at least someone's listening

It's good to know that all my complaints, and there are plenty, don't go unanswered. Momma Nature listens. She cares. Irked by the pleasant sunshine and warm weather, because it brought insects and libidos to the fore, I voiced my hate of the spring. After my complaints were run through the system and travelled the paths of metaphysical bureaucracy, Momma decided that my complaints were valid and opened the floodgates for three straight days of rain and no end in sight. She saved the worst of it for Friday night as, at 2:30am, embarked on a three-mile walk home from the other end of town.

I'm not complaining.

Last night I saw Constantine, because I didn't want to go to the bars--or think, really. I was pleasantly surprised, because I went in expecting the worst, but found myself in a blissful state of thoughtless enjoyment for 121 minutes. I can suspend my disbelief pretty easy if I want to, which helps me through movies like Constantine. There was a good amount of CGI, but I was happy that there was more done with atmosphere, and there was even some clever camera work. Sure, John Constantine from Hellblazer (you can actually download the first issue here) is a blond Englishman, but Keanu (really, I can't believe he's 40) pulled enough tricks out of his Neo playbook to do a decent job. There were plenty of bright spots like Peter Stormare as the coolest onscreen Lucifer ever and two Rachel Weizes.

The evening's entertainment took a slightly disturbing turn when I arrived home and found a naked man passed out in the bathtub. The door was open, the light was on; I entered the room to turn off the light--I found clothes all over the floor--when I heard snoring I peaked to the left to see enough of a hairy upper torso to change my mind. I left the light on but closed the door behind me. I worried that Naked Man, whoever he was, might drown, but I had a contigency plan if he did, being I'd simply deny that I ever saw him in the tub. I practiced over and over just in case I was brought in front of a judge. "I'm sorry, your honor, but it's not like I check my tub before going to bed every night in case there may be a naked man passed out in it."

Eventually, Naked Man began thrashing around, gurgling and yelling. I had no idea who this guy was, but I assumed he was my roommate, or one of my roommate's youngster friends who had stopped over to get really, really drunk. I suspended my disbelief again, convincing myself that what I heard was just a figment of my imagination, but after 20 minutes, the good Samaritan in me said, "hey, dude, you better check and see if he's okay, even under the threat of seeing his Johnson."

I wasn't about to go in the bathroom, because Naked Man was literally throwing some kind of fit, screaming crazy shit like he was yelling at a nightmare. I knocked on the door, yelled "hello" and shouted my roommate's name in case it was him. My inner-Samaritan is kinda lax about what he expects from me. We're not trying to be heroes, just hoping to appease our Catholic guilt. We're selfish, sure, but a good deed is a good deed. Whether you give to a charity just for the tax write off or because you genuinely care, if a starving child gets a turkey sandwich, does it really matter? Anyway, I got no response, so, since he was nowhere to be found, I called my roommate to see what was up. Turned out he was passed out in the spare room.

"Someone's freaking out in our bathtub."

"Oh, that's just W."

"Is he going to be okay?"

"Yeah...Yeah. He's fine."

My Samaritan said, "At least we didn't have to see his Johnson."