memorial

So Bonds passed the Babe on the all-time list today. I found out about it while watching the live updates of my fantasy baseball league. I got my ass handed to me this week, but I almost came back and won it. I would have, I think, if my pitchers could throw strikes...and get batters out, of course. Bonds will have to hit 30-something more home runs before everyone gets all worked up again (he sits 40 behind Hank Aaron on the all-time list). For now, the game will settle back into it's slow and steady rhythm, and all is right with the world--at least in my world--because the Mets sit at the top of their division by 3.5 games.

That's not all that's going well, I guess. It's been a good weekend, as weekends go. I did the bar circuit as per usual and I only had to go to work on Saturday. I even did laundry so I have clean underwear again. All of those things make me happy. Well, I could have done without work on Saturday, but that's why I get paid the big bucks. Oh wait, I don't. Scratch that.

Tonight I saw the new X-Men movie, which was good, but nowhere near as bad ass as the last one. It was entertaining enough though: big action, some good humor when things got too serious, nice effects, loud noises, hot women and bad ass dudes (I used to hate Wolverine, but Hugh Jackman pretty much rules). Ian McKellan really makes the whole movie work, though. He's really convincing as Magneto, and even manages not to look like an idiot when he's wearing that cape and the silly helmet. Well, not a complete idiot anyway. I was happy to see Halle Berry give Storm a bit more personality and be more of the strong character she was in the comics (at least when I was growing up), and I was just happy to see Famke Jensen as Jean Grey/Phoenix. Sweet.

What I like about the X-Men franchise is that there's been a clear storyline through out. It's not just a series of hero fights villain, hero kills villain. Though I didn't like the first one, all three have played very well off of each other, and though Bret Ratner is no Bryan Singer, the film didn't lose much with him at the helm. Ratner stuck to the themes and characterizations of the first two movies very well. Though the story doesn't follow the comics exactly, they have done a good job creating a separate X-Universe in the films that works really well.

I almost didn't get to see Hugh or Ian or Halle or Famke or anything, however. I ordered the tickets online for the first time from Cinemark.com, fearing the show would be sold out. But I didn't bother recording my confirmation number, because I do a lot of business online, or over the phone, and they're always trying to give me confirmation numbers. They'll ask "do you want your confirmation number?" and I'll ask, "do I need it?" and they'll answer, "well, no, not really." Sometimes they'll ask me if I want it, and I say, "sure," just to be polite. They'll read it off and I'll act as if I'm writing it down, but I'm really not. I'll just lose that piece of paper anyway.

But Cinemark is serious about their confirmation numbers, as I found out today. I got to the kiosk with my ID out, because in all the yammering small print, I saw the word ID pop up (I guess that's not really a word, but whatever). I told the attendant that I was here to pick up my ticket that I'd purchased online, and she asked, "Do you have your confirmation number?" though we were only separated by a small layer of glass, she spoke through the microphone and speaker system.

"Nope, but I have my ID." I slipped it through the window slot.

"I can't give you your ticket without your confirmation number," she said apologetically.

I was decidedly frazzled. I think I said something like, "Oh, uh, hm. I have my ID."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said patiently. "I can get the manager, if you'd like."

"Could you?" I asked. Of course she could. She already said so.

The manager arrived, a young portly man with red hair and goatee. He was briefed on the situation and approached me. "You don't have your confirmation number?" he asked.

"I've never done this before," I said.

"You need that confirmation number."

"I have my ID," I said futily.

"And the card I ordered the ticket with." There it was. My ace in the hole.

"The important thing is that confirmation number," he said. But I could tell he had sympathy for my plight. "I could check on your credit card, but I'd have to call the main office in Dallas, and it's late...and it's a Sunday..."

He held my movie-watching fate in his hands, as I'm sure he has to countless other poor goobers who have had trouble negotiating the trecherous world of Internet commerce. Would I be let in or sent away? It was up to him to decide. This was why he was named manager.

"Let me see what I can do."

He entered the kiosk, made a phone call, then addressed me via the microphone and speaker box. "You May Enter," he said, in not so many words. He informed the girl behind the counter of the arrangement. I signed a guest check and was given a ticket. She smiled somewhat excitedly, as if she'd just seen the everyman triumph, against all odds. "Enjoy the show!" she chirped. In my mind, a slow clap built to thunderous applause.

More proof that all is right in my world is that, thanks to my roomies ordering sexy underthings, I now receive the Victoria's Secret catalog, meaning Adriana Lima and Alessandra Ambrosio will be delivered into my home, and subsequently, my sweaty clutches, on a regular basis. The Victoria's Secret Catalog is a wonderful thing because the items showcased within help women feel sexy, beautiful and desirable, and also works well for makeshift free pornography in a pinch. I haven't had to stoop to that level yet, but I will do so without shame if the need arises.



[I totally made the above image all by my lonesome with Microsoft Photo Editor. I feel like some kind of misunderstood genius. It required not only my sad perversions, but some math as well. This is truly a great day.]