[insert song title referring to california here]

I feel that I've done all I can in California, because on Friday, I learned how to Frisbee golf (or disc golf, or, as I like to call it, Frolf, which sounds sort of sounds like a hobbit). You wind through the forest and drink beer (or smoke weed if you're so inclined) and toss discs at little poles with baskets on them. Exactly the sort of things hobbits would do. It was a blast, even though it was really hot. Like really hot.

Last night was my last night in the state as a resident, though I've kinda been homeless for the past week or so. We went to some oonch oonch yuppie party at a local hotel. We had $400 in free booze. I got obliterated. The bartender had spectacular cleavage, and there was a bongo player and a fashion show. I missed the fire dancers in lieu of getting booze, but the go-go dancers were tearing it up inside. Well, one was; she really knew how to shake it. The other one was kind of bland. Thumbs down, go-go girl. Anyway, the good thing about drinking Jameson all night (and I mean all night) is that I never wake up with a hangover, though sometimes it makes me act and speak in a way that's unbecoming of an upstanding gentleman. I think I did OK last night. I looked that bartender in the eye and everything.

Thanks for seven good years, California.

it had to be you

I've been playing this game with myself lately. I ponder whether I should stay up late and do some work at home or just try to get up early and take care of it in the morning. Usually, I opt for trying to get up early. Over the past week, it's worked once. Friday, I was at the office by 9 and finished a story on The Meat Puppets. I wasn't as happy with it as I'd hoped. I kinda wrote it long form and should have been more mindful of my word count. I thought I set the scene pretty well, it just took me a long time to do so. When you've only got 800 words to describe an experience you'll tell your grandkids about, you've got to make them count. You've still also got to make it relevant to others, because no one cares about your sentimental crap. I think I stumbled on that last bit, but I'll have another chance to rewrite it. Today, I brought home a stack of CDs to review, but I'm just going to take care of them in the morning. I decided my evening would be better served with sports and Chinese takeout and my last bottle of Moose Drool. I've gotta run out and buy another six.

When it comes to sports, I'm really loyal and super picky. I haven't been able to get behind another team since I was a New Jersey Devils fan. That was about 18 years ago, and the affair lasted till I moved to California. Now it's just the Mets and the football Giants. For the longest time, I've tried to get into a local team, but to no avail. I tried to half-heartedly cheer for the Sharks, but they're not really local, and I don't know anyone who's into hockey, so that ended that. The A's and the Giants are out, because my heart bleeds Mets; I hate the Raiders and the 49ers can go to hell. The closest team is the Sacramento Kings, who are kinda folk heroes up here, but their fans are so fairweather, and I've never really been much into basketball. However, over the past month or so, I really got into the Golden State Warriors and their unlikely playoff run, which was ended today by the Utah Jazz.

After they upset the Mavericks in round one, I was pretty hooked. Watching the game on TV from the Oracle Arena, where 20,000 fans were standing and screaming and chanting, "Air ball," was a total rush, so I settled into the unfamiliar role of frontrunner, and I enjoyed the ride for as long as it lasted. I mean, with plays like this, I doubt there's any sports fan who wouldn't be stoked.



At I saw the game slipping out of the Warriors' hands, I figured I'd just shrug it off, but I felt that familiar bubbling of frustration--a feeling you grow accustomed to cheering for the New York Mets. I began cursing under my breath, then out loud, and then muttering hateful things at the opposing team. It could have been the heat of the moment, but maybe I've finally found my local team.

viva italia

On Sunday morning, I was cramped into a loud tiny bar for the World Cup final. I drank a beer-mosa (the white trash version of a mimosa consisting of light beer and orange juice--it's a lot better than it sounds), jumped, sang, cheered, cursed and got knocked in the face by an errant inflatable soccer ball. I think everyone in town was there, including the hottest waitress with the best legs ever. But even better than that, Italy won the match, and afterwards, we ended up next door at a friend's Italian restaurant--he's a natural born Italian--for a pretty loud celebration. It was such an exciting game and I think I shook like a leaf for the last 30 minutes. But the Cup was great overall this year, I thought, despite all the drama. There was great goals, better acting and a really vicious headbutt. I can't wait for 2010. Even though by then I'll be REALLY old.

I drank champagne, beer, rum and a shot of Jagermeister. All that and the hot weather was making me woozy. My shirt was drenched and I generally felt like a human sponge, albeit a happy one. But I was a tired sponge too, so around 3pm, I decided to walk home. It was probably 200 degrees and I went from sponge to liquid form rather quickly. My sweat, I'm sure, ran about 80 proof. But I made it home--air conditioned bliss--and passed out on the couch.

It was nice to have such a fun and relaxing day, because I had to use the memory of that to get me through today. Work has been very troubling and way too much for me to handle lately. There's too much for me to keep track of. Too many projects to flesh out and stories to write. There was some good stuff, though. I watched David Wright advance to the finals in the Homerun Derby and came home for lunch and watched a couple episodes of Entourage. I hope the people in Italy are still drunk, partying and conceiving children that they'll name after members of their 2006 World Cup team. At least then I can live vicariously.

the greatest bocce ball nation on the face of the planet

We gathered for 'brunch' at 11am to watch the US take on Italy in the World Cup. Things did not go well--for either team, really. The US played much better than their last match, though, and walked away with a tie. They'll still need to beat Ghana and get a lot of help to move on to the next round, though.

It was a really sloppy game. It was more like watching kids in a schoolyard than watching a World Cup match. There were three red cards and a ton of fouls; one disallowed goal; and the only goal the US scored was kicked in by one of the Italians. But we all shouted a lot and we watched the game with an actual Italian--not a fake one like me--and it was fun to watch her get so into it. She was hanging on every pass and wasn't all that stoked that her team walked away with a tie. During the match, the announcer referred to Italy as "one of the greatest soccer nations on the face of the planet." Hyperbole is alive and well.

Afterwards, we all headed out into the backyard and I set my sights on the bocce ball set. I hadn't played in years, not since my grandfather was still alive, but I was determined to strike up a game. We got two teams of two: Myself and the Italian woman were blue, in honor of the Azzurri. About halfway through the match, I picked up my form and we won 13-9. We had to cut the game short, because I had to go to work. We've just started another project, so it looks like my free time will be a fond memory. We got it done, though, and afterwards, my boss showed up with his Affluent White Male friends and he bought me in to their game of poker. It was good times. I beat this smug bastard good: He had four aces, but I had a straight flush. Sorry dog. Later, in a game they called "Screw Your Neighbor" I advanced all the way to the end and when my opponent passed me his three, taking my queen of hearts, I thought for sure I had lost. I called for the card on the top of the deck, as it was my right to do, and he tossed me a shiny ace of hearts. I made it out of there with the boss's $20 and went and rented myself a movie.

i've heard the moons of jupiter are lovely this time of year

I'm suffering from post-partum magazine depression hella hard. So hard that I've been using "hella" at a remarkable rate--something I'm going to have to lose since I'll be back in New York for a week next week. This production cycle weighed heavily on my psyche, and what made it worse was that the Great Albert Pujols suffered a back injury, which started a windfall of big injuries and left my fantasy baseball team in shambles. But it's not only my little world that's turning to shit, so too is the macrocosm, the big picture. Namely the planet Earth.

I don't like to get topical, and I'm not an environmentalist. I don't go "hiking." Nor do I own a pair of sandals or a back pack. I think the environment is lovely and beautiful, and I respect it enough to figure it wants no part of me. If Nature truly wanted to nurse me at her supple bossom, she would consist of only of bunnies and puppies and kittens and Kate Beckinsales and not spiders and mosquitos and the like. However, all those things have the right to survive, I guess, or at least to become extinct in a tasteful manner--like thanks to the slow cycle of evolution or by some super spiffy meteor impact--and not because people like to drive Hummers to Costco.

Tonight, while watching a rerun of LOST with my roommate (I'm going to end up watching the whole thing over again), she said she'd just heard Stephen Hawking had said at some conference that humans would have to leave Earth in order to stave off extinction. What she was referring to was this. It sounds ludicrous, I guess, and normally I'd think so, but Stephen Hawking is like a living brain, so I couldn't help but feel like we are, indeed, pretty well fucked.

Anyway, though I'm sure Mr. Hawking has put a lot of thought into what he said in his Hong Kong speech, I don't think transgalactic imperialism's the way to go. I don't think there is a way to go, really. People are always going to want stuff, and when the oil's all gone, they're just going to clamor for the next thing until that's all used up. It's never going to be enough.

This sort of thing has been pissing me off lately. Maybe because gas prices are almost $4 a gallon (I don't own a car, so I don't really care, I just know that someone's getting really rich off of other people's misery, and I'm tired of people who drive SUVs complaining about the price of gas like it's someone else's fault). I ended up writing a letter through Congress.org to oppose drilling at the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska (I know, MySpace politics are the new partisan bumper stickers). The letter went to a few California senators and President Bush. So far, the two Democratic senators (Feinstein and Boxer) responded with form letters ensuring me that My Voice Will Be Heard (I'm not holding my breath). All I wrote was that I opposed the proposal and added, "You're smart people. I'm sure you can come up with a better solution. That's what we pay you for, isn't it?"

I really do hope they leave that refuge alone, though I'm not sure why. Probably for my own selfish reasons, like somehow I helped keep this place pure and that makes me a better person than someone who drives a Chevy Tahoe. Or maybe, that when the soccer moms start burning Costcos for the last can of Castrol, or stabbing each other at Chevrons for the last drop of premium, I'll know there's at least one place I can escape to. ...Of course, I'll have to walk there.

happiness soup

I took the day off until about 2pm when I got called into work and ended up staying for a full day's worth of hours. Last night after going to this yokel bar in the north part of town where I had three drinks more than I wanted to and watched these kids from Connecticut get really really fucked up. They turned the place into their personal party palace: They were mixing their own drinks behind the bar, dancing and stripping on the back bar, making out near the pay phones, fighting in the parking lot and someone, from what I heard, puked a bucket's full of vomit in the bathroom sink. I tried this rum called VooDoo for the first time and it certainly cast some kind of weird spell on me. It wasn't anything a little Carl's Jr. couldn't fix right quick. I passed out on the couch, though I felt pretty sober when I get home. I hopped off the couch around 7:30am feeling spry and energetic. I must have had a good night's sleep. That must be what it feels like. I wouldn't know, really, because I haven't slept all that much lately. I started watching the coverage of the World Cup, and around nine, I'd decided that I wasn't going to go in today.

I called the office, because I'm stupid and responsible, though I'm sure if I hadn't, I would've gotten a call. I asked if the magazine was finally uploaded to the printer, or if we were going to finally do that today, and I was told that that was taken care of over the weekend. I was ecstatic because I figured that meant I wouldn't have to part ways with the couch at all today. However, I was told that the online proofs would probably be ready, and I would receive a call when they were. I was able to watch the US get their asses handed to them by the Czech Republic and shouted with glee as Italy defeated Ghana. My loyalties are split, and the bastards who make up the World Cup brackets put Italy and the US in the same group. I don't know who I'm going to cheer for come Saturday when they both face off, but after the US's showing (or lack thereof) today, they need the game a whole lot more than Italy does.

Going through the online proofs is as equally mind-numbing as it is soul-crushing. It's not really editing, per se, since any changes we make at that point cost us a chunk of change, so I can't go adding commas and things of that nature. We can only reupload pages for big stuff like missing pictures, misspelled headlines and things of that nature. Anything else that I see that had gotten through our rounds of editing, I just have to bite my tongue and accept. I only found one thing so far that I was 99% sure I changed when I was making corrections. No one will probably notice it but me, but that one error has pretty much destroyed any enjoyment this issue could ever bring me. Better luck on the next one.

Seeking solace, I went to my smelly underground oasis, the Chinese restaurant, for some hearty grub and a slice of zen. Again, the place was crowded, and there was a table of women locked in the throes of a sake bomb fest. I overheard one of them say she had upwards of 10. I wasn't discouraged, though, I ate my wonton soup and drank a Tsing Tao. It was another cool night tonight, so I seized the opportunity to eat a nice hot bowl of soup. We may not have another nice night like this until October.

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.]

714

My old roommate Ashley sent me a text message that read "Guess who just saw Barry Bonds hit 714." It was followed by a second message that read "That would be me." She was at the interleague game between the Giants and the A's at the McAfee Coliseum. I wrote her back and said that she was very lucky, and I was very jealous. When I was a kid, I watched David Cone go eight-plus innings with a no-hitter. It would have been the first in Mets history, and something that I'd remember--to the minutest detail--for my entire life. To this date, no Mets pitcher has ever thrown a no-hitter. That was the closest I'd ever been to baseball immortality, and even that would've paled in comparison to seeing the Babe tied at no. 2 on the all-time homerun list. I watched Bonds's press conference, and he was remarkably humble. I don't think it had set in. I could imagine it would be a surreal moment. However, I thought Brad Halsey's press conference was more interesting. Brad Halsey will appear as the answer to a question in Trivial Pursuit for years to come. He gave up the gopher ball to Bonds. Halsey was pretty laissez-faire to being a footnote in baseball history. He said that he was just one of 714 and that the homerun wasn't the first he gave up and certainly wouldn't be the last. Toward the end of the conference, he was asked if all the pomp and circumstance going into a Bonds at bat. Since he's chasing history, the baseball has to be swapped out for his at bat. A special ball is put into play in order to dissuade counterfeiters and profiteers. Halsey said the balls used for a Bonds at bat had a B on them and a number, and a pitcher of Barry. "Barry's face is on the ball?" asked a reporter. "Yeah," said Halsey. "And if you look it in the eye, it winks at you."

confluence

For some reason, that word popped in my head as I stood up against the wall at meathead tavern. I was at the office until 4:45am last night, and I felt like going out. I went to work late, came home early and then went out to do laundry. I had to dip into my backup underwear reserves the past two days, which is not something I like to do. After LOST, I shaved, showered and put on my freshly washed clothes and then sat down in my living room wondering why I'd gone through so much trouble. I didn't have "plans." In fact, as I sat there on the couch, staring at the first disc of season five of the Sopranos that had just arrived from my new Netflix account, I contemplated not going out at all. Unfortunately, my wanderlust had gotten the best of me; I had gone through all this trouble. This was the first time I'd washed my three pairs of jeans in at least two and a half weeks, and the weather was nice enough.

I headed out to meathead tavern because I had plenty of drink tickets there and I figured I'd bump into someone I know. I entered to find the place crowded; and it was a total sausage fest. I said hi to a couple people and then found a spot by a television set to watch Sportscenter when the word "confluence" popped in my head. I don't think I've ever actually used it in a sentence. In fact, though I'm sure it's a word, I have no idea what it means. So I had to look it up at m-w.com, the site without which I'd never be able to function as an editor. This is what the good people at Meriam Webster had to say:

1 : a coming or flowing together, meeting, or gathering at one point
2 a : the flowing together of two or more streams b : the place of meeting of two streams c : the combined stream formed by conjunction

I guess, looking back, that had absolutely nothing to do with the evening's course of events. Maybe it did in the most basic sense as a bar is a place where people come together. At meathead tavern, I drank my Captain and 7 and stared mindlessly at the television in-between catching passing glances at the new bar maiden as she cheerily stalked around picking up empty glasses. I was checking to see if Barry Bonds had tied Babe Ruth for second on the all-time home run list. There's a lot of hate for Barry and I can understand why. I always thought he was a prick--arrogant, self-centered--but that never changed my opinion that he's perhaps the greatest ballplayer I've ever seen. Ken Griffey Jr. would have gotten that honor if he could've only stayed healthy, though, if Albert Pujols keeps going the way he is, he's going to trump both of them around the time he turns 30. As far as I'm concerned, whether or not Bonds took performance enhancing drugs is irrelevant. All modern day record seekers have come under the same amount of fire, even more likable chaps like Sammy Sosa and Mark Maguire who helped resurrect interest in the game after strikes and contract squabbles had crushed people's faith in the American pastime.

But while Sosa and Maguire were shooting for a single season mark, Bonds is going for something much more hallowed, and he's going up against the most important man in baseball history. Babe Ruth was well before my time. Even before my father's time. The only images that I have of Ruth are sped up black and white highlight reels: Babe winking at the camera, Babe swinging for the fences, Babe's legs moving at unnatural speeds as he motors his ponderous form down the first base line. I'm not denying that, in his day, Babe Ruth was the most powerful player in the sport, but I doubt he'd be the prodigy he was if he'd been playing in the modern age. Maybe it is performance enhancing drugs, or that the ball is "juiced" to produce more home runs, but I think it's ridiculous to ignore the possibility, that after well over a hundred years of playing the sport, that the players have become more fine-tuned and sophisticated. There have been countless advances in scouting, technology, training...I'm getting off base.

Maybe Bonds knew, maybe he didn't. The fact of the matter is that MLB didn't have a drug/steroid policy until 2003 and the alleged time of Bonds's steroid use was before 2003. I'm glad that MLB does have a steroid policy in place now because they're harmful and they send out a wrong message, but if baseball was concerned with that, they would've done something about it long before 2003. Now that the game's most revered icons is about to be passed up for the second time by a black man, no less, people are screaming for an asteriks. I dunno. I think about it a lot, but I don't have any solid opinion. I never liked Barry Bonds, but that doesn't change his accomplishments. Neither does a little cream. In case you were wondering, here are some letters Hank Aaron got when he approached and later demolished Babe Ruth's all-time home run record:

"Dear Nigger Henry,

You are (not) going to break this record established by the great Babe Ruth if I can help it. . . . Whites are far more superior than jungle bunnies. . . . My gun is watching your every black move."

"Dear Henry Aaron,

How about some sickle cell anemia, Hank?"

Y'know, same shit different year.

I watched the television and saw that Bonds was still stuck on 713 HRs. After the report, ESPN tacked on a montage clip at the end of Bonds smacking long balls. This caught the attention of a young woman at the bar who could barely stand and was being led toward the bathroom by a girlfriend of hers. She stopped in front of me, and, seeing that I was watching the television, pounded my chest and shouted, "He did it! Barry hit the homer!" I tried to explained to her that he hadn't, that they were just showing clips, but she was so happy about it, I felt kind of bad, and besides, she was already being hurried further into the crowd.

endurance

On Saturday morning, I sat in this local barbershop/tattoo parlor happy to have had a full night's rest. They're few and far between. I'd decided, on a whim, because that's usually how I decide most things, to have a proper straight razor shave (with the hot towels and everything) and head buzzing (I was sick of cleaning up the bathroom after doing it myself). My appointment was scheduled for Friday, but a three-hour black out through most of the downtown and surrounding areas of town caused me to have to reschedule. On Friday, when I showed up for my original appointment time, the shop was full of tattooed patrons and employees sitting on the various barber chairs and waiting room couches. They regarded me as an outsider as I entered, but offered me a beer or something else to drink from the fridge. It was hot as fuck, so I opted for a water and occupied an empty stool. The shop is full of retro paraphernalia, mostly pinup art and '50s and '60s barbershop signage. One such sign displayed the eight or so hair cuts for men and the phrase "we cut your hair the correct way, the way you want it" proudly emblazoned on it. It's a pretty cool place. After the crowd at the store had thinned out some, one man re-entered from the back. I was one of two left in the shop; the other guy was reading tattoo magazines in the waiting area. The man who re-entered sat on a brown barber's chair, reclined, and asked me what hair cut I wanted. I told him I wanted it buzzed to the scalp, and I wanted a shave as well. Turned out he was the owner and also the barber. The power wasn't coming back on any time soon, so he asked me if I wanted to reschedule and I said sure, so we made an appointment for 11am on Saturday. He told me the shave thing was "very relaxing," and that every man should have it done at least once in his life, and that our fathers and grandfathers all had it done. It was his sales pitch, but I didn't need one, I had my mind made up about it before I entered the shop. It just seemed like something I should have done. Which brings me back to where I started.

I was the first appointment of the day. The owner let me in and I had a beer and waited in the waiting area as he and this other woman got the place set up. I was joined in the waiting area soon after by a group of young women who the owner later accurately described as looking like "a group of sorority girls from a sorority that you had to have double Ds to get into." They were all there for tattoos, I assume of flowers or butterflies.

I drank a Corona and got all shorn and left feeling like a million or so bucks. I may have to make it a yearly thing. And since my appointment was moved because of the black out, I got five bucks off. As I was in the chair, I was informed that the shop was going to have an afterparty that evening for the girls of the roller derby and that they'd have a keg and a DJ and I should come by. Since I had tickets to the roller derby anyway, I said that I probably would. The festivities would start at 12:30am.

Meanwhile, I'd received word that the commish of my fantasy baseball league would be in town, and that he and a few other guys in the league (though some of them live here, I don't really know them. I'd gotten introduced to the league by someone I'd known through my roommates who I used to get into baseball discussions with at parties. I've only met the other members of the fantasy league once before at a poker game). I was informed that they'd be hitting up the bars and that if I could, I should meet them up.

Roller derby was fun. The action, I think, was better this week than in previous week. And at the event, I bumped into an old tenant from my apartment managing days, so we shot the shit for a while and got caught up. I also met up with some coworkers and scored a ride downtown where I thought I'd try to meet up with the fantasy baseball crew. They were at this bar close to campus, and the line to get in was really long. It was moving quick, though, so I hopped on. I ended up waiting 20 minutes. Once I got inside, the place was ridiculously packed, and it more and more became apparent to me that I really didn't know who I was looking for. I eyed people I thought was them only to receive looks of confusion or agitation in return. I made four or five sweeps of the floor to no avail, so I left.

When I got outside, I found there was a message on my phone from my coworker/LOST buddy, who was downtown at a bar a block away. It was the first of the two roller derby after parties. The place was about 20 times smaller and just as packed, but I had drink tickets there. Somehow, my order for one Summerfest yielded two, but this unexpected bounty didn't last long, as walking to the less crowded back area resulted in a collision with another intoxicated patron, turning my two full pints into two halves. I combined the two in one glass and ended up at a table with my coworker, three people I didn't know and the dude who used to be my tenant.

From there it was a pit stop at the local watering hole, then the liquor store, then the tattoo/barbershop for the after party. When we got there, the place was dead, and like all after parties, I felt totally out of place. As time went on, though, more people trickled in, we made a fruitless effort to siphon beer from the world's foamiest keg; I pissed in an alley and spilt beer on myself for the second time. I got home at 3:30am to find that my front door was wide open and a police car patrolling the street that flashed its spotlight on me three times and never stopped to ask me who I was or where I was going. The house was free of intruders nothing looked stolen, but I never checked the spices in the kitchen cabinet. We have an extensive collection for a group of people who rarely cook.

I've typed all of this while a house spider that I thought was a brown recluse (there aren't any in California, I looked it up) has been perched on the window sill above me. It hasn't moved an inch. I think it's waiting for me to leave. I haven't decided whether or not to smite it with a broom yet, but I think I'll let it be. For now. I also found out one of my old roommates became a cheerleader for the Seattle Seahawks, which delights me on a many different levels.

Sorry you had to read all that.

vacation from the world

Today was pretty much one of the more sublimely perfect days I've had this year:

• I watched baseball and drank beer.
• I watched and downloaded pornography.
• I watched LOST and drank beer in between watching baseball and downloading and watching pornography.
• I closely followed the comings and goings of my fantasy baseball team, which did pretty well today.
• I contacted via phone, text messages and MySpace many folks I hadn't been in contact with recently, and that was really cool.
• I got a phone call from my student loan company, which I'm hella late on payments and they told me not to worry about it and zeroed me out, putting me into forebearance until May 14th. The money I've owed went on to my principle, but at least I'm not behind anymore, and I've fully resigned myself to the fact that I will be dead before I pay it off anyways.
• Did I mention that I watched LOST? it was fucking awe-fucking-some. No really. It got off to a slower start than last season, but I'm thinking this one is even better than the first, and I swear Evangeline Lilly's getting hotter. Or I'm getting lonlier (ie. pornography). Either way, I goddamn love that show. But since we're on the lonely topic, I'm going to depart from the listing format and go of on a bit of a tangent. Since my new roommates have moved in, I've pretty much been left to my own devices (ie. pornography with the sound on, even though the sound embarasses me sometimes and even though no one else but the cat can hear it, I'll still turn it down; it's my ironic form of modesty), and while it's cool that I get to lay on the couch and drink beer and watch baseball all day, it still kinda bums me out. They both have boyfriends and whatnot, so they're either over at "his" houses or just kinda hibernating. I guess that's what couples do. They spend time with each other, but living alone doesn't sit well with me. I talk to the cat from time to time, but I don't know if he likes me, though lately he's been warming up to me because I'm the one who feeds him and is here most of the time, when I'm not stuck in the office. The house isn't very big, but it does have three bedrooms, which means it's made for at least three people, and I find myself wandering aroudn the house aimlessly and talking to myself. I'm on friendly terms with both my roommates and their boyfriends, but still I feel like I'm a leper or something. I'm kinda needy like that. If I could afford it, I guess I'd be better off getting my own place or something. But I do really love this house and its location and I promised myself that if I move again, it'll be out of this town. Anyway, I think I have one more item to list...
• I read some recipes from Rachael Ray's 30-Minute Get Real Meals cookbook (which belongs to one of my absentee roomies). Now that I've been paid and whatnot, I'd like to go food shopping at some point this week, and I was looking for something fun and easy to make. I found a recipe for "Meatball and Sausage Pizza Stoup" which doesn't sound immediately appetizing, but does combine two of my favorite meals (soup and pizza) so it can't possibly be bad. In the intro for the recipe, Rachael writes, "The meatball dumplings in the stoup [I'm not sure what "stoup" is but it sounds like a mix between soup and stew] taste okay without 2 tablespoons of breadcrumbs, but being a Sicilian girl, I simply cannot make a meatball with no breadcrumbs." Momma woulda been so proud of her baby boy if I'd brought you home, but you had to go and marry someone else. In another life perhaps.
  

Liakhovich v. Brewster

Tonight, after the hectic pace of the past few weeks had finally subdued, I nestled into my couch to watch a healthy amount of television. I watched the A's beat the Yankees, Gina get kicked off of America's Next Top Model, best of skits from The Chapelle Show and, keeping with the model theme, Super Models Gone Bad on E!. As dramatic as all of these things were, none of them could hold a candle to Liakhovich v. Brewster on Showtime--quite possibly the best heavyweight title fight I've ever seen.

The heavyweight division of boxing has been in a real mess ever since Tyson went apeshit crazy. I guess a case could be made that it was pretty messy even when Tyson was knocking fools out in the first 20 seconds of the first round. Regardless, there hasn't been a real unified champion in forever, and sports commentators and promoters are clamoring to find out who the next undisputed bad ass will be. Enter Liakhovich v. Brewster for the WBO Heavyweight Championship.

I'm not at all familiar with Lamon Brewster, the defending champ going into the match. My enjoyment of boxing is pretty pedestrian. I don't follow the sport on a daily basis, but I will watch pretty much any fight, usually as long as I catch it from the beginning, because fights tell full stories, and I don't want to miss anything. However, from the pre-fight interview, in which Brewster (the dude on the left in the picture above) was wearing a white T-shirt with his two children on it, seemed like a pretty nice guy. He mentioned his hardships growing up (it's rare that fighters come from untroubled backgrounds, I guess, because if you had it really easy, you've got no excuse to fight) and how he's using the money he's making as a fighter (a pretty good sum since he's been champion for a couple years) for his children's education. The commentators said that he has the most killer left hook in the heavyweight division, but needs to work on his defense, meaning his fights are slugfests. I liked Brewster instantly.

But then came challenger 13-ranked, 29-year-old Sergei Liakhovich, who came to the US from Belarus with $100 bucks in his pocket (that he borrowed from someone else) and a dream to become the heavyweight champion. He hadn't had a fight in 16 months, and people criticized Brewster's decision to fight him because they thought Liakhovich an unworthy adversary. He was given no chance to win. He talked about the political climate in his country and how he fights for his homeland. His beautiful wife was in attendance, sitting in the second row, and the fight was being broadcasted back to his country. It's no mystery why there are so many boxing movies.

I spent almost the whole fight standing and pacing around my living room. I pace when I get excited (I also pace when I'm bored, but this time was for excitement). Just when one fighter looked as if he was finished, he'd land a Herculean blow out of nowhere that would turn the tide for a round or two, only to have the tide turned back again. I one of the earlier rounds, Liakhovich was pinned against the ropes and Brewster went in for the kill. Liakhovich took a flurry of shots to the head but somehow, I'm still not sure how, stayed standing and after Brewster punched himself out, retaliated to have Brewster against the ropes. In the seventh round, after Liakhovich dominated, punishing Brewster with shots to the body and quick left hooks, but by the end of the round, he had run out of gas, and again, Brewster, who looked worse for wear, moved in and eventually dropped Liakhovich to the canvas at the end of the round. In the ninth, Liakhovich, who looked like he had nothing left, hit Brewster with a right hand straight to the ear that even rocked me out of my seat. The punch had a dizzying effect, sending Brewster to the ropes, where he was unloaded upon. Somehow, and again I don't know how, he managed to stay up. Liakhovich managed to ride that last momentum swing into the 12th round and emerged the new champion, winning in a close but unanimous decision.

Usually heavyweights aren't as active as these two fighters, but these guys threw so many punches at times, they could've outworked a featherweight. Epic. They're set to have a rematch, but if I want to see it, I'm probably gonna have to pay for it. And I think I just might. As Don King says, "Only in America."

the chosen one

My hopes for fantasy baseball superiority rest solely on the shoulders of one of the greatest young hitters I've ever seen, Albert Pujols, first baseman for the St. Louis Cardinals. I picked third in my league's fantasy draft, and my target was Johan Santana, fantasy baseball's king stud pitching ace. Santana went first, though, in a move that surprised me a little, and I was happy to see Mr. Pujols fall down the list to me. I may have been better served picking up a pitcher, as I think the best pitchers will earn more points in my league over the course of the season, but I'm happy to know that I own the best hitter, and he's not even in his prime yet. He's just 26 and has already hit over 200 homers, drove in 621 RBIs and has hit for a .332 career average; and since I play in a keeper league, Pujols will remain a member of the Rosebank Twins through out his prime. Unless the rest of my team turns out to suck, which could very much be the case, and then he may be trade bait so I can win in the future sometime. Hopefully. I mean, there's 500 bucks to the winner and I can buy a whole lotta pizza with that.

It's pouring rain outside (again) but now that my fantasy baseball team is all drafted, I can almost hear the spring birds chirping and the flowers blooming. I hunger for beer and hotdogs and Cracker Jacks, but just the peanuts, really and not the carmel-y pop corn part.

annie hardy thinks i'm cool. sorta.

It's been a while because I had a friend in town and I had to make a concerted effort to stay away from the computer. We went to Reno and San Francisco and the strip club north of town where I ended up spending a lot more money than I'd planned on because I'd won a few bucks in Reno and the girls were especially hot. Once they heard my friend was visiting from New York, they were on us like vultures on a rotting carcass. It was frightening and pretty fucking cool.

Yesterday, I heard from one of my coworkers who was at SxSW that he'd spotted Annie Hardy--of Giant Drag and on a lesser scale Counting Backwards' most posted female (with Jenny Lewis and Asia Argento close runners up)--after her band played a show at some club that I wasn't at because I was here in California working my ass off. I guess he'd told her who he was with and he said she remembered us and the interview and being on the cover and passed on a thank you and things of that nature. He said hello to her from me. That bit of news made me very, very happy, so I thought I'd share it. I stole that neato picture from Aaron Farley who can be reached at his Web site or his blog. I hope he doesn't mind the thievery. I spoke with Annie once in San Francisco, but the only thing I was able to muster up the courage to say was "You guys rocked." I'm a bit of a dork.

I'll be working all weekend and taking time out to choose players in my fantasy baseball draft (I've got the third pick!) and to go see girls in short skirts beat the shit out of each other at Roller Derby. I got a free ticket since my place of employment is a sponsor. Hopefully I won't be too stressed out to enjoy it.

classic

Today I got my first healthy dose of the World Baseball Classic--also my first healthy dose of baseball since the end of last season. I've seen bits and pieces of the WBC here and there, but the first round was on at all weird hours it seemed, and I never was in front of a TV when the games were going on. I wasn't one of the many under the impression that this tournament is a dumb idea. Quite the contrary. Spring Training games are boring as piss, and, being a foaming at the mouth consumer of all things baseball, the thought of having a couple extra weeks of real, competitive games made me kinda tingly in my unmentionables.

First off, haters better recognize. If you think this tourney is bullshit, you haven't been watching the games. If you think the players are dogging it out there and not giving it their all, you're sadly mistaken. And the fans are ultra stoked. The game between Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic wasn't close, but the stadium (Hiram Bithorn in San Juan) was rocking, and any time you can see Big Papi Ortiz and Albert Pujols bat back to back, you're seeing something special. And I was happy to see my boy Beltran smack a homer.

After that, I watched Mexico v. Korea, which was one hell of a game. Korea won 2-1 thanks to Seong Yeop Lee's first inning lazer beam of a two-run homer. I really enjoyed watching players I've never seen before and also watching those who aren't featured prominently in the bigs anymore (like Korean pitcher Chan Ho Park) get some time in the spotlight. I found it hard to choose which team to cheer for because I want to retire to Mexico one day, and if it were up to me, I'd be taking my Korean Bride with me. I ended up opting for Korea, because I like a lot of their movies and I'd heard of fewer of their players. I hope that still entitles me to burritos.

The game went down to the wire and though there wasn't much hitting, there were tons of web gems, especially by Mexico, and personally, I love a good pitching battle. I was bummed, however, that I missed the Japan v. USA game earlier today. USA won thanks to an Alex Rodriguez single in the ninth inning and what had to be the worst call in the WBC's history (granted, it's on the first year). Personally, I think the fix is in. The US team's been playing like shit the whole tournament. They even lost to Canada. And I'm sure the powers that be have told the umps to go easy on them. This is where I'm in a bit of a conundrum with the WBC. While I'm all gung ho for the US when it comes to the Olympics, seeing as I only give a shit about snow boarding or discus throwing once every four years, I have a much more vested interest in our nation's pastime. That being said, there are players on the US team that I have issues with: Chipper Jones can go fuck himself; Roger Clemmens is a shit eating hick, and the only person I ever wished injury on; A-Rod and Derek Jeter are bitch-ass Yankees, which automatically only puts them one small step lower than Adolph Hitler and, well, Chipper Jones and Roger Clemmens, on the people I despise list. How can I chant "USA!" when Chipper Jones is at the plate when really all I want is for the pitcher, any pitcher, to hit him upside the mouth with a fastball? Therefore, though it kinda pains me to do so, it looks like it's Korea (and/or Mexico) all the way. Maybe next time they'll consult me before they put together our national team.

the best of the best

If anyone was wondering, the recent prolonged absense from doing this thing I do here a lot of the time was sorta planned but sorta not at the same time. I guess that doesn't mean that much, but work has kinda become a four-letter word and since I've had to talk about it so much in my regular life--both professionally and personally--I didn't want to have to spend the extra worry writing about it here. Safe to say, it's pretty much all I eat, breathe and shit lately, and not because I'm busy. I prefer to leave it at that because I'm not as funny as Dooce, and I don't have any savings; I may work for peanuts, but those peanuts manage to pay the rent, kinda.

Luckily, there are distractions like Sasha Cohen winning the silver, Two Gallants' What the Toll Tells, alcohol and, most importantly, tonight's Oscars broadcast. I watched the show with my new roommates and their boyfriends, for the most part, but most importantly, I was joined by a steady flow of rum and mixers from my fridge and freezer. (PS. I made that three picture thing all by my lonesome in Microsoft Picture editor. I don't know why it turned black and white, but it did. Still, I'm pretty stoked about it, even if i stole the idea from Steve, who's a lot better at finding pictures for his blog than I am, meaning, that I usually just pick a picture of some hot chick and he chooses images that actually coincide with the narrative of his entry. Go figure. Either away, I made that, so suck it bitches.)

I spent the better part of the day watching pre-Oscar coverage. What did I learn? Reese Witherspoon is just about the greatest white person on the planet (I think she's kinda awesome, to be honest). And if you're gay, you're pretty much allowed to say or do anything that you want. Especially if you're fabulous. And Ryan Seacrest really needs to die and take Simon Cowell with him (not that Simon had anything to do with the Academy Awards coverage, but really).

Unfortunately, I missed the opening monolog and a couple of the early awards, such as George Clooney taking best supporting actor because I was stuck in a far less glamorous place: the "Econowash" Laundromat just two blocks away from my house. Unfortunately, it's been dumping rain all day (and still dumping), and I don't have a car, so I had to walk, with clothes in a covered plastic bin, detergent and fabric softener in tow. I used to have a washer/dryer here at the house, but they went away with my old roommates. I did enjoy the laundromat culture, however. A nice Mexican lady pointed out which dryers worked best and I met this cute tweaker couple's precocious young pitbull (that I ended up talking at at length because I'm really good at embarassing myself when doggies are present). I'm actually looking forward to going back because when I was in high school, I always pictured that I would meet the girl of my dreams in a laundromat once I went away to college. I didn't go away to college until I was 25...and until today I've never been in a laundromat, which goes to show you how stupid high school kids are.

Anyway, since last year's Oscar's recap (excuse the missing pictures) was such a big hit in my own mind, here are some reflections on this year's Oscars:

Salma Hayek followed up last year's stellar cleavage performance with yet another dose of her ample bossoms as she presented the nominees for this year's best score. I don't remember who won, but I'll never forget her boobies.

Three 6 Mafia won the award for best song for their number from Hustle and Flow, which, I think, is hip-hop's first official Oscar. That's probably the coolest and saddest thing ever as some old dudes actually listened to "hippity hop" and thought it was pretty fresh, but may have effectively sent rap music to the same retirement home as punk rock. Either way, coolest acceptance speech of the night.

Reese won Best Actress! Seriously, she rocks. Have you ever seen Freeway? I didn't actually see her play June Carter Cash, but I heard the soundtrack and I thought she had an amazing voice. Even better than Joaquin Phoenix (who also rules) but only because I thought he was trying too hard to sound like Johnny.

Keira Knightley made me feel sweaty in my nether regions. And not just because I was wearing (and still am) the same underwear from the night before. Though I'm sure that played some part of it. Regardless the only thing that sucked about the dress she was wearing was that it looked like it would take quite a while to tear it off her body with my teeth. Just typing that made me blush a little.

I thought Jon Stewart was a good host. I loved that Stephen Colbert did voiceovers for the satirical awards campaign commercials. Sean Penn didn't feel the need to come to the defence of any of his colleagues, so I guess shit went pretty smooth. Though I can't believe they cut off the acceptance speeches of the people who won Best Picture (Crash). I mean, I don't really care who they wanted to thank either, but it is the biggest award of the night. Honestly, though I like the Oscars even when it sucks, so I'm probably not the best judge. It's the same mentality that has kept me from missing a single Super Bowl.

the ringer

Our Tanith Belbin "touched down during her twizzle" (those aren't my words, but that may be the least masculine thing I've ever typed, but I'm sure I could find worse if I searched this site hard enough, which I won't because my self image is already piss poor as it is. Just as an aside, it feels weird typing about ice dancing while listening to Wu-Tang Clan. Wu-Tang Clan ain't nothing to fuck wit') and her and that super stoked dude she skates with took home the silver for the USofAfuckyeah--not Canada. That's really gotta suck. Not that I'm an expert or anything, but they really did rock their thing that they did, and I'm pretty sure I shouted, "nail it, baby!" in support. I'm not proud of it though. It was the USoffuckingA's first medal in ice dancing in 30 years and that was a bronze. That's like historical and shit. In two days, Sasha Cohen will have done her final sit-spin of the 2006 Winter Olympics and I can pretend this brief daliance with figure skating never happened. Good thing it's not like etched into the Internet or anything.

I didn't go to work today. I didn't call in or anything (though I did call in once to get a phone number) I just didn't go because I didn't want to. I'll use Presidents Day as an excuse. I walked through the creekside jungle and cleaned my room and made the saddest dinner evAr, but it was actually kinda good because I dashed that shit with curry, cumin and black pepper. Sauteed zucchini on a light and fluffy bed of Top Ramen noodles. C'est manifique! Honestly, I might make it again on Wednesday because I got a shitload of Ramen and two more zucchinis that probably feel as if they were dug out of the soil for naught. I realize how pathetic my life is, but if it wasn't, I probably wouldn't be blogging.

Tomorrow night I will reclaim some of my manhood in San Francisco of all places as myself, a van-load of coworkers and a roomful of stinky heshers will watch THE SWORD take the stage and unleash upon us some serious Magic the Gathering metal. Before or afterwards, I will scarf down an epic burrito from El Farrolito, or as I like to call it My Favorite Place in the Universe. If anyone has a goblet or a roasted beast shank they'd like to lend me, please drop me a line.

the golden road ( i spent a lot of time putting these pictures together, so i hope you appreciate the effort)

Inspired, I suppose, by the accomplishments of the world's bestest and brightest, I took the longest walk of my walking career today, and it took me well over two hours. I traveled deep into the park, sticking to the asphalt path on the south side of the creek early on. I went far past the freeway overpass and the picnic areas until I came up to a small building that housed bathrooms. I wanted to get home before dark, since I was far away from the lighted sections of the park, and since there was a bridge to the north side of the creek, I thought it was a good enough place to turn around. I didn't want to pass out either, and I was just starting to feel all exerted. Before I turned around, though, I noticed a fenced in area behind the bathroom building and a couple of parking lots. I did a little bit of exploring and figured the fenced in area to be a dog park; there was a dispenser for dog waste bags at its entrance. Off to the left, I found a dirt path between two perfectly straight rows of poplars. It was something out of a movie, like that scene in Miller's Crossing when they take John Turturro out to the woods to kill him. I didn't go down the path, though. I thought I'd save it for tomorrow.

Across the foot bridge to the north side of the creek, I noticed a dirt path branching off the main, paved road. I took it, and in so doing blazed a path through about as much wilderness as I'm comfortable with. It was a narrow path; to my left, I saw the creek rushing by, and far to my right was the paved throughway, though that would disappear from time to time as road I was on dipped and winded. It was really nice, and I began to sweat and feel lightheaded, but I figured those were endorphins and my brain, having been without them for a while, was a little confused. Before the dirt path linked back up with the paved road, I found a circle of redwoods and a small picnic area. I love redwoods. These weren't as crazy big as the ones on the coast, but they still seemed to cast a shade different from all other trees. Also in the grove was a picnic table that if I wasn't so weirded out about eating outdoors, I'd like to take a bagged lunch to. I still may though, if I can get over it.

Both my roommates have pretty much moved out, so I've got the house to myself, but other than being able to watch porn with the sound on, being home alone is kinda beat. I get freaked out by every sound, and since I didn't go out drinking tonight, I won't be able to just pass out. The TV has been keeping me company today, and other than watching Murder at 1600 on On Demand, I've spent most of the time watching the Olympics. I was stoked to see four dudes from my motherland take the gold in the cross country relay. The race was pretty dope, and the hometown crowd was going apeshit the entire final leg. Italy had such a big lead that the team's anchor, Cristian "Zorro" Zorzi stopped racing, headed over to the frothing crowd, grabbed the Italian flag and marched to the finish line with the flag waving out of his shirt. It was pretty intense and at some point this week, I will have a plate of pasta in his honor.

After that, I watched ice dancing. I know. I'm loathe to call anything with a "twizzle section" a sport, but its easy to get suckered into watching something you normally wouldn't when your bundled up on your couch in your empty house with the heater off and a woman like Tanith Belbin is dangled before you like a shiny lure.

Tanith used to be a Canadian--like just three weeks ago. That's her there showing off her pearly whites and new citizenship. I'm pretty sure that if it were still in the Bronze Age, her defection to another kingdom would lead to troops being deployed and all kinds of bloody conflicts. Sorry, Canada. She's ours now.

I'd seen ice dancing once or twice in the past, and it put me to sleep. It was like regular figure skating without any element of danger. The ice dancers would smile and twizzle and move to some boring song and then take bows and people in the audience would lose their shit. This time around, however, a new scoring system (that hasn't been explained and I wouldn't understand it anyway) is in place. What it meant was the programs had to be more athletic, therefore more risky. And more risky translated into some of the more vicious collisions since the Super Bowl, and I'm totally cool with that. This one chick from Canada (not Tanith, she belongs to US) was dropped to the ice on her hip so hard, she bounced. Everyone there gasped, the commentators gasped, I was all "OOOOOO!"

I'm staying home from work tomorrow. I think it's Presidents Day or something. I don't care what it is, but it's supposed to be pay day, but since it's a holiday, we get paid on Tuesday. Therefore, I don't have to be there. I will be "working from home," but before I go to bed tonight, I'm going to make a bowl of Oriental flavored Top Ramen and watch Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Fun!

real american heroes

I've replaced the Winter Olympics with my own version: the 72-hour drunken marathon. Something like that. I've stuck with Guinness though, because I've come to the decision that the sugary shit just makes me miserable. I reverted to a couple rum and cokes last night, but it's just too cold; I made sure they were Bacardi last night because everything else just bounds me to the toilet bowl for a few hours the next morning. Just because my liver hates me, doesn't mean my colon has to.

There was an old coworker in town. There were a lot of other people in town also, reliving their carefree drunken college days. It was nice to see them, and it's strange that I've become a townie.

After barhopping in the sub-freezing temps (with the wind chill), I wandered into the shittiest pizza place on Earth to grab an over-priced, three-dollar slab of bread with some cheese on it. It's the kind of shit that's good for soaking up alcohol, but not much else. The line, since it was after last call, was out the door.

The people in front of me were wasted. I was hardly drunk enough to be able to put up with them. Some dude in one of the booths tried to leave and that started an altercation between he and one of the women. It never came to blows, but even if it had, no one would have broken it up. I would have had two choices: cover up or start swinging. Another female member of the group mentioned that "I looked grumpy" and that I had a "grumpy vibe." I said I wasn't and that I just wanted a slice of pizza and to go to sleep. "Is that all you want?" she asked. I answered plainly, "yes." She was right. I was pretty grumpy. And it was all their fault, because I was having a great night up until that point.

Finally, the wild bunch in front of me had made it to the front of the line. I noticed that the woman who'd been involved with the altercation was holding a fist full of twenties and babbling in some kind of either accented English or in a frantic drunk speak. Her crew--maybe six or so of them--began to thin out as they grabbed their lousy pizza slices in paper plates. I just wanted to go home. I knew it was going to be a long, cold walk and that I'd shut off the heater before I left, and that no one would be home when I got there because both my roommates have moved out and it'll be at least a week before the two new ones come in. I shimmied my way through the crowd and dropped my forearm on the counter and got the attention of the sympathetic dude who was manning the cash register. I asked him for a slice of pepperoni (because the pepperoni is the only thing that's really edible there), and he nodded at me to hold on a second. That's when I noticed that the woman with the the fistful of Jacksons, in her drunken reverie, was buying slices for everyone. The dude behind the counter tossed a slice of pepperonin on a paper plate and sneakily hid it among the slices the drunk woman was buying. "Do you want one?" she slurred. I said, "sure," pretending to be surprised. "Pepperoni." She handed me the paper plate with the slice of pepperoni on it and returned to doling out the rest of the bounty. I didn't thank her, even though I was, and forever will be, grateful. I grabbed the slice and headed for the door. Patience is a virtue, true, but this was the first time it ever got me a free slice of pizza.

simply the best

Today was remarkable for being one of the most unremarkable of my life. That is not to say that others had very remarkable days, but I was just not one of them.

My Olympics intake was a bit minimized as it was men's short program figure skating, and I really had my fill of that sport yesterday (at least until it's Sasha time). I did peek in from time to time to see who was leading and I saw that at one point, one of the Americans was in second place, but I think that was really early on. I missed women's speed skating 500m entirely (that must have been on earlier in the coverage), but I did catch men's combined downhill, which was one of the more exciting competitions so far.

Bode Miller must have been seeing double from partying the night before (and hey, I'm not one to talk, obviously) because he crapped out on another event he could have medaled in when he straddled one of the gates in the slalom portion of the combined and got disqualified. I was pretty bummed, because it's cool that there's an olympiad who can drink me under the table and still kick ass, but that opened the door to other lesser-known skiiers and that really made things interesting. The youngest guy on the US ski team Ted Ligety turned in a stellar performance and took gold, thanks to another DQ from frontrunner Austrian Benjamin Raich pulled a Bode. That's five golds for the US, but I was even more happy for Ivica Kostelic from Croatia, who took the silver. The dude broke down when he saw his time and knew he was guaranteed a medal. It was super emo, but not in a fashionably pouty sort of way. Ivica's sister Janica, as it turns out, is a vicious beast in downhill skiing as well and kicks ass on a regular basis, but this was Ivica's first Olympic medal. I'm sure he'll wear it to family dinners. I would.

Tonight's biggest winner, however, wasn't some dude whizzing down the side of a mountain like a crazy person, or some perfectly sequined and coifed figure skater, or a yoked-up woman playing human NASCAR on a skating rink. It was Rufus. And he's a dog.

Rufus, a colored bull terrier, won this year's Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show Best in Show, held at Madison Square Garden in front of a frighteningly enthusiastic live audience.

He decimated the terrier group and found himself some serious competition for the coveted title. There was (my personal favorite) a goofy rottweiler named Shaka Zulu, who was paraded around by his very enthusiastic owner/handler/treats giver; a dalmation; a prissy lil' pug; a foofy-haired English sheep dog; some kind of stock hound; and America's dog, a floppy-eared, shiny coated dog food bag photo-ready golden retriever, who I think was pretty sure he had the whole competition wrapped up.

Then of course, there was friendly Rufus, with his ponderous head, bewildered gaze and stocky appendages. Not only did he have to overcome his own physical shortcomings, but also the image of the bull terrier which has been forever marred by the notorious lech and party animal, Spuds McKenzie. Still, Rufus puffed up his chest and trotted around the green carpet. His eyes set on treats and a better future. Then came the moment of truth. You could see the retriever mouth "sorry losers" to his competitors. Well I could. The judge gave everyone a once over, then a twice over, then a thrice, and then walked over to the table to record his decision. He then stepped forward with his minions. The retriever practiced his acceptance speech. Then the judge said, "the winner is...Rufus!"

The crowd went wild, but not as wild as Rufus who, still holding the same look of bewilderment, now bounced with excitement. I think it was more than the promise of kibble. He knew what he had accomplished. Spuds be damned.

Oh. And Happy Valentine's Day.