Someone should check my dossier...

Pat did it, I'm doing it, why don't you take a shot at this fun little quiz:

You Should Learn French

C'est super! You appreciate the finer things in life... wine, art, cheese, love affairs. You are definitely a Parisian at heart. You just need your tongue to catch up...

What Language Should You Learn?

Oh, if you check my dossier, you would find that je peux déjà parler français.

2 hours, 50 minutes to go.

If I believed in a higher power, I'd be thanking it for that little factoid. 2 hours, 50 minutes to go.

I just spoke with my boss. He's going to let me out of here at 2:30, a full hour before I'm supposed to leave. Again, I'd be thanking that higher power.

I'm thinking I'll jet to the bank, as my direct deposit is still not set up, jet to the Kinko's for some pub quiz work, and jet home for a power nap of amazing skill.

I have to admit that this hasn't been the toughest day I've had here, but it has been rough. I can't really concentrate on what the callers are saying. I forget numbers easily, which is not something I usually do. I have yet to jam my keyboard through my desk- but something tells me that I'd be lacking a certain zeal to do that today.

Maybe tomorrow.

This is how my life works II

We say caller ID, they say call display.

I was out and about yesterday, shopping for pub quiz prizes, when my phone chimed in with its familiar ringtone, Folsom Prison Blues. I check the caller ID- my boss is calling. He wants to know if I want some OT. As I'm always game to make more money, I accept. This has been widely regarded as a bad move.

Instead of starting my workday at the unhappy hour of 6am, I'm here at 2am.

Don't adjust your TV set- I said that right. For the first time ever, I'm blogging at 2am with having been drinking. Not that what I'm writing makes any more sense than if I were three sheets to the wind.

Fortunately for me, there is a small air mattress here, and I have a clean gym towel in my gym bag, so I think I might try to take a little nap for a bit, try to make up for the crappy sleep I got at home. Keep in mind that a towel, next to a Babel fish, is about the most useful thing in the universe.

My cat doesn't like changes in our routine, especially those that cut into sleep and cuddle times. For those of you who don't already know, I am very cuddly. Anyways. She was running around when it was too early for be to be in bed, and was really unhappy when the alarm went off at 12:50. She's just like that. I'm like that, too, when the alarm goes off at 12:50.

The eerie thing was, as I was in the cab coming down here, there were still people in bars. Not in just one or two, but in all of them. Usually, when I'm blogging at this time, I've been one of those people, and I get home with something bizarre to say.

Man, do I wish this were one of those posts.

Anyways, I'm going to keep on keepin' on, maybe write some pub quiz rounds, and boy oh boy can I just imagine myself hosting that tonight- I think I might get a friend to sit in for me. I think I might try to take some time off, too, maybe do a little traveling. I think, having been the go-to guy for the month of January, I kinda deserve a little vacation.

I think I'll take that nap now.

More, inevitably, later.

This is how my life works.

I spent yesterday actively studying horizontology. I had a rough week and I'm stuck with this fucking cold, so I wanted some couch time. I took that couch time seriously.

I wound up finishing a DVD and was too lazy to get up and put in a new one, so I started flipping around the channels when I came across Rick Steve's Europe (I've spent several years trying to determine whether or not his guy is gay or straight, and frankly a site called "Rick Steve's Europe Through the Back Door" really sends my opinion to one end of the spectrum.) Good ol' Rick was taking is through the Swiss Alps on this particular episode, and was shown eating some very nice lookin wursts with a crowd of folks.

"I'm hungry" I thought to myself.

After that show ended, I started my channel surfing again. It's hard to want to get off the couch when you've got your cat all cuddled up with you and the blanket is finally just the right temperature. I stopped for a minute on Barbeque University. He was doing a show on Super Bowl food, grilling up his "Super Bratwurst Sandwich." I got awfully exited when he broiled with Schlitz beer.

That's when it hit me- time for Resi's. I got up off the couch and walked into my roommate's room. I explained the situation- the shows, the grilling, the hunger pains, all of it. Plans and phone calls were made, and a trek to the Bierstube ensued.

I've been to Resi's probably a hundred thousand times, but something that has never happened to me before happened. As we approached, a couple was standing outside, plotting their next move. I nodded a hello and entered the bar. I opened the door and was greeted by a man in a very strange hat. Behind him was another guy wearing the same hat. Behind him was an old man with an accordion, then two women, and yet another accordion. Pretty much all of them were wearing red as well. I figured it was some strange kind of pub crawl, and I was right. What I didn't know until after they left and my buddy the bartender had a moment to breathe was that they were celebrating German Mardi Gras.

We sat down at the bar, I ordered an Aventinus and asked for a menu. I turned to my roommate and said "too bad Sass wasn't in town for that."

Mac users, Simpsons fans and Canadians

Might want to check out this week's pub quiz. There's a little something for each of you in there. Including a craftily placed picture of a certain person I had the opportunity to meet.

I love a good meme.

Someone tagged me with this some time ago, and I completely ignored it. Apologies for that. I've been seeing more and more of it on MySpace, though, so I figured I'd give it a go.

The List of Fours:
Four jobs I've had:
Chicago Hub Manager, Kaplan Educational Centers
Technical Support, Chicago and NYC
Resident Assistant, Macalester College
Supervisor and Ticketmaster jockey, Tower Records

Four movies I can watch over and over:
The Blues Brothers (every year on my birthday, as a matter of fact)
Dr. Strangelove
The Snapper
Any Star Wars movie (including the Holiday Special)

Four places I've lived:
Ft. Greene, Brooklyn, NY
Chicago, IL (three separate times)
Kitchener, ON
St. Paul, MN

Four TV shows I love to watch:
Family Guy
The Simpsons
Simpsons, the
Simpsons

My four favorite dishes:
Baklava cheese cake
Chicken fajitas
French Toast
Pepperoni Pizza

Four websites I visit daily:
Blogger
Fark
Gmail
Yahoo! Fantasy Sports

Four places I would rather be right now:
At a hockey game.
Mowing my grandparents' lawn.
On my bike on a flat road with a gentle tailwind.
Picnicing with a certain someone on a Scottish Loch, enjoying some single-malt.

Four people I am tagging to do the same lists:
No one, really. While I am curious as to what my other friends would say, I don't think I could narrow the list to just 4.

Aaaaah. Meme goodness.

Tales from the nightshift

I love working nights- the phones are slow, and the clients are slower. Here's a couple of doozies that I've had tonight:

Me: "You account has been turned off, sir."
Customer: "What do you mean?"
Me: "I mean that your account no longer has online access."
Customer: "So, why can't I log on?"
Me: "Because your account's online access is turned off."
Customer: "What should I do?"
Me: "It looks like you might be on a margin call, you should call your broker."
Customer: "But why was I able to log on 3 days ago?"
Me: "Probably because your online access was on."
Customer: "And why not now?"
Me: "Because your online access is turned off."

This went on for several minutes before he finally got it.

Customer: "I've been using your program for some time now, but it won't accept this order. I keeps rejecting."
Me: "Ok, what are you putting in exactly?"
Customer: "Can you walk me through it?"
Me: "That's what I'm trying to do."
Customer: "I put in [mumble-mumble], and click submit."
Me: "I couldn't hear you, could you repeat that?"
He describes to me the order so I can hear him.
Customer: "And then I click on GTC for good til cancel."
Me: "What does it say?"
Customer: "It says open orders are not accepted."
Me: "So, don't check the GTC box- the broker does not accept open orders.
Customer: "Ok, let me resubmit... and I check the GTC box and say submit."
Me: "No, do NOT click the GTC box. Open orders are not accepted."
Customer: "What?"
Me: "Open orders, as in good til cancel orders, are not accepted. Do not click the GTC box."
Customer: "Ok. Let me resubmit... and I check the GTC box..."
Me: "NO. Do NOT check the GTC box. Open orders, that is good til cancels and good til dates, are not accepted."
Customer: "Ok. I will resubmit... what does invalid good til date mean? How should I enter it?"
Me: "You shouldn't enter it at all. Open orders are NOT accepted. Submit the order WITHOUT entering a date OR checking the GTC box."
Customer: "Ok, so I shouldn't do that?"
This is usually the part where the voice in my head chimes in with some witty, snide comment. All I heard from the voice in my head was "fuck this, I need a drink" some footsteps, then a door slamming. A few seconds later, a car started and I heard tires screech on asphalt.
Me: "Sir, please do NOT enter anything in that box. You HAVE to leave it BLANK. Do NOT check the GTC box, either."
Customer: "Ok, let me resubmit... acceptance in progress... nothing seemed to happen."
Me: "Check your working orders screen."
Customer: "What's that?"
I tell him how to access the second most used screen in our program, which he's been using for 2 years. He's managed not only to get that order through, but to get it through multiple times.

By the time I hang up with him, I'm wishing I'd brought a flask full of scotch for myself. This is why I'm considering another career change. Enough bitching. I'm almost done, then it's cruise home and get myself a drink and some sleep before I have to return tomorrow. Lookin' forward to that, too.

Sick of myself

It isn't often that I use Matthew Sweet lyrics to start off a post, but what the hell.

I came into work yesterday, far too late in the day, as we all know, and sat down.

By the time I was leaving, I was a snot factory. This did not bode well for me meeting friends at the Berghoff for a couple drinks, but then again, neither did the fact that they closed at 10. We spoke, and she said we could meet up in my neighborhood. I was all for that, but feeling run down. I finally got home at 10:50, and beelined it home. I knew the Globe was having a Robert Burns Dinner, but I wouldn't get there until well after the haggis was gone. I needed dinner.

I got home, opened a beer, and made a plate of nachos, thinking that I would go out and grab something once my friends got to the 'hood. Little did I know that less than an hour later, I'd be sleeping on the couch, and my friend's phone call woke me up, well, when the message came through, I woke up.

Bedtime for Bonzo. I slept late, took a long, hot shower with a Halls in my mouth, drank tea and still feel like crap warmed over. Seems like the whole world has the same cold this week, too. What gives? Has 12 Monkeys come true or what?

Fine Little Mama

Don't read into the title- I told myself, as I was feeling rather uncreative, that I would name this post after the next song to come up on my shuffle. Read: I'm feeling lazy.

I'm at work. I'm suffering through the swing shift tonight- much to my chagrin. It is incredibly odd to show up to work 90 minutes before you usually leave. I'm certain that my internal clock will be more than mildly confused- especially when I do this again tomorrow, but work 6-5 on Friday.

I am so bored. I think it's time for me to run downstairs for a quick workout.

Runnin' down a dream

This morning, right before the intruding sunlight woke me, I had a dream. I was walking around in a world similar to that in We Love Katamari, and my cell phone rang. It is scary enough that I dreamt myself into a video game world. What happened next was a little weird, too:

"Hello?"

"Hey it's me," the voice on the other line said, and I instantly recognized it as my ex, and no, I'm not revealing which ex it was.

"What's up?"

"I'm getting married, we wanted to tell you right away."

Now, I have a functional and happy relationship with a rather large percentage of my exes. And if you believe that one, I've got some land I'd like to sell you. I do not, however, have a relationship with any of my exes that merits being the 3rd caller on the list for the engagement announcement. Ok, maybe one or two, but this wasn't one of them.

"That's very nice to hear."

"Here, talk to him." She handed the phone over to her boyfriend, now fiance. This was not a good move. I started to think about lucid dreaming my way out of this situation. I looked down at my hands, and that's when the dream started to make sense. I then realized why I was ok with this phone call.

I was married. To whom, I can only speculate, but I have had the now trite idea of getting married on June 6th of this year, just for the joke. I even found someone who was willing to go through with it- but I barely know her, so we're not counting on that one.

That's when I woke up.

The wolf in sheep's clothing.

I sold a part of my soul last night. I sold a part of my NHL soul.

A large part. I'm talking close to a treasonous action.

Last night was my big night out with my friend S. We have been looking forward to this day for months- the day we would sit in row 2 at a Blackhawks game.

I arranged to sell part of my sou- I mean, borrow a Hawks jersey from a friend of mine. I was getting ready later on and walked past my roommate's door. She jumped when I did so- because she never expected to see me in a Hawks jersey. "That's so wrong," she said.

"If you would have told me 10 years ago, no scratch that, 20 years ago that I'd be wearing a Blackhawks jersey willingly, and not as a trophy after beating up some Blackhawks fan, I would laugh at you until you cried."

You see, friends and neighbors, I grew up with hockey. Not playing it, mind you, as I have no skating skills, but watching, studying, and loving hockey. My first ever game was a Waterloo Siskins game, back in the heady days of 1976. I have been sold since then.

After living in Canada, we moved to St. Paul, and my dad and I became North Stars fans. I loved to watch them play. Even after I discovered girls, I could still quote stats and rosters and the like. Then, the worst thing that could happen happened. Our team, the team I loved, the team I worshipped, the team that made my life worth living, announced it was moving to Dallas.

The owner, at the time, was one Mr. Norm Green, one of the most hated men in Minnesota history. I was one of those fans who carried around signs that said Norm Green Sucks, chanting the same, and frequently more explicit things at games. My young mind was so full of hate for him- and still is today.

What can I say? I hold a grudge- a chip on my shoulder the size of the Met Center. My hatred didn't stop there, either. It expanded. I grew to hate the NHL. After the final call of the final game (which I have on tape at home), I began a boycott of NHL games that would last almost 8 years. Fortunately for me, I discovered something I liked a little better than the NHL- minor league hockey, and when I moved back to Chicago, I found the Chicago Wolves. I finally started caring about the NHL again in 2000, when my dreams came true, and the Minnesota Wild played their first game.

Back to the story at hand- I toed the line last night. I donned a black jersey, black shorts, and my favorite black Wolves cap- the one that is so old it is actually falling apart- and sat in section 112, row 2, seat 17. We checked out our seats, then headed to get our first round of beer- the first round of many, and went back to our seats. There was still plenty of time before the game, so the organist was playing various songs. Finally, Frank needed a break or something like that, and the classic Stompin' Tom Connors Hockey Song came on. I started singing along, bopping my head with the beat, and egged on S to do the same, which he did.

Not more than 15 seconds later, our bopping bald heads were on the gazillion-inch tv on the scoreboard. We looked stately. We looked mature. I raised my glass and admired my chin. I never knew how much I liked it until last night. Enough of my vanity? Ok.

It was a good game, a fun game. The kind of game that Sass would have enjoyed. Tommy Hawk came by to talk with the kids sitting the row behind us, and rubbed my head as he walked by.

I wish I had taken a picture.

One of the linesmen was a gargantuan man- at least 6'6" without skates on. He towered over everyone- players, everyone. Not by a little, either.

I got his picture.

The Hawks wound up winning the game, 4-2, and I won two dollars worth of bets off my friend. One for correctly predicting an Avalanche power play goal, and one for the Zamboni race. I'm very good at predicting these things- just a part of my Jedi skills.

We headed back to our neighborhood after the game. I stopped by the Globe to say hi to some folks and have a pint before I went to bed, even they were surprised to see my in a Hawks sweater, so I took pictures with them for fun and posterity.

I doubt that I will ever wear such a sweater again. I'm sure I have a reader or two who is still asking the question "why did you wear it in the first place?" Well, my friend, I absolutely hate the Colorado Avalanche. Not quite as much as the Dallas Stars, but they're definitely up there.

That is how and why I sold a little piece of my soul.

Daughter of Squirrel Change Lady

When I worked at Tower, there was a woman who peddled for change at the bottom of the stairs. She frequently slurred her words together, so "spare some change" came out "squirrel change." At least, that's what she sounded like to me.

I am not a change giver. I rarely, if ever, actually carry change in the first place. I'm a big keeper of my change in my desk or in my spittoon at home. When they finally fill, I take them to the grocery store and exchange all those coins for cash.

I'm not saying I'm without compassion for the plight of the homeless. Far from it. If I have something extra to give, I will give it, but I'll buy you a sandwich. That's just my way.

So, for the last two years that I've worked downtown, I've crossed the same bridge almost every day, on my walk to the train. Almost every day that I walk that bridge, I see the Daughter of Squirrel Change Lady. I call her that because the resemblance is rather uncanny- the same slur into "squirrel change," the same body type, and, of course, same hobby/job/modus operandi, whatever you want to call panhandling.

Two weeks ago, I stayed at work a little late, because I came in late after the Globe's holiday party. As I crossed the bridge, sitting right in the middle, was DoSCL. This time, though, something was different. I initially thought she was hurt, or protecting her ear for some reason, but then I saw what was really going on.

She, who routinely asks people for money because "I'm homeless" or "I'm trying to buy some shoes," was talking on a cell phone.

I shit you not.

While I understand that SBC is unlikely to hook up phone service to someone who presumably doesn't have a phone, this was appalling.

Back to the story- she was talking to a friend. Here's what I overheard:

"I'm downtown, you wanna come downtown tonight?" Pause. "Yeah, we'll go for a drink!" Pause. "Come on in, it'll be fun!" Pause. "Great!" My stomach turned. I felt myself get really mad. Especially since, one time I walked by her, I was on my cell phone, she actually yelled at me for talking on my cell phone.

I suppose the Christian thing to do is to turn the other cheek. I, as you all know, am not Christian. I am, however, subtle. Now, when I walk by her, and she bellows her request for squirrel change at me, I give her the finger. Subtly.

I come from downtown, born ready for you.

I am wiped.

At the end of pub quiz last night, two friends of mine walked in. These are the two guys who want to start a band with me. We're going to do old-school metal. I have stipulated that my participation hinges on whether or not we do a cover of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

One of them told me about his birthday present from his girlfriend. Lo and behold, she got him an accordion. Turns out the other one wanted one, too. That's when I mentioned that I knew the Accordion Guy. They said they wanted to do some dueling accordion stuff sometime.

Then, I had an idea.

"I've got it."

"What?"

"We cover Edmund Fitzgerald as a metal song. You two play accordions, I play bass and sing." A lightbulb lit up above their respective Guinnesses. "That's how we do it." I honestly thought they were going to cry, they loved the idea so much.

I think I just agreed to be in a band.

Oy.

Slave to the grind.

This weekend I was so busy and productive I amazed myself. I stayed in on Friday, knowing that I would be hilariously busy both Saturday and Sunday. At least, that's the reason I told myself.

I decided to give myself an adventure on Friday. I had this great idea to join some co-workers for a drink after work, stopped in literally for one drink, then made the bad decision to take the Metra train home. While I am very well versed in the el, I am not very well versed in Metra, and it came out on Friday.

I hurried my way out of the bar an headed to the Ogilvie Transportation Center. I knew I probably didn't have much time to catch a train, so I ran to the ticket counter and bought my ticket, then hurried all the way across the station to get on said train. I hopped on the last car with about a minute before the train was scheduled to depart. I grabbed a seat and waited patiently for the train to take off.

I was working the Sudoku puzzle when the conductor came through. "Tickets" he called. He stopped by me and grabbed my one-way zone B ticket and asked me where I was going. I answered, then the last thing I want to hear him say, he said. "We're not stopping there."

"Dammit," I thought to myself. "fucking express train."

Fortunately for your hero and humble narrator, he had answers for me. He told me to hop off at the Clybourn station and wait for the next train that would stop where I wanted it to stop. Unfortunately for your hero and humble narrator, that next train was at 5:20, just over an hour from that time.

It was raining.

I am a bald man.

I don't like rain.

I hopped off and saw a taxi waiting. I asked if he was waiting for someone, or if he wanted my fare. He was waiting for someone, and said that if I waited a couple minutes he'd take me if they didn't show. I walked around the corner, hoping to find a bus stop. I hate the bus, always have, and always will. I saw an Ashland bus head north, meaning I had to wait for the next one. Fortunately, it was rush hour, so I didn't have to wait long.

I hopped on, and got annoyed instantly. Traffic was terrible, and it took us 15 minutes to go the distance I had just walked in less than 5. I realized an opportunity and got off at Belmont, thinking I could take the Lincoln bus, which would save me 3 blocks of walking in the rain. I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, I got so sick of waiting, I thought, hell, I could catch the brown line just 2 blocks from here. So I did. I finally go home at about 5:30, 90 minutes after I left the bar downtown.

Lesson learned: read the Metra schedule before you get on the train.

I spent the night on the couch, watching my Netflix and drank a bottle of wine. I retired early, and woke up very early on Saturday. I played around on my computer for a while, shopping around for some equipment I knew I was going to buy later on, but I was doing research. My roommate finally woke up, and I asked her if she wanted to head out with me. She didn't, but she said to take her car.

I wish we would have talked about that the night before, I could have gotten started a whole lot earlier. My first stop was my bank. Deposited my check, then it was off to Target to buy a new boom box. Of course, whenever I'm at Target, I know I'm not going to get just one thing. Today was no exception. I can't help myself around cheap DVDs. After spending $40 more than I needed, I was off to Micro Center. $85 later, I had a new CD-RW drive for my computer and a new network switch for my apartment. After that, grocery shopping, and voila, I've accomplished more in my morning than I expected.

Then, the treat of treats.

No one had told me that NBC was going to start showing Saturday NHL games. Not one person. How I didn't already know is a mystery as well, but there you have it.

I was rather disappointed in the color commentators, however. Mostly because of this statement: "He'll be playing for Detroit in the Olympics."

Oh. I hadn't realized we had reverted to city-states for the Torino Olympics. Good to know.

I saw what could possibly be a dream job for myself and a couple other folks I know- the guy who stands between the benches and talks to not only players, but linesmen as well, during the game. Wow. I'd pay good money to do that job for a day. Really good.

I had plans to meet with friends at a bar called Quencher's at 7. When I got there at 7:30, none of them had arrived, so I sat down and had a sandwich and beer and waited for them to show up. Finally, I felt a hand on my back. I turned, and saw my friend who I have a crush on.

I've had this crush for a while. She knows about it, too. The last few times I've seen her, though, it has seemed like the feelings are more mutual than I initially thought. We had a couple drinks together and caught up. My other friends, who were stuck in the suburbs, called up, and said they'd be there soon. She had to hurry, as she was going to see a band at 9:30, so we went to my friend's brother's tattoo shop, where there was an art exhibit.

This particular shop will be a sponsor for my MS Team this year. I'm very happy to have them aboard. The art was pretty good, but I went straight to the tattoo art books. I wanted to see what kind of work he did. He's good. Very good.

Afterwards, we headed back to Quencher's for a drink before we went out for karaoke. As you can tell from the timestamp of my previous post, I didn't get home until very late.

I was less than bright-eyed yesterday morning, to say the least.

Bad ideas

#1- stay up late.
#2- drink.
#3- Complement the bartender on his Katamari t-shirt.
#4- read blogs while inebriated.
#5- keep waiting for the taquitos to be done.
Ok, scratch that. Probably the thing that's going to make a hangover a lesser hangover.
#6- spend part of your night with a girl (woman) who you have a crush on, who isn't, well, you know who. Oh, and this is the girl who once said, "so, this is hockey?"

Heartbreaker.

#7- keep typing, and hit "publish post."

I swear I'm going to bed after I eat taquitos.

Promise.

Swear.

Bed.

Oddly prophetic

I went to The Globe for a Grey Goose Martini yesterday, in tribute to the inventor of it, Sidney Frank, who died on Wednesday. As I just ready, I should have also had a shot of Jagermeister, as he is the person responsible for that liquor being mass distributed in the US.

As I was sitting there, the Scottish owner and I started talking. I offered him a nip off the bottle of sketch that Sass brought me. It was decided, after a few more beers, that we should definitely head to my place, watch the Young Ones, and drink scotch. This seemed like a great idea, until, of course, I realized I hadn't eaten.

A martini has the effect of rendering a person rather drunk, especially when consumed without food in the stomach. Drunkenness has the effect of rendering a person to make some strange decisions, especially when that person is me. Me, who was walking around Chicago wearing a hockey sweater, shorts, and sandals. In January.

We ordered pizza, watched 3 episodes of the Young Ones, including my favorite, Oil. We at jelly beans. We basically ruined our palates for the fine scotch we were drinking with crap food. Not that I have a lot of scotch-appropriate food in my house. I was just hungry, and well, the bottle was close. But there we were, a Scotsman and an American with Scottish blood watching a British TV show and drinking a bottle of 12-year-old Scotch Whiskey given to me by a German-Canadian woman. Not to mention that my Polish roommate was watching TV in her room and sampling the same fine scotch. It was a rather global evening. It was nice to have a scotch-loving redhead in my apartment again, too. I just wish it were a different one.

Drug Wars

"Hey, wouldn't it amazing if all this money were real?"
-Rick

"That is the single most predictable and BORING thing that anyone could ever say whilst playing Monopoly."
-Vyvyan

I love the Young Ones, in case anyone was wondering. You can see it in the picture, yes? Me as Vyvyan? I like it, dammit. And before I forget, yes, that is a wig.

I've been playing Drug Wars lately, something me an a couple other guys in the office do when things are slow. I am currently the raining champion:

I have been pondering a career change for some time now...

Not to this, though. Something legal.

Just have to share.

The following two photoshop contests over on Fark. #1- Photoshop Evil Bert into action movies. There's a lot, but there's a lot of good ones in there.
#2- Muppet Mayhem.

I love 'em.

New & Improved

New and improved: I cut out a lot of my blogroll. I used to have a goal of having each letter of the alphabet represented, but now I'm realizing that I just don't read that many blogs anymore. Perhaps I'm getting lazy. Perhaps the blogs weren't updating frequently enough. If you are one of those people cut and feel I'm an ass for doing so, well, you can let me know via e-mail.

New and improved: the Pub Quiz blog now comes with answers in comments. Check out the questions, and let me know how you do! No cheating!

New and improved: the sun is out in Chicago. This has been extremely rare lately- and many Chicagoans are having a hard time sitting at their desks, including me.

Oh, happy day!

The Accident, Revisited

Last night before pub quiz, I talked with my friend and Assistant Captain T. He was the one who talked me into buying my rollers, which I told you about in this story.

I related the story to him, and he knew pretty much right where it was going when I started. He's no dummy. After telling him about the now healed bruise and the crossbar to the testicles, he stood up and gave me a high-five.

It was a high-five of sympathy. A high-five between two bikers who recognize what is, in a twisted, painful way, a rite of passage. He looked at me and said "I'm surprised you're able to ride one-handed on them. I can't even push my glasses up."

"I'm a Libra, man, we're all balanced and shit."

"Oh yeah."

Lots of good it did me on Sunday, too.

Sasstastic Volume 3: Saturday & Sunday [UPDATED]

Sass and I slept in on Saturday.

This was ok by me. This was good by me, actually, as I am not used to closing down bars anymore, and two nights in a row, with a big party night ahead of us, it was a good thing to sleep in. I also knew that our agenda for the day included a trip to the Hard Rock Cafe, as well as shopping.

I had never been to a Hard Rock Cafe before, despite having worked across the street from the midtown Manhattan HRC, at least, where it used to be. I have, however, been shopping before. I am not a shopper, my friends. I shop the way the Air Cav holds a beachhead. I go in, get what I need, and get the fuck out of there. But I've been shopping before, the conventional way. I'm ok with it, I'm just not a practitioner of that method.

We headed down on the Brown Line to the Red Line to the HRC, and walked to our destination. On the way I spotted an old favorite- the Redhead Piano bar. If there had been more hours in the day, or more days in the weekend, it would definitely be a place I would have suggested.

We walked into the restaurant and sat down. I have seen pictures from the inside of Hard Rocks before, but wasn't really ready for the TV tower in the center of the bar. I, too, was expecting the walls to be covered in memorabilia, and was disappointed to see such a sterile environment. Little did I know that things were going to continue to be disappointing.

I had been briefed by Sass about the quality of food at HRC's, but I wasn't prepared for them to fuck up my favorite sandwich in the world, the French Dip. I ordered it as a safety, as I am apt to do when exploring a new restaurant, and was let down. Whatever cheese they claimed they put on the sandwich, if you could call it cheese, was disgusting. The fries were pretty bland, too. The only thing that really tasted right was the Sam Adams I ordered, which came with a HRC Chicago glass, which I sent home with Sass. After we choked down our food, Sass went for a walk, to check out the displays.

Finally it was time to go. I pulled out my check card to pay our tab. "Oh no," she said, "you shouldn't have to pay for that lunch. I made you come here." I smiled. It was another 10,000 points for Sass- when the girl picks the place, and the food is horrible, offering to pay is a very nice touch. I still wanted to pay, but I knew it was an argument that I wouldn't win.

I sometimes choose my battles well.

We headed over to Michigan Avenue for some shopping, our plan was to go to Victoria's Secret*, and possibly another couple places. It was by some miracle that we found a Border's right next to the VS. We wandered around. Sass is a fan of the bargain bins, as am I, but I was having no luck finding anything I wanted. I went through the stacks as well. It is tough to find a good Sanskrit dictionary, and I recently decided to teach myself Esperanto but had no luck. Border's had two Sanskrit dictionaries, but the print was too small in both, and absolutely no Esperanto books. Sass did much better than I did, finding a really good book of Dali's work, and another book on the way to the checkout that I just can't remember what it was.

We headed over to Victoria's Secret. I will only say two things about my trip there- #1- taking a girl underwear shopping is a fairly sexy and intimate thing to do. #2- I just don't see the value in thong underwear.

Next door to VS was a Filene's Basement, which is an ironic moniker, as it occupied the 4th, 5th, and 6th floors of the building. I had never been on a 4 story escalator ride before, either. Again, I was having bad luck. I couldn't find shirts in the right colors, the jacket I tried on was just a little bit the wrong size, and the belts were all adverts for whoever made them. I finally found something I wanted, needed, and was on sale. I got a couple new bath towels. They are sooooooooooo soft.

We were heading back to the train when I remembered that there was one thing I needed at home. I needed a memory card for my PS2. We popped into the CompUSA, only to find that they were sold out. However, in the bargain bin I found NHL 2005. That purchase was a no-brainer. Sass doesn't like video games, but I figured she'd let this one slide. It was hockey, after all.

After dropping things off at home, and a little beer/champagne purchase, we went to dinner at Resi's, as we arrived there too late on Friday for her to sample the cuisine. We chatted extensively, talking about a great many things. She seemed quite at home with my city, and this was making me happy.

The subject somehow shifted to the party guests we would soon be encountering. I mentioned that I was hoping a certain someone wasn't going to be in attendance this year, as she was last year, and the year before, well, we had a one-nighter. Most embarrassingly, I couldn't remember the girl's name. I finally did remember, but not until after this conversation happened:

"You're Jerry Seinfeld, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not," I tried to defend myself, "I think I'm just blocking it out."

"I see"

"My big problem is that I'll meet someone, think they're incredible, then I'll either get bored, or find some glaring flaw with them that I can't live with." This, in retrospect, was a very Seinfeldian thing to say, of course.

"I can't wait for you to find something wrong with me," Sass challenged. I was more than prepared for this.

"I already know what's wrong with you," I smiled, "my problem with you is that you're 550 miles away**." This is true. Sad, given, but true. I am not known for my positive history in long-distance relationships. This is not a secret, nor, I believe, a shocker.

I began to look at my watch, as it was coming up on 10 o'clock, and I'm a time-obsessed American. Plus, I was anxious to get into my kilt and get to the party. We arrived, as the story goes, and did some mingling, I introduced Sass around to my friends and got us some drinks. At some point in there, someone suggested that I make shots. I mixed up some very good kamikazes, a drink I mastered back in college. Sass, not being a shot person, poured hers down the sink. Sass also doesn't know that I have really good peripheral vision, and saw her do it. I understood why, though.

Round two of shots, as I said, was not successfully completed. They were made, but when attempting to remove the top of the shaker, the condensation on the side sent the whole thing to the floor. As we were mopping up the precious alcohol, in between my apologies, the host told me not to worry, that it was a shitty shaker.

I love alliteration.

I made up another round, slightly stronger than the previous, to make up for my faux pas. At some point, there were pictures taken, as two of my friends, who almost never wear skirts, were wearing skirts. I made sure that I got in on that one, as my kilt was a popular item at the party. My friends are big fans of the underwear check, too.

There was dancing, drinking, and cavorting until all hours. The hostess, my friend, owns a vintage clothing store, and Sass is a big fan of vintage clothing. I arranged for a tour of the hostess's personal collection, which is housed in their extra bedrooms, amounting to about the same square footage of my bedroom, living room, and dining room combined.

Finally, Sass and I made the walk back to my apartment. We had planned ahead and set the alarm so we'd have time to take a shower and maybe even grab breakfast before we had to go to the airport. You know what they say about the best laid plans.

Sass was nice enough to let me catch some extra shuteye while she got ready, but sometimes that can be a bad idea. I did some madcap driving to get us to the airport, and all was well. Except that that wasn't how I wanted to spend our last morning together for an as yet undetermined amount of time. Schedules and passports are getting in the way. For now.

At least I can say we'll always have Resi's.

*This site is being blocked by Websence at work. Kinda weird- it is, after all, only underwear.

** I just GoogleEarth'ed the directions. It is, according to their directions, exactly 550 miles from my house to Sass'. Pretty cool, huh?

The Accident

Yesterday, despite the exhaustion, despite the mild hangover, I got on my bike and rode on my new toy. I've been riding quick rides on it for a few days, and I'm starting to really get hang of these things. It is a little difficult, as you have to ride without moving the handlebars, and without leaning to either side. This is good for me, as it will teach me to be a more efficient cyclist, but bad for me, as I tend to move around a bit. I've set the rollers up in the relatively narrow space between my bed and my bedroom wall- there's only a couple feet, if that, of space there, so I'll stabilize against the wall if I go too far left, or fall on my bed if I go too far right.

Before yesterday, there weren't any problems.

Before yesterday.

I was motoring along, about 6 miles or so into my ride, having a great time. I moved my crappy little 19" TV into my bedroom, so I could watch the football game while I rode. I had already done a couple sprints, even one where I topped out at 35 mph, and was feeling pretty good. After a particularly good sprint, I started to sweat pretty good. I didn't have my bandana on, so the sweat was getting into my eyes. I used my right sleeve to wipe what I could, and went to do the same thing with my left hand, when my elbow hit the wall, sending me leaning crazily.

I attempted to correct this, and wound up going off the right end of the rollers. I took my left foot out of the toeclip and tried to stop my fall, but didn't stop enough.

Let's just say that the previous few sentences cover a time frame of about .25 seconds. Let's just say that I hit the crossbar with a part of my body that doesn't like to get hit by anything. Let's say that the seat hit me in another spot that is now nicely bruised. Let's say that this instance was the end of riding for a couple days, until I feel a little less sore. Let's also say that I'm lucky I didn't fuck up my bike much at all. Let's also say that my back seized up and I spent a few hours laying on my back sucking down painkillers before I felt like moving. One last thing I'll say is I'm making damn sure I have a bandana on from now on.

Raising the bar.

Last night I had the great idea to finally get around to giving Ceerock her birthday present.

I failed miserably.

I did manage to sing Take Me Home Country Roads, but the bar I was in had no bars on my cell phone. Had I been warned long enough before the song came up, I could have had someone else call, but I didn't know, literally until we were up there, that that was the song I was doing. Apologies to her, again, for the delay. I will endeavor to make this happen Thursday rather than Saturday.

I also sang a song with my thoughts drifting north, a heartbreaking rendition of Wish You Were Here. I'm getting rather good at that song, something I'm fairly proud of, as it really isn't in my range.

I had fun, but I'm completely clogged this morning. Too many people smoking too many cigarettes. I hear tell that the smoking ban goes into effect soon, so I'm really just biding my time until then.

Lies, Lies, Lies part deux

No electric boogaloo jokes here. Not this time. Unless, of course, you count this as a joke.

I don't.

I'm getting such a kick out of the comments to this post. So much so, that I'm reposting the link to an old attention-whoring vote I put up at some point on this blog (I am far too lazy to want to find it). The vote was to decide which of my various hairstyles was your favorite. As I recall, the newer, balder Dave was the popular favorite. Then again, as Sass said to me whenever she saw a picture of me with hair, "I wouldn't even know it was you." Strong, but true words.

Here's the link. I say vote again for the hairstyle you like best. Let me again, break down the approximate times of each picture:

#1- My 2nd favorite picture of my brother and I. I'm the big kid with a bowl cut holding the 3-day-old baby. Call this one the bowl cut years.

#2 through #5- High school and early college, the long-hair-metal-head years. Yes, friends and neighbors, that is me in fencing gear. Do not adjust your TV sets.

#6 through #9- the bob years lasted from about 1995 to 1997 or so. Picture #6 I believe was taken at Macalester College's Springfest.

#10- after growing my hair back out to the long-hear-metal-head style, I took a trip back to St. Paul for a weekend with friends. My best friend scheduled an appointment for me to get my haircut at some relatively fancy-schmancy place. I didn't know I was supposed to have an idea of what I wanted done. I sat down in the chair and asked for the David Duchovny-Noah Wylie look.

After some trepidation, I walked out with about 3 pounds less of hair, and for the first time in probably a decade or more, I could feel the wind on the back of my neck. It was weird. That's my cousin, by the way, who wasn't feeling well, curled up on me. She was so cute that day. "Uncle Dave, can I take a nap on you?"

Of course you can.

#11- the "fuck hair" years. This is what I look like now. Bald, beautiful, and without any plans to grow hair back out. I love being bald. Love. It.

My friend A wants to pay me $200 a day to grow my hair out for a week. I have flat out refused so far. In all honesty, I'm holding out for $250 a day. I'm also thinking it would be a neat fundraising idea- if people contribute $250 a day to my MS ride, I'll stop shaving until the cycle is broken.

But then again, I'm not that crazy, am I?

One last thing before I go for a bike ride, something Sass would want me to include in a post about my hair: the brief but fascinating journey which turned me into a bald man:

Back in the crazy days of 2002, I had just moved into my apartment with my friend and hetero life-mate, S. We had been living here for about 2 weeks, and I had been incredibly busy unpacking, going to school, and working. So much so that I hadn't had a haircut in weeks. And I needed one something fierce.

My romantic interest at the time, M had come into the city to go bowling with S, myself, and another friend. We got ripped, and I spent the entire time bitching about how long my hair was, and how pissed off I was that I still didn't have time to get a haircut. Finally, M, being as multi-talented and diverse as she was, offered to cut my hair.

After many, many frames of bowling and many, many rounds of drinks, we finally wound up back at my place. I marched into the bathroom and emerged with a clipper and a towel. "Let's do this."

I sat down, and M went to work. She cut and cut and cut and trimmed and trimmed and trimmed and worked rather well with hair. At least, I thought things were going swimmingly. I was wrong. She basically managed to cut my hair down to a 1-blade length. M was extremely nervous about what I would think of my new hair, seeing as she felt responsible. Honestly, she need not worry. The lesson to be learned here is never ask your girlfriend to cut your hair while you're both drunk.

This entire section of the story, by the way, has been traced by all who were there, bit-by-bit. None of us actively remembered this in the morning. We drank a lot.

In the morning, my alarm went off at 7, because I had to be to work at 8. M, needing to be home, and probably having the presence of mind to want to avoid my sober reaction to my new hair, and left already, so I woke up naked, bald, and with little hairs all over my pillow. I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth and thought to myself "damn, that's one fine lookin' haircut your got there, motherfucker."

I haven't gone back since.

Lies, Lies, Lies

I woke up this morning with an intense need to hear this album. When I arrived at work, I asked the overnight guy if he had it. He didn't, as far as he knew, save for on cassette at home. I think I still have it on cassette at home, but that doesn't do me a lot of good, as I am at work without a cassette player, and the tape would be at home anyways.

Solution? Download it.

In just a few minutes, I'll be taking a magical trip back to 1988. Wow. 1988. The poster for this album was actually on my wall back then. I met the first girl I ever fell in love with in 1988, we even started dating in December of that year. Our song was track 1 on side 2, however, track 2 side two was not our breakup song.

We had some good times, she and I. Back then, my family and I were living in a house in Lauderdale, in which we had a loft over the dining room. My brother and I kept most of our books and other assorted crap up there, basically treating it like an office. It was also, under the right circumstances, a great place to go and make out. N and I usually used the guise that we were playing cribbage, when in reality there was a lot of groping, petting, hickies, and when the mood struck, well, more than that.

And no, I'm not worried about my parents reading this and getting all shocked and appalled about this? Well, no. Number 1, they don't usually read my blog, and number two, they knew the score then, too.

Ah memories.

After finally listening to the whole album, I can honestly say that I'm still grounded in the present, but I am thinking fondly of those days....

Demons

I am what I would consider to be an experienced public transportation user. I can successfully navigate the transit systems of Chicago, New York, or Boston, with relative ease. I'm learning Toronto, too, but haven't even tried to figure out the streetcar thing. I'm more of a train guy, anyways.

Yesterday, something happened to me that I can't remember ever happening to me before.

This guy got on the train a few stops after I did. I don't remember how I noticed him, but I saw him outside the train, and watched him walk on.

I could tell something felt weird already. My spidey sense, my Jedi instincts, and my hair were all standing on end doing cartwheels.

He turned to the woman sitting in front of me, she had her backpack sitting on the seat next to her. The weird guy looked at her demandingly then cast his gaze at her backpack impatiently. That's when it hit me.

I wanted to beat the living shit out of him. Not a nice, hit him, let him fall down kind of beating. The kind where I get so feral that I'm actually biting and scratching at his skull. I was nervous about this.

He sat there, oblivious to my fuming. I thought this guy was an absolute dick for not saying excuse me to the woman with the backpack. I thought he was an asshole for just being him. Why? Just because he's a little rude?

Apparently, that was all it took. Fortunately, before I resolved myself to jumping this poor foolish man, he stood and got off the train. As he did, the woman with the backpack caught my eyes and noticed I was less than happy with her former seatmate and smiled an understanding smile. I guess I wasn't the only person who thought he was an ass.

Sasstastic Volume 2: Friday

Because we a) closed the Globe and b) drank two Jagermeisters, Friday morning started rather late. This was fine with all parties involved, but when we finally got rolling, I was really damn hungry. Food was a top priority, and as my guest is particularly fond of corned beef hash, breakfast food was suggested. Fortunately, my neighborhood is rife with breakfast places. I decided the best route would be the Zephyr Cafe, one of my personal favorites. The Zephyr is a brisk walk from my house*, but because my roommate wanted to go and she abhors walking, well, there was a quick car ride.

We all thoroughly enjoyed our breakfasts and headed back to my apartment. My direct deposit paperwork has yet to go through, I needed to pickup my paycheck downtown and had forgotten my work keycard on my dresser. Sass and I hopped the el heading south and all told, took 3 trains to get to work, as I figured she isn't as accustomed to walking as much as I am. We arrived at my building, which there are restrictions for entrance for non-employees. I suggested she have a cigarette while I made the trip up to my office to get the riches owed to me. After that quick stop, we headed west on Jackson to the Board of Trade, where my bank has a branch, then headed to the Art Institute for an afternoon of culture.

It turns out that we have similar tastes in art, so we stuck primarily to the 20th century collection, which includes my personal favorite, Time Transfixed by Rene Magritte. Sass is a big Salvador Dali fan. I, after seeing his works in a completely different way than before, became a Yves Tanguy fan on this trip. We spent quite a bit of time in the museum shop, and we both took a long look at these bookends, but opted to not spend the money (without knowing how much they were).

It had started raining, so we made a quick dash from the Institute to the Brown Line, and got back to my house rather quickly. After a quick break, as our feet were not the happiest they could have been, we headed out to the Wolves game mentioned in this story. After spending the third period basically laughing and crying, we were back in the city, and weighing our options. My friend S had called and asked me out for a beer at the Globe, which I nixed, but said we might go to Resi's for a couple beers.

I knew that Sass would absolutely love Resi's, and was very exited to get there. I don't think we were inside the door for more than 10 seconds when she fell in love with the place. We closed the bar down that night as well. Before my friend S left, he pulled me aside. "She's with you, right?"

"[Sass], you mean? Yeah. She's visiting from Toronto."

"Damn, you're a lucky man."

Exhaustion took control of the evening, so it was off to slumber after that. Walking around the Art Institute is rather exhausting, after all.

Keep watching for Sasstastic Volume 3.



*It should be noted that I can never remember which street the Zephyr is on- one of those geographical holes in my head, as it were. My estimate of the distance was two blocks short of the actual trek.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream.

Last night we cancelled pub quiz at the Globe so we could have the staff holiday party. We had it at the Three Floyds Brewing Company, where they recently opened a bar. Some of my pub quiz questions have been used in their pub quiz, too.

Back to the point- they are located in not-so-scenic Munster, Indiana. They make very good beer. Very. Good. Beer.

At 6:45 I headed over to the Globe to meet up with my roommate and have a pint before we hopped on the chartered bus to Munster. About 25 or so of us were there, mulling around, wishing Happy New Years, etc, etc. Small talk was rampant. I ordered my usual, a Guinness. It figures that the bus arrived just a few seconds after the manager refused to charge me for it, which figures. I downed half of it fairly quickly in anticipation of getting on the bus. The owners were taking their time, however, so I slowed down. Turns out one of the bartending temps was late and stuck in traffic.

Eventually, my pint, and the wait, was over. The owners started corralling people to the bus. I was the first one on.

I haven't been on a school bus in ages- probably since my senior year of high school, back in the day. I chatted briefly with the driver, then selected my seat- opposite the seat between the two tubs of beer. Close enough for comfort, not close enough to have to constantly pass beer back.

I quietly sat and enjoyed my first beer, then one of the owners sat next to me. He's one of my favorite people- which probably has something to do with the fact that he's Scottish, but I could be wrong. We chatted about his holiday, 3 weeks home and in Spain. He went to a pub quiz out there and was asking me questions from it. Someone stumped me by asking me to name the 7 Ancient Wonders of the World. I think we got up to 4 or 5 before we just gave up. I wound up downing 3 beers on the drive to Munster. It was the first time I had drank on a school bus since, well, junior year of high school.

We arrived in Munster in about an hour, piled off and into the bar. More accurately, we piled in to the bathrooms, then piled back into the bar. There are something like 12 different varieties of 3 Floyds beer. I only had about 4 of the different kinds, but one of them I'm certain to never forget: 3 Floyds Barley Wine. The keg they had found was 5 years old, and extremely strong. I muscled through a glass and switched back to something with less alcohol- Robert the Bruce Scotch Ale.

We partied. We ate. I got a tour of their facilities, a very fascinating little plant. Shots were poured, and avoided like the plague by me. People were sticking beer labels to each other's backs, and the Scot owner did a strip-tease on the flag pole. I can't wait for those pictures.

The bus ride back meant it was time to finish the beer in the tubs, so we set about that task with vigor. Somehow or another, I wound up at home at 12:30 and crashed.

I cannot stress how glad I was that I told my boss I was going to be late today. The extra 45 minutes of sleep I got has saved the day thus far.

I can't wait to get home and crawl in bed, though.

Sasstastic Volume 1: Thursday

I managed to convince my boss that I had to leave at 2:30 on Thursday. This wasn't too hard when he remembered that Sass was coming to town, and that I still had some cleaning to do. I busted out of the garage with my new rollers as quickly as possible. I sped home, dropped off the rollers and got to cleaning the kitchen, the last bastion of dirtiness. Well, the part that I could get reasonably clean in the allotted time. I also put my flannel sheets in the washer, so they'd be nice and clean to keep us warm.

I lost track of time, as I am apt to do when I take off my watch when I'm cleaning with harsh chemicals. I swore, grabbed everything I needed and ran to the car. it was 4:15 before I got on the road, and I had to be at O'Hare at 4:59 to pick up Sass. I hopped in the car, drove like a madman to get past the 90/94 merge (see map), where traffic is a real bitch and a half, then cruised through to O'Hare. I had to use mnemonics to remember where I parked. Section 12, because it was December, Subsection D for Dave 32, 'cuz I'm 32. I went dashing through the underground passageways, most under construction, before I got to Terminal 3's baggage claim, the pre-arranged meeting place.

I had already written her that I would be wearing a red shirt and a green jacket, but then I remembered that almost nobody recognizes me if they're not accustomed to seeing me in work clothes, and vice versa for casual clothes. I opted, before leaving, to change my work clothes into jeans and a hockey sweater. Kitchener Rangers, to be precise. I correctly figured that she'd know who they were. I was to look for the woman with the bottle of Macallan in her hand, which, by the by, is both of our favorite scotch, or sketch, as we call it.

I waited, checking my watch profusely. Checking the arrivals board every few seconds to make sure I was in the right place. Eventually, I got zen and just zoned out. Finally, I see her walk towards the claim area. We met, and she produced a silver bag. Not really surprising me, but damned if she didn't have a liter bottle of Macallan.

This, as I've mentioned before, scores many, many points on the Dave scale of coolness.

We stopped for a smoke before heading back into the city, which took less time than I had imagined. We stopped at home and opened the bottle before heading to the Globe for dinner and drinks before karaoke started. We stayed, we sang, we drank. Someone bought shots, which Sass sipped. She discovered that Chicago does not yet have a smoking ban. We never really got around to a true duet, but we still shared the stage. I had forgotten, as the previous time we were together singing karaoke we were substantially drunk, what a great singer Sass is.

I, as usual, did Johnny Cash, this time it was Folsom Prison Blues. I introduced myself this time by saying "Hello, I'm wearing white socks." It was true, too. I was wearing white socks. Somehow, to me, it was funny. At some point someone had put in Every Rose has its Thorn for someone else, he didn't know it, so he sang a duet with me for my signature song. It was fun, and boy am I glad I had Friday off.

Next up, the story of Sass and Dave's Friday adventures.

Feliz cumpleanos a ti, Tio.

Today is my uncle's birthday. I identify pretty closely with him. He and I are rather close in age, thanks to a great many things, up to and including the fact that we're both oops babies. He, as you might guess, was my grandparents' oops-we-weren't-planning-on-any-more-kids. I was my parents' oops-we're-teenagers baby.

He's been an inspiration in more than one aspect of my life. The most silly example is that he got his ear pierced when I was about 13, and guess what, for my 14th birthday, I got mine done for the first time. He's funny, charming, and really fun to be around, kind of the big brother I never had, and I'm the little brother he never got to have.

So happy birthday to my uncle D, my big brother by proxy, and the guy who made it ok for me to wear earrings.

I say Chicago Wolves 11...

Chicago Bears 10.

Back in the day, say around March 2004 (scroll down to "In The Sticks"), my beloved Chicago Wolves drew more fans to their game than the Original Six team, The Chicago Blackhawks. Not a very good day for the Hawks, to say the least. I hear tell that that particular news item even made it to CNNSI.com, but I know that it was on Yahoo! news (sorry, I can't find the article).

You know what headline will never grace any newspaper, magazine, website, or blog? This one:

Chicago Wolves outscore Chicago Bears.

Except, of course, for here. My blog, that is. Mine will even include the fact that I said to more than one person after returning from the game that I wouldn't be surprised if the Bears didn't manage to score more than the Wolves did. I can arrange for witnesses, if necessary.

I'm not saying that the game was fun to watch. Sure, everyone likes to see a goal, but 11? Not so much. It got embarrassing. After goal 6 (7 were scored in the second period alone) I couldn't do much other than half laugh and half cry. It was just silly. Ask Sass. I was even tempted to ask if she wanted to leave early. I didn't, though. Deep down inside, despite all the silliness, I was having a great time. Not to mention that I had to find out who the hell was going to get the three stars of the game, what with 9 players scoring and not exactly a stellar performance in goal by either team- both goalies for both teams were pulled at least once, some more than that.

More stories from the weekend, as promised, will be delivered. Right now, I'm going to finish the rest of my sketch which a certain someone brought for me, which scored millions of points in the Whose Line is it Anyway of my life. The points in my life, however, do count.

Back to cookin' with gas.

After a several month hiatus, followed by several weeks of yelling at a certain utility company, I have finally managed to get my DSL running again.

I forget how nice it is to have such a fast internet connection at home. Now for some surfing.

auck, suck, duck...

The title, dear readers, is an inside joke. More on that later.

My whirlwind weekend with the lovely Sass has come to a close. Well, not entirely- I do have tomorrow off of work, which means I'll be, well, sleeping a lot in hopes of recovery from last night's extreme drinking (someone thought it would be a good idea that I start mixing shots for the guests, Kamaikazes were made three times, twice successfully imbibed) and the rest of my weekend will, of course, be told, by and by.

Sass discovered quite a few of my stories which, for one reason or another, have not been blogged. Expect to hear some of those stories soon. She certainly had a good laugh over them.

Now that I've finally managed to pay my cell phone bill (damn dialup) I'm going to bed.