expect your teammates to bail you out." It's not an easy thing to tell someone, so when I caught the swill, I immediately threw it away. It was a statement, "That's not what we wanted." I'm afraid my young friend heard a different statement, a "You must be perfect" sort of statement. That's not what I meant. And when we exchanged the loud words that's what I tried to explain.

By the end of the game, he had stopped throwing it wildly.

Did I win or lose? I got the results I wanted. Was there a better way?

These are troubled times
It only dawned on me at dinner tonight. I have reached a troubling point in my life. My memory of leaner times is starting to get fuzzy. It's getting harder to recall a time when I did not have the luxuries that I do now. I can only vaguely recall a time when my only condiment was BBQ sauce. Now I'm free to choose amongst Heinz 57 sauce, BBQ sauce, ketchup, mustard, and of course salsa. I have 4 varieties of salad dressing that go almost untouched. I seem to recall a time when meat was a biweekly extravagance, and now, NOW I buy myself ribs to eat on a whim. I haven't touched Ramen in nearly 10 months. So the Ramen baby can't be mine!

I've reached a comfort level. If not in the lap of luxury, I must be at least near the kneecap. I have the money to buy two mustards, but it's much easier to go to work fighting for just one. So the trouble, you see, is what am I fighting for? Is it to maintain this "rock 'n' roll" lifestyle? The one which sees me aimlessly careening from movie theater to movie theater? The lifestyle which affords me the occasional book or CD not borrowed from the library, but actually purchased? Is that enough to sustain a man? How can two mustards and ownership of books and music drive a man the way survival does?

They can't. That's why I'm going to become a Friend of the AFI Silver Theater. Because if I can't figure out what I'm fighting for, the least I can do is support the cinema and escape to a darkened theater.

The difference between a good day and a bad day can be determined by how mud and grass got between underwear elastic and skin.

Today it was diving in the mud and grass.

Today was a good day.

No Humpty Dance for Dave
I was trying to figure out what to wear out to see Digital Underground, they of Humpty Dance fame (and little else no matter what the radio and print ads have been trying to say all week.)

That's when the personality of my evening started to sink in. I'd be 1. at a bar and 2. listening to Digital Underground. I know I complain that I want to "DO SOMETHING", and it would be nice if this involved trying new things, but bars aren't new and DU certainly isn't new, are they retro yet?

I've been to bars and I can't remember too many that I've enjoyed. Perhaps a few in New Orleans, but that was more due to the quality of the company and the otherworldy scene that is Bourbon. If I wanted to be at a bar on Valentine's Day, I should at least go to the new Coyote Ugly where the single ladies are getting in free (not to mention dancing on the bar). No. So why go tonight? Valentine's Day pressure could crush a lesser man and it could seriously injure me.

Go for DU and the Humpty Dance? I've seen them. I saw them in a tavern in Frasier, CO. And at that time, I was mildly excited to take my chance to do the hump. I know it's only been a couple of years, but it felt safe then and still feels safe now to say, "once with the big-nosed man is enough."

I think I got a real Valentine
It was a bit of a hurried morning, but I felt compelled to wear my Smooches tie, you know, the one with all the smooches on it. It seemed appropriate, because I'm not anti-Valentine in any way. I hope that's not the impression I gave. I like love, love love even. I'd tied the smooches tie on and suddenly that didn't seem enough either. Forget casual Friday, this tie would look great with my used car salesman sportcoat. Sportcoat on and I'm out the door.

I hit the end of my driveway when I remember that today isn't just a casual Friday, today is "Clean-up Friday". We'll spend the day undoing the dirt that we've spent so long creating. Should I turn back and ratchet down the outfit a few notches? I don't think so. If anybody asks, I'll just say, "I think I clean up quite nicely, thanks."

I get to work and in about the time it takes a bull rider to become a champion, I get "It's clean up day. Why are you so dressed up?"

As promised (I don't tire of my own jokes easily) "I think I clean up quite nicely, thanks."
I get some laughs, but what does this have to do with the Valentine?

The Valentine. There's cleaning, there's working, and then there's sticking my hand in my sportcoat pocket. I feel a piece of paper. I don't remember the last time I had my sportcoat on. What could this be?

I pull it out and unfold it. In Memory of Marian Inez Schmidt it says. Grandma. She always remembered to write- birthdays, postcards, Valentine's.

Happy Valentine's Day to you too, Grandma.

Ways that my house is not like my Res. Hall
*I have to walk outside to do laundry.
*I have condiments, lots of condiments, and they don't all come from Taco Bell.
*There is very little chance that a girl is going to knock on the door before I go to bed.
*There is very little chance that I will run into Johnny in my bathroom.
*The urinal in my bathroom is not out of order.
*No one writes messages on my front door, and if they did, I'd probably call the cops.
*My front door reflects my personality in exactly zero ways.
*The people at the front desk are way too quiet.
*We don't have enough fire drills.
*I cannot knock on doors and create a game of frisbee, or soccer, or anything, except maybe cribbage. Reuben, are you up for cribbage?

Ways that it is
*I just had a long spontaneous conversation with my roommate.
*There is nothing good to eat here.
*I'm up and it's quiet.
*I could go to Dunkin' Donuts right now if I wanted to.
*Ron's Country Boy is still not open, no matter how hard I wish.
*Green Naugahyde-still a chick magnet after all these years.

The pressure is mounting
Mom sent me a cute little article about this couple getting married. They met on their morning commute on the subway. It's not enough to let me infer that I could meet someone on my morning commute. She writes, "It could happen to you" in the margin. Thanks Mom. I'm Nic Cage and I was married to Rosie Perez, but now I'm in love with the waitress who I promised 2 million dollars.

My aunt sent me a Valentine in the mail--very sweet. The message to me was surely innocent, but it says "I hope you get a real Valentine." I thought this was a real Valentine? Now I have to hope for a real one? Will I know a real one if I see it?

My coworkers were talking this morning. I'm overhearing. I'm always overhearing. I know so much about everyones' personal business that it's probably dangerous. Married, motherly coworker says to younger (there are a few of us) one, when are you going to marry that girl and have babies? He answers glibbly and walks away.

It's coming. I know it. This woman has never acknowledged that I have a life outside of work, but I can tell that is about to end. Seconds pass. Maybe I'll get out of this after all.

The turn. The look at me. "And you? When are you going to get married?" ME? I've barely managed a date in this millenium. I have a new found fear of women. MARRIED? Why ask me that now? Right before Valentine's Day? You've never cared before, but two days before V-day and suddenly you're interested? Why do you hate me? Is it because I'm not going to be buying any high-priced jewelry or flowers for the weekend? Is that it?

"Dunno. I've got to get a date first."

Indeed.

Self-esteem is on the rise
It started some time yesterday. I returned to college, not my college, but A college for a little Ultimate. It often starts with Ultimate. There they introduce me to new kids as "Super Dave" or decide I should be called the blasphemous "Davior". It's kind of nice, but kind of silly too. The thing that got me going yesterday was the collective "OOOH" as I made a grab around a guy. He wasn't really looking, but to everyone else it kind of looked like I went through him. A good start.

Then, today was evaluation day at work. Evaluation day can be a scary day. I was a little nervous, for the unknown, if for nothing else. My supervisor was nothing but complimentary. I even had to press to find anything to improve on. She was barely able to throw me a bone on that one. My coworker did point out that my supervisor doesn't really have time to notice when I screw up anyway, but those comments can be ignored when self-esteem is headed up, up, up.

Then more Ultimate. And a run. They don't call it Do Topia for nothing. (They don't really call it anything, unless "they" are Dave and Dave's Grandma "DG", then they don't. Which is what I said. I'd be worried you weren't listening anymore, but I am not in a self-doubting mood.)

Oh yea, and let us not forget my marriageability.

An unfinished song of admiration
There are places in this world where the banjo and the guitar combine forces to make rollicking good music. Matt's living room is not currently one of those places. I picked "Bile Dem Cabbage Down" and "Goodnight Ladies" and even "Cripple Creek" to the best of my limited abilities and when Matt wasn't playing "Boyz in the Hood", he strummed and concentrated and considered to the best of his ability, but my banjo and Matt's guitar did not seem to come from the same string family.

There was one moment where I was picking softly and Matt was strumming softly, with the heat pouring loudly out of the vents it almost sounded like something- not a song really, or shared notes so much, but more like a feeling. My little banjo and his guitar shared a feeling. They looked into one another's stringed soul and they thought, "someday we could make music together." And then the heat stopped roaring, and the pickin' and strummin' were again the focus. Poor banjo and guitar had lost that feeling.

I heard it though. Matt's guitar and my banjo may someday meet again, and if nothing else we'll play our songs with shared passion and volume. Together, we'll make beautiful music separately.

like totally
50 degrees is like twice 25. It's shorts weather. Hello spring.

One "word" review
Scarlett Johanson: MMMM.

Leonardo Nam: ha-ha.

The Perfect Score: Yay.

What am I so afraid of?
On the way home from places tonight, I was switching between the Techno-Trance and the Bluegrass. Back at the ranch, Josh Ritter and The Postal Service spin often when the radio ain't blasting the radio hits. All that to say, eclectic music tastes aside, nothing continues to evolve and move me the way that Hem does. Concert in March. Let's go 'cause I think I love Hem.

Is it me?
A friend of mine told me to read "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" because it could've been my book. I have tortured myself wondering what she meant.

Is it me because the author plays frisbee, loves the way he plays frisbee, will talk endlessly about the way he plays frisbee? Or is it me because he likes streaking or thinks that streaking and public nudity make some sort of statement, not quite sure of the statement, but some statement? It can't be me because of the heartbreak, I've never known that sort of soul-ripping loss. But he could be me because he runs from problems, runs across the country chasing what isn't there.

Did she mean it was me because of the self-absorption? Because I would write a book about me and only me and if I included you in it, you would only be reacting to me or an anecdote for me. Lori says it's ok, and maybe it is, but I don't want you to call me self-absorbed, that's only something I can call myself, and even then only through clenched teeth. Who is she to say something like that about me?

Then again, maybe she just meant that I could write a book, should write a book, with my voice, and even if it was self-serving might sell a few copies, might make somebody laugh or somebody cry. Or maybe she just meant I'd enjoy the book.

I did, so thanks.

Reality?
Why does this battle for the democratic nomination remind me of reality TV?

Friends
Sister: My friends don't have blogs. They're not computer geeks like your friends.

Me: My friends aren't really computer geeks, well, some of them are, but that's not why they have blogs.

Still me: It's just that my friends are more self-absorbed. *

*I actually said something like "journalists" or "writers" or "like to write", but self-absorbed is my new favorite description, which you would care about if you weren't so self-absorbed.**

**I don't really think you're that self-absorbed. I'm trying to be funny here.***

***Besides self-absorbtion, I am also enjoying the "footnote asterisk." Don't ask me why.****

****You could ask me why, but I don't know the answer, so it wouldn't really be worth it.

It's time for a fake conversation that seems all too real*
Hi J-Crew girl,
I know we've never met, but I've thought about it and it seems like it might be a good idea. I mean it kind of sickens me that you would pay 68 dollars for that shirt, but it is cute. I'll give you that. And those chinos, they're just to die for. What are chinos again? No, but I love them. I mean they look great on you, so maybe they are worth it. But they intimidate me. I'm not used to fancy shirts and fancy pants. The next thing you know you'll be shopping at Baby Gap and the sucking sound you hear will be your checking account emptying.

Yours is empty already?

Credit debt?

Reeeally?

I would have never guessed. Still, cute outfit.

Do I want to go out for drinks?

I don't drink. It's expensive and kind of pointless and yea, I just don't really do it.

What do I do? Like, jobwise? It's hard to explain. Most of the time I don't know myself. It's got variety though, I'll tell you that. I'll tell you that. You?

hmm. Interesting.

For fun? Me? There's Ultimate.

Yea, it's frisbee.

No. No. It's quite active actually. There's a big scene here in town.

Do I always repeat everything that's asked of me? Not always. It gives me a little time to think. That way I can be kinda clever, you know?

I did start.

No, really.

Bye then.

Nice meeting you too.

*except for the part where I am talking to a strange girl and the part where she asks me out for drinks.

And I swear
Today my brain has not shut up. Where usually it's content with a song and the mole of some soon-to-be-forgotten girl, today it was chattering away profanely. So pardon my beeps as we join my brain in search of the local post office.

"Where the BEEP is the BEEPing post office? It's got to be around here somewhere. Who the hell needs so many BEEPing hair dressers? It's not BEEPing here. BEEEEP. I'll cross the street then. Why the BEEP are the buses trying to run me over. I'm not even in the street. Well BEEP them. What are you looking at, woman?
Quizno's. huh. I didn't know that was here. FINALLY, there's the BEEPing post office. Why does it say closed? It's not even 5 o'clock. Mother BEEEEP. Oh, that's 'closed from 2 to 3:30', my mistake. (Approach door, stop.) I don't feel like dealing with postal workers. BEEP it. (Walking away) That guy probably thinks you're leaving. He thinks it's closed too. Who cares what the BEEP he thinks?
Would you please knock off the profanity? You're like a BEEPing sailor. DAMMMit, don't you ever shut up?"

And then I had to walk the rest of the way home. It's hard escaping your own mind. Apologies to the children and the offensive, er offended, er sorry.

Super Trends
or
I learned it from Henry Hager
My advertising professor, the best one I had, the only one who actually made me want to be in advertising, once said, (He never said anything only once but it makes the story flow better) "Three things sell- Animals, Babies, and Sex."

Let's look at that Super-est of Bowls, shall we?
1.There were animals- donkeys, bears, etc. etc.
2.Were there babies? There were kids at least (Soap in the mouth for Chevy was my favorite commercial.)
3. There was sex, or at least nudity, and the web and the office are blazin' with talk of it. (Who says advertising has to be in the paid spots?)

The sad part
or
You can't blame this on Henry
For all the controversy that the nipple is creating, the streaker got lost in the shuffle. How can streaking return to favor if dumb halftime acts are going to upstage it? HOW?!

Gene Hackman's been there
All I really knew about the restaurant that I was going to last night was that I was getting 7 courses and there were belly dancers. Imagine my dismay when we arrived and people were waiting outside looking ready to enter a club. I don't go to places that are ICE COLD, especially when it's ice cold outside. Fortunately, being in a throng of people was warming. Eventually we made it through the little door within the door-- it was very Wizard of Oz that way--where we got to wait a little more.

Once we got through the initial shock of all the people waiting, and the door within the door, and the internal waiting, we sat down to what I can only call a typical Moroccan meal. Now that I think about it, the meal was EXACTLY like every other Moroccan meal I've ever had. I've never had another Moroccan meal.

The seven courses were all quite tasty. There was some good bread and an excellent coffee cake made slightly odd by the inclusion of chicken, and then a whole chicken, and then things started to get really tasty. There was candied lamb, and couscous with squash, and fruit and nuts, and little pastries with sweet hot tea. I may have been able to continue eating at the pace we were on for about 3 years shy of eternity. My rear end would not have enjoyed the continued sitting, however.

Nearly all of this was finger food, but the belly dancer wasn't. I'm not sure what I had expected here, but I was very willing to sit back and watch the undulating woman. You don't, or at least I don't get those opportunities very often, or certainly not often enough. It was fairly mesmerizing. I was slightly disappointed by the belly, though I admit those expectations were probably a little too high. I guess I just figured someone featured as a belly dancer would have an incredibly belly-licious, um, you know, belly. Hers was nice, but easily overlooked if it hadn't had a spotlight on it. There was a sexy little scarf number and a sword-balancing number, but to be perfectly honest it all kind of blurs in my mind into one giant Moroccan shimmy. Then again, isn't that what Ameritesh or Jamertesh or whatever the place was called, really all about?

This is January
or
Takin' the Tide for a Ride
I have one real complaint about my home. The dryer here sucks. It doesn't dry. It has ONE job, and it fails to do it. It's worse than a weatherman. Well I've had it up to here with the dryer. Actually slightly lower than that, but it annoys me. Today I decided I'd show my stupid dryer a thing or two-- I'd go to a Laundromat. I'd do all my laundry at a place that didn't require multiple dryings.

And you're thinking, ah but the coins and the inconvenience of taking your undergarments out of the house... well, that's the other thing you should know about my dryer. It's coin operated and it's 50 feet from my house in the basement of my neighbors. So, forget that.

I pile my clothes into the car and head to the laundromat. I'm going to defeat my dryer once and for all, at least for a week. This is when the trouble begins. The first address I have for a Coin-op has no coin-ops around. There aren't even businesses around. If this address is correct, I'll be doing laundry in the basement of someone's house, and we already know that's not working out for me. I'll go to the other address I have, it looks like it's only 5 blocks from here. And it is, if each block is a mile. Sonofa!

At least I'd made it to a Laundromat. When I was younger, my parents used to stop on vacations at laundromats. We'd spend a while puttering around a slightly odd little place filled with washers and dryers quietly churning away with an occassional passerby wandering in to launder with us. That's what I was picturing.

This laundromat was a zoo. There were people everywhere. It smelled funny. How does a laundromat smell funny? People are cleaning. There were no seats open and so my dream of reading would've been a standing room only dream.

Why were my dreams ruined? It could have nothing to do with the fact that the laundromats from my memory were in little towns some day during the week and here I was just outside of the District in the middle of a Saturday, could it? No. I didn't think so.

I stared at the washers briefly. I looked at the dryers and I looked at all the people staring at their whirling, twirling rainbow of clothes and I decided that this wasn't worth it. The clothes went back into the car, and I went the 5 mile-blocks back to my home. I'm still debating whether clothes that have been for a Saturday drive can be considered clean. We all know they aren't getting any dryer.

Baby, it's cold outside
1. I should not be allowed to read about hypothermia and then spend large quantities of time underdressed in the biting cold. I THINK I'VE GOT IT!

2. The best time to see the monuments is on a Friday night when it's frickin' freezin' outside. NO LINES!

3. Ben's Chili Bowl does not mess around when they put onions on your chili or cheese on your fry. THAT'S RIGHT!

4. Maybe it was the snow, maybe the cold had gone to my head, but the Korean War Memorial really hit me hard. Those guys were my age and they're trudging along through the snow and the cold and they're miserable and they're going to die and for what? FOR WHAT?

A little lonely poem
If you were candy I would eat you.
If you were juice I would drink you.
If you were a hat I would wear you.

But you're not.

If you were mine I would love you.
If you were gone I would miss you.
If you were close I would kiss you.

But you're not.

So here I am eating
and here I am drinking
--all alone.

And there I go loving
And there I go missing
with my hat on my head
and no one for kissing.

They have ways of looking that up
On the track snow is gone of Hello Starling does Josh Ritter say, "Confectionery ass"?

-If he doesn't, he should, that's a delicious lyric.

-If he does, eww. gross.



Yes, they do
And no he doesn't. He says, "you were beautiful when I first saw your feathers and confectionery airs".
False alarm. Please return to your seats.

GlowStick Shower
Taking a shower by the UFO green light of a GlowStick is both eerie and beautiful.

Shaving by that same light is a bit unwise.

Elbows:sore; Heart:soar
There is something very special about a group of men (in this case it was men, but women would have been special too) who will get together on a frozen lake covered with 4 inches of snow to throw a red light-up disc between 8 glow-stick cones. I tip my frozen hat to those gentleman for making my Monday.

Passing it on
Good Grief! this is cooler than cool, Charlie Brown.

Dean's Yargh! to music. Lots and lots of music.

End of the World as we know it. (This is actually funnier when The Ranman tells it.)

Thanks to Lenar, PLU, and The Ranman.

My night at the movies
I was off secretly to Win a date with Tad Hamilton. By going alone, I figured I could get away with seeing this flick, without actually admitting it, if necessary. One review I read said it was like a 90 minute date with Kate Bosworth. I could think of worse fates. The other review said freezing to death was a better way to spend my time. I was going to ignore that review. Halfway to the theater, I ran into some ice covering the side walk. I had just heard a woman slip on the patch and so I eyed it carefully. I picked a spot that I thought I could land on and slide to safety. I leapt, but there was no sliding, for this was not ice. This was slush. And my shoes were now soaked. The woman's scream that I thought had been a slip, now made sense. It now seemed possible that by seeing Tad Hamilton I might both freeze to death and see a bad movie. A fate I was unprepared for.

Upon my arrival at the ticket booth, I figured I'd freeze my feet, but at least I'd see a movie my parents had liked-- Something's Gotta Give. My mother had mentioned that perhaps I wouldn't like it, something about it being geared to an older audience. I'm always a little leary when my parents like a movie, since our cinematic tastes don't seem to converge all that often. In this case, I had nothing to worry about. Jack and Diane go great together. This is such a sweet love story. I ate up. Granted, it could have been the 70 year old woman in me, but I really think this has a broader appeal. It seems to me that if you like the romantic comedy and Jack nor Diane bother you-- this is gravy. It's got jokes. It's got cuteness out the wazoo. It's got emotion. It's got seniors in love. You like seniors in love, don't you? Call me what you like, but there's something about love at that age. It seems like what we're all looking for-- Maybe not Hef, but most of us. A lot of us? Some of us? Me. I'm looking to be in love at that age. I think it's a beautiful thing.

AND, Keanu Reeves nor Amanda Peet are on screen long enough to be too annoying. So don't let that stop you. Also a beautiful thing.

Every party needs a Poopah
Someone has to sit apart from the group and tear carniverously at the pork ribs, while cornbread crumbs dribble down his beard. Someone who'll wash it all down with lemonade and lick the excess BBQ sauce from his moustache like so many bearded animals. And then with nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing, he'll try to find a way into the conversation when he shouldn't. He'll make the sort of snide remarks he should keep to himself, loud enough to stop the conversation, for a moment, before receiving the shaking head and fluttering eye movements of dismissal. Then our poopah can return to the book he is only halfway perusing or the other conversation he is only one quarterway involved in. This is the awkward exsistence of the Poopah.

As the night wears on, and the laughs around him grow heartier, his strength lessens. At the crossroads of fun and enjoyment, the poopah grabs his coat and bounds offroad to the valley of grump where he can be alone. This particular poopah manages a goodbye, but one that leaves his irksome presence lingering. It is not only the poopah who suffers from this existence, but partygoers everywhere.

The illusion of posting
Sometimes you gotta know when to point people elsewhere-
*So if you've missed the sound of Kella's voice: read this. It's like she read it aloud.
*If you're looking for something to cheer. Try Kristin.
*Need a funny dmv story?
* Wonder who answered all of yesterday's questions? It was Rob. But was it fair Rob or was it dark pensive Rob?

Some questions for you
*Why do Thank-you notes come in packages of 8 and buns in packages of 10?

*Why doesn't Tupperware tout its burping abilities anymore?

*If a stitch in time saves nine, what saves 6 and 1/2?

*How can you feel so alone in a big city and so not-alone in a cabin in the woods?

*Why do the people you love drive you so freaking crazy?

*Who did those stupid Hallmark ads (for the kissing dolls)? And worse who let them?

*Who titles a good book "The Secret History" and expects people to buy it? (Someone wiser than me perhaps, since it was a bestseller.)

*Is there any significance to the fact that my questions involve marketing, relationships, and ridiculousness?

*Where have all the cowboys gone? Deh doo Deh doo dehdoo dehdo

January birthdays
You're probably not getting a card if you're on this list, but the thought counts? right?

Happy Birthday to
One N Jen,
Commander,
Fres,
K-dogg (now called "Poochie"?),
AND
Matt.


If you're not on this list then maybe you'll get a card. That's right, go stand by the mailbox.

The best part about the trip
One might argue that the Perfect Pancake Pyramid was the pinnacle of this excursion, but I am going to have to argue for location. Never before have I been able to roll out of bed, layer my clothing, throw my board on my back, and walk to the hill. It was a long half mile up hill, but I found it very satisfying to be heading up just as the sun climbed into the sky. I seemed to be alone, save an SUV or two passing by. I may never board in the backcountry. I'm not even convinced that's something I want to do, but to be able to walk to the snow, snap in, and "shred" was something special. The fact that I had my shoes lashed to my back in my bag and I was able to walk back home that evening after a long day of ripping up that little hill was just icing.

Now, this sounds like a ski trip. And makes my heart pound.

Don’t call it a ski trip
It seems I now take a new breed of vacations. These vacations involve cabins, geographic entertainment, and larger quantities of friends. I am not sure when vacation came to be defined this way. Since I’ve been taking vacations sans parents, vacation roughly translated into piling into a car, driving for 6 or 8 hours and staying in a seedy motel or with friends. If it was a ski trip, we would then drive an hour or more to go skiing. And we would ski. We wouldn’t discuss the possiblity of skiing; we might grumble about the price, but we would pay it and we would be as close to the front of the lift line as we could manage in our already exhausted state.

This revised version of a vacation isn’t like that at all. In this version we all have separate rooms, with our own beds and a kitchen more equipped than our own, or at least my own. There are people, my friends, who don’t plan to ski at all. And some who may or may not ski depending on their mood. This cabin has a view and watermelon knick knacks. I didn’t used to stay in places that had knick knacks, I stayed in places that might or might not have rats. On this vacation the inability to move due to a hard day on the slopes is not our main plan for the evening. It seems that most cabin dwellers plan to be well rested and refreshed all weekend long. We’ll play games, the old-fashioned kind, we’ll read, or we’ll sing loud off-key songs. Even this new version of vacation has its abrasive moments, though fewer than I expected. On this vacation, we’ll cook meals, actual meals like pasta and garlic bread or hot dogs with mac ‘n cheese--not elaborate meals, but meals that did not come from South of the Border or require a lay-away plan. And when the meals are over, people will clean up, not “people”, like housekeepers, or elves, but people who made the meal or who ate the meal.

It’s quite impressive really, but to call it a ski trip doesn’t convey an accurate picture of the experience. We’ll call it a cabin trip, or that “Trip near the hill that had fake snow.” Maybe we’ll just call it fun and relaxing. That seems fairly accurate.

It's a whole new outlook
I've decided to stop living my life for me. From now on, it's all about the blog. If I'm in traffic and I get cut off, I'm going to think, will it make a better post if I shout dirty words or just go ahead and ram the sucker? Instead of doing things for me, I'm going to do them for you. Or at least for your entertainment. Think of me as the "Real World" online. I've dropped the pretense, see. I'm Real with a capital "r", a capital R followed by two small rr's. To Rrreally get things Rrrolling. I think the extra r's add zest, don't you? When I'm faced with the truly tough decisions--I'm going to serve them up like Comment Pie. Haven't tasted Comment Pie? It's a little like jello, but jigglier.
Then, you my readers, can guide me on the right path. I know you're up for it. I can see it in your eyes.


Where are my glasses?

Today's words to live by
"People who don't know where they're going, usually end up somewhere else."
-from some song

Desolation Row, this isn't
Rue de la Hyperactivite it just might be. It's arts night at the carriage house. Besides finishing a book and posting more than you wanted to know, I have also: sketched a pair of jeans, introduced myself to a new banjo technique (melodic style), tested out my acting ability in preparation for a Murder Mystery Game (Should I be a high-pitched squeaky marginally British old woman or a breathy deep voiced old woman? Neither was particularly good looking.), made myself lunch complete with love note (Dear David, Have a good lunch. Love, David) and managed to find time to dance, sometimes with my banjo and sometimes by myself.

Answer:Question
Last week I read the answer: 42
This week I read the quetion: Why are girls weird? from Why Girls are Weird by Pamela Ribon. The only thing this book lacked was an editorial assistant struggling to be a writer in New York. Pamela did an incredible job of creating a brand new cliche- struggling blogger turned author. (Or online diarist turned author, what's the dif, eh?) It left me feeling much like a stack of Cosmos would-- slight headache, slight case of vapidity creeping into my brain.

I can't fault her for trying. And you'd think that blogs, quarterlife crisises, and boy-girl drama would be right up my alley, but it seems you'd be wrong. There were a few moments of nicely written prose. The ailing father pulled at me a bit and the sisterly banter was good for a laugh.

Still, while I dig blogs, I figure some things are better left unbooked.

Think warm thoughts
When I feel the cold wind blow through my shoes and thin black socks, I smile and think, "Somewhere in Virginia they are making snow. right now."

Ignore past thoughts
When I feel the cold wind blow through my shoes and thin black socks, I try not to think, "Somewhere west of here, Mother Nature is making snow and she's dumping it on a giant slope."

Sometimes I feel lonely
Sometimes I don't. Tonight it's the latter. Why? Because I have no clue what I'm going to eat for dinner, but when I decide- I'll have it. No one will argue. No one will complain. No one will say, "Come on, we just had that" or "I don't like that." It will be dinner and it will be mine.

Icy Anticipation packed with Trepidation
The snowboard is out. The goggles are on. The "Best Ski Resort in the South" is softly calling my name. "Come to my icy hills. Let your board free."

"Yes, Wintergreen. I hear you Wintergreen. Your wish is my command." "But I'm nervous Wintergreen."

"Why? Don't you like to rip?"

"Yea. I'm afraid you might suck."

"I don't suck."

"How do I know?"

"Check out the $52 lift tickets."

"Maybe you're compensating."

"For what? I've got it all- skiing, golf, tennis..."

"All. What about snow? elevation? powder? mountains?"

"When I said all, I meant besides that. I've got 5 chair lifts. One of them even seats all your friends.

"I have more than 6 friends."

"I see you've done your homework. No matter, you won't have that many friends when the weekend is over.

"You're going to kill my friends?"

"No. They'll kill you. Have you ever been skiing with you? It's obnoxious.

"How would you know?"

"Mountains talk"

"You're not exactly a mountain."

"You're not exactly a molehill."

"What? You're not making sense."

"I'm not the one talking to a mountain."

"Shut up. You're not a mountain."

"Is that all you've got?"

"No. I just don't want to hurt your feelings."

"I'm tough. I'm made of stone, you know."

"Funny, I thought that icy exterior might house a softer side."

"It's not exactly funny."

"No. You're right. You're pretty sharp for a land mass."

"Thanks."

"Maybe we should put aside our differences. You know, be friends."

"All right. I'll try. But don't come crying to me when you catch an edge and go flying down the hill, sliding on the ice."

Introspection Week continues, now with assistance
Kim decided and so far I can't disagree that I am basically made of two people- "Dave" and "Dave's Grandma (DG)". "Dave" is the zanier side and "DG" is the more conservative side. Neither is particularly persuasive, so whoever is in charge sets the tone. For instance if "Dave" is in command on a given day and decides that I need to wear a kilt, no amount of pleading from "DG" is going to talk me out of it. Likewise if "DG" takes charge and decides that I will not be drinking on this particular evening, I have no chance of imbibing anything, no matter what "Dave" or my peers have to say. This theory works remarkably well and manages to explain a good chunk of my behavior. I contend, with Dave and DG's agreement, that occasionally they compromise and something not of the extremes happens. I do not, however, have any idea how Dave or DG takes control on any given day. Back to the introspection...

There has been a lot on my mind lately
I spent much of the last couple of days worrying about why I was worrying about two things.

1. Why do I care if someone goes on a ski trip and doesn't want to ski? I gave this a lot of thought and came to the conclusion that I care because since childhood I tend to bond by doing, through activity. I made friends with the kids who played kickball with me. I didn't know what to do with the kids who didn't. I've outgrown that a little bit, but not as much as I thought.

2.Why am I so worked up about Tequilamock... copyright fight? I still don't know. Maybe it's about soul and it's about motivation. You can't take somebody's soul like that for no conceivable reason. At least if the guy was gonna make a few bucks off the deal I could understand it, still despise it, but understand; but to just out and out steal someone's (or several someone's) words just to impress his mom or something. What the @#%? Obviously I still don't have a handle on this one.

Then last night I found something else to occupy my mind.
FIRE.
I was talking to a friend on the phone and said, "I think there's an alien landing on my street." Then I saw a flash of orange. "No, more like a fire." Some more flashes and a funny humming sound. "I think we're going to get cut off. I'm ok. It's not my house. It's next door. I'll be over soon."

CLICK

The power was out for about 3 seconds. When it came back on I snatched up the phone again and sort of stared at it wondering who to call, since I now saw smoke. I ran over to the bookshelf and grabbed a phone book. I tossed the book aside and called 911. Someone had already called them.
Fire trucks showed up, blocked off the streets, and I left deciding I didn't want to be around if my house was to burn.
It didn't. And today I see no traces of the whole ordeal.

Crazy
I hate to go back to this and post some more, but the more I think about this the crazier I become. What if someone like this moron is out there stealing my life and screwing it up? Or worse, what if they are stealing my life and doing a better job of it?

I know you're thinking, "trust me Dave, no one wants to steal your life," but...but... they might. And some of you must be thinking "sheesh, I thought when Reuben got back we could return to the witty one-liners and I wouldn't have to read so much. I don't come here to read. I come here for nonsense."

Well this is NONSENSE, it's just taking me longer to get there!

It doesn't stick
With very little ceremony I have changed wallets. The little money I have fit quite snugly. Credit card, bank card, Safeway card, college ID--check, check, check and check. The list of things to do before I die- check. Thirty- someodd of my own business cards? What? Why? I cut that down to a more manageable fifteen, making room for at least another fiver. All right fine, I cut it to twenty. I just wanted to say fiver.

And the last piece to go from the old wallet was a tiny square of tape that had been over the logo for quite some time. Now nearly as brown as the wallet, no trace of "I love you" remained visible, and once removed, I found out no trace of the sticky stuff was left either. I don't remember exactly how it got there. Something about a borrowed set of keys in a res hall mailbox. I doubt she even knew it was there, I forgot a few times myself.

What am I supposed to do with a little brown piece of paper? I hate to throw it away, but it doesn't stick, so I can't really keep it. It doesn't stick.

You can copyright this drivel?
And according to Julia maybe you should. Wild.

My apologies to the frog

"Hardcore Collection" to the tune of "Rainbow Connection"

Why are there so many sites about pornos?
And how much they are to buy.
Pornos for cruisers, but not just losers.
And pornos leave nothing to hide.
So we've been told and some choose to believe it.
I know they're wrong, wait and see.
Some day we'll find it, the hardcore collection
the perverts, the psychos, and me.

Who said that every wish would be heard and answered
when wished on the pooorn star
Somebody thought of that and someone believed it.
And look what it's done so far.
Why does the groaning keep us downloading
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we'll find it, the hardcore collection
the perverts, the psychos, and me.

All the web under it's spell
we know that it's probably tragic---

Have you been half aroused? And have you heard voices?
I've heard them calling my name.
Is this the shrill sound that calls to our failures?
The voice might be one and the same.
I've heard it too many times to ignore it.
It's something I shouldn't have found.
Someday I'll regret it, the hardcore collection
the perverts, the psychos, and me.

There is more
It's called dinner. What a difference a meal makes.

Thinking. The first mistake.
What is it that makes me think that there must be more? Always more. Five lazy days into a new year and already I'm wondering, "Can this be all there is?" Maybe it can. And why not? Four lazy days into the new year and I was just fine with that. What a difference a day makes, indeed.
This is the problem when I stop to think.

You'll have to excuse me now, I have to get back to my life of distractions.

45 seconds of service
The local KFC/Taco Bell drive-thru has instituted a new "45 seconds to take your order" policy. I support efficiency, but not at the cost of stupidity. We pulled up to the talking box and heard Barry White or reasonable impersonator say, "Welcome to KFC/Taco Bell where we take your order in 45 seconds". Then the recording cut away and frantic order taker female (FOTF) took his place. FOTF shrilly asked, "CANITAKEYOURORDER?" Hold on, let us look at the menu. "THENBACKUPPLEASEBACKUP". So we backed up because no one was behind us. I couldn't really see the menu anymore, but at least FOTF wouldn't be punished for taking a slow order.

We made our selections and pulled back up to the box. I ordered a Santa Fe Gordita and FOTF replied, "WEDON'THAVESANTAFE. HOWABOUTSUPREME, SUPREME? SUPREME?" I was saying "Baja", but FOTF was too busy auctioning off supreme to hear me. I might have wanted more to eat, but by then I was so unnerved that I couldn't remember what. I think they also promised to have our order out in a minute, but the woman in the window had a much more relaxed approach. I bet they haven't figured out a way to time her yet.

Backlash in the information age
*Even an antenna doesn't help the TV reception- I blame the cable company conspiracy.
*My land line seems to be for wrong numbers.
*My email account is for SPAM.
*And my blog is so last year.

Book Review: Horse of a Different Color--Lame.
I really enjoyed Seabiscuit, so I figured I'd give Horse of a Different Color a try. This book focuses on the money and the dumb-luck of the breeder (and author) of Monarchos, Derby winner from a few years back. The author uses self-depricating humor and name-dropping en masse to turn an undoubtedly exciting story into a painful, annoying tale. In a few paragraphs of unwisdom, author Jim Squires mentioned Seabiscuit, only compounding my fury at what this book is not. Instead of interesting characters (although I imagine they were there, Mr. Squires just didn't let us know them), we got names and generalities. Instead of heart-pounding tales of horse races, we got ho-hum descriptions of only two races.

I will admit that there were a few worthwhile pages. I was unaware of the foreign interest in horse racing nor the internal politics of racing and breeding, but I would have rather read that in a short magazine article.

Maybe this book is selling to all the hopeful newspaper editors turned lucky breeder. If that's not you, I'd stay away.

New Year's Day- Start a resolution
1. Stop and smell the flowers-- done. United States Botanical Gardens. Particularly enjoyed the orchids, the cacti, and the trains.

2. The pursuit of happiness and other inalienable rights-- examined. The National Archives is not a crowded place on New Year's Day. I am however worried about that fourth one in the Bill of Rights. I'm not sure I still have privacy regarding my personal effects since they went through two X-ray machines. This erosion concerns me.

3. Do something for you- How about Chili and a milkshake for brunch? Yep-pers.

4. And we're off. Come along, I think it's going to be quite a year.

New Year's Eve- Football and Sex
Feeding off the lowered expectations of him and others, I decided that New Year's Eve didn't have to be about expectations and a lot of silliness, it could just be. And be it did. Finding no Tiger fans, I made my way to a sports bar that didn't charge a cover and I watched a telling half while eating. During commercials I watched all the metrosexuals and their high-heeled womenfriends getting ready for the night.

Heading to the only party that had materialized for me, I joined some friends for a quiet viewing of Sex in the City as we waited for the ball to drop. I liked Sex; so much so that I stayed up until 5 am to watch a Season 6 marathon to top off the start of season 5 I'd seen earlier. I'd been told before that I should watch the show, but I guess it took the end of '03 for me to be ready. It does require a certain maturity.