I want you to want me

Today is one of those days where the universe is aligned just right for yours truly. Not only am I rather hungover thanks to the many shots I drank at my friend's birthday party last night, but two of the most attractive women I know will both be in the city of Chicago today. One is unfortunately just passing through, the other will be dining and carousing with me tonight.

What can I say? I'm a sucker for blue eyes these days, and both of these women have beautiful blue eyes.

Of course, I've got a hangover and a bike ride in my way before I can see either of them. This doesn't bode well. Methinks it is high time for the couch.

Gearing up is hard to do.

I've been in training for my MS ride for almost a month now- and I feel completely unprepared. The 15 pounds I usually lose hasn't become lost yet, and my efforts at finally getting into the routine of training have been constantly thwarted by time constraints and chilly air.

I have, however, gotten out a fair amount- I have logged almost 150 miles so far, but I'm moderately disappointed with how much I've trained. I'm also thinking that I might spend the money this year, instead of next year, on an actual road bike, instead of the hybrid I have now (sorry the pic is so small, but that's me on my bike).

Don't get me wrong, though. I love my bike, but the problem I have is I'm sitting up on it. So if there's any wind, I catch it. This is fine if the wind is behind me, but if I'm going into the wind, I'm pretty well screwed. I'm huffing and puffing and wasting too much energy and, in the end, really hurting my already ailing knees.

So, knowing that my paycheck tomorrow should be rather large, I am spending today checking out prices on some bikes I am coveting. Namely, this beauty:

Which, of course, costs about $4000, before taxes, before pedals, and before shipping. Of course, this bike is absolutely beautiful and has a frame that weighs less than two pounds (that's less than a kilogram to my metric friends).

If I had that thing, I could ride for days without knowing it. Like the old saying, the older men get, the more expensive their toys.

Internet users, advertising and history buffs

Will really want to take a look at this week's pub quiz questions. There's some good ones in there for you.

Running on empty II [Revisited part II]

-The Introduction of One Logan's Dave to his newest nephew, LJ-

So, after trying like hell to recover from the night before and lunch at Davanni's, which seemed to do the trick, we (L, Gabriel and I) trekked over to my father's house to meet my nephew LJ. LJ, of course, is not his real name, LJ is my name for him. He is a quiet, docile 6-month old bundle of baby. LJ loves music and sound, so, as I was playing with him on my dad's living room floor, I made it a point to sing Johnny Cash and certain Pogues songs to him, for which he smiled, drooled, and gurgled at me in thanks and delight. Needless to say, he's fun.

As I continued to play with LJ, L wanted to know if my dad had any photo albums of me as a child. She and I have known each other for 12 years or so, and she was understandably inquisitive. Sure enough, my dad has been working on scanning in all these old pictures, so both he and my mother can each have their own set of our family's pictures. She really wanted to make fun of me for being so skinny when I was in high school.

Anyways. Dad and I talked and LJ climbed all over me, trying to get the strings of my hoodie to chew on. This was a fun game, as he's quite the climber, and I'm quite the jungle gym. I'd say he was a big hit with me, and I was a big hit with him. I get the feeling that when LJ is older, I might be in the running for favorite uncle. Then again, he's only got two right now, so there's not a lot of competition.

Later that evening, we went to the Tavern on Grand, home of, in my opinion, the greatest french fries in the universe, for dinner with a couple of my high school friends, one of them found a rather subtle and ingenious way of telling me she was pregnant. As we were all exhausted from the previous night and the rather packed day, we elected to not have a crazy night out. We bought some beer and chilled out at home.

-The Amazing New House and Bike-
My brother and his wife just bought a house in scenic Northfield, MN. This was, of course, the primary reason for my trip, but the move was all but taken care of before my plane even touched down, so my responsibilities were now reduced to helping my brother buy a new bike. Last year on our MS Ride, he ride the heaviest bike on the team (he's on the right in this picture), which caused him numerous problems and great exhaustion. He needed a new bike, so the family and I got together and put in some cash for a new bike. I, being the big brother that I am, took him out and found him something relatively cheap and good enough that he'll be more successful and comfortable on this year's ride.

His new house is wonderful, too. It has some history to it as well. The first freed slave to live in Northfield rented out my brother's basement, which has been used as a student apartment almost since the house was built. He's right across the street from St. Olaf's campus, too. Very nice indeed.

And I should apologize to my friends who live in Northfield, for not visiting while I was there. My bad. I was pressed for time, but I promise to make a better effort next time I'm there.

After buying the new bike, L, J, Gabriel and I had lunch at the Contented Cow a lovely downtown basement pub right on the river. I was almost jumping for joy when I saw that they had Sleeman's on tap, the first time I had ever seen that in the US. Sadly, he was only able to pull about a quarter pint before the keg blew, and there was no backup. But there were plenty of other options, and I still got to drink the quarter pint, and I savored every last drop.

-The Reunion-
My friend S and I worked together at the company that robbed me of my youth for years. She's a smart, fun woman, with a great husband and a wonderful daughter. She had a retirement party at place called Sweeney's, so after dropping Gabe off at his Aunt's house for the night, L, J and I headed over there. My friend A and their friend J were going to meet us there. We settled down and ordered drinks, and waited to S to come down from upstairs where her party was. A showed up, as did J, and we all drank and ate and had a good time.

Then, we got crazy.

First we decided we needed to sing some karaoke. I was all for it, so long as I wasn't singing along to just a piano again. First, A had to swing home to administer eyedrops to her daughter, who is now 14 years old (eep!). We chose a place, and because I knew how to get there I rode with A back to her house. When A and I were dating, way, way, way back in high school, her parents weren't that fond of me. I bring out something in catholic parents- especially when they think I'm jewish. Especially when they're as hard-nosed catholic as A's parent's are. So, when we got there, I chose to stay in the car, basically avoiding the 'rents altogether. I was sitting, waiting when I saw her daughter D waving to me from her window. It was undeniably cute. Eventually, she opened the window and we had a conversation. She cracks me up.

Now that she's a teenager, she's, well, become a teenager, and has started doing all those things that teenagers do. A, of course, and I were teenagers together who did all those things that teenagers do. And we did those things a lot, so naturally, she's worried sick about what her daughter does. It is almost funny to watch, really, the transformation from teenage hellian to mother of a teenage hellian.

I just hope that if I do every have kids, that they're not like I was when I was a teen. Not that I was a particularly horrible teen, I just know everything I did and I'd hate to have to worry about someone else doing that, too. Then again, even if I got someone pregnant today, I wouldn't be the father of a teenager until my late 40's- hopefully after my hijinks have faded into memory.

Not likely, though, right?

After my conversation with D, her mom came back downstairs and we headed to Minneapolis to find my friends, who had decided to change bars and go back to Nye's. The problem I've always had with Nye's, even when I lived in Minneapolis/St. Paul is that I can never find the damn place. Tucked away on a one-way street that doesn't cross the river (at least that I could find) in a neighborhood with twists and turns and one-way streets, well, I get turned around too easily and long to be back in my nice, comfortable Chicago grid system where I can find anything just by knowing the address.

When we finally got there, my friends had secured a table by the piano, of course, and were singing. We slid into the gold-speckled booth and ordered drinks and tried to talk. Time went by, and it was time to close. That's when I heard those dreaded words again: afterbar.

A had to go home and be a responsible mother, so L, J, J and I headed to their house. All we had to drink was a couple Guinness and some rum, which we tried to mix with cool-ade as well as gatorade. I must warn you, my dear readers, to not try that at home.

Disgusting.

I won't go into the gory details, but suffice it to say that when I woke up in the morning, I was naked. That is not how I like to sleep, friends and neighbors. I threw on my boxers and went to brush my teeth only to discover that I had a hickey. I do not like hickies. I didn't like them when they were cool to have (read: age 15) and I really don't like them now that I'm much, much older than that. Not to mention that this hickey was in an obvious place, on the right side of my neck. In less than two hours from the discovery of said hickey, I was having brunch with my dad and step-mother, as well as some friends of mine.

I had become even less happy.

I threw on my hoodie, figuring that it would hide said hickey from not only my father (not that he would have cared, but I was rather self-conscious about it anyways), but from airport security, as I would be leaving that afternoon. Brunch was a good time, LJ was a big hit with my friends and again with me. After brunch, as at least four of us had horrific hangovers, we headed back to L & J's for some rest. L went to sleep upstairs, and didn't wake up until I woke her up, as I was leaving. J drove me to the airport and I came home.

That hickey lasted for a whole week, by the way.

Running on Empty II [Revisited]

When I woke up late this morning (I call it late- but 5am is not late for anyone) I promised myself to take the time to finally getting around to telling those amazing stories from my trip to Minneapolis/St. Paul, which was a full 3 weeks ago. That alone should be a testament to how busy I am these days.

Anyways, without further ado:

-The Irish Car Bomb Twins and the Red Bowling Shirt-

When I arrived at the Minneapolis airport, I was exhausted, and I knew I had a full night's work ahead of me. My brother had called while I was in flight to tell me that they were done unloading the truck, and that I need not worry about helping with that bit, but if I could come down to drive the truck back, that would be great.

What you might not have ever figured out about me is that I have a hard time saying no. What came out of my mouth next surprised even me. I said no. I apologized, but I didn't have the energy to drive down there, grab the truck, and drive back in one night. It was dark, raining, and I just wanted a bed to crawl into. It would be hours before I would have the opportunity to do so.

My friend picked me up, and we dropped my stuff off at her house. We opened a beer, as her husband wasn't home yet, and someone had to watch the world's greatest four (soon to be five) year old. We waited patiently and talked. Almost as soon as he walked in the door, we were heading out the same door. I was going to have a night out drinking whether I wanted to or not. In retrospect, I should have tried to take a power nap. It might have helped.

We picked up her college friend A, who insisted we go to a place called the Wild Onion, a place I think I went to once just after college because someone wanted to try it. I never liked it, and I still don't.

When we got there we sat at the bar and a bartender wearing far too tight a t-shirt walked up. Before I could protest, a round of Irish Car Bombs was ordered. The bartender, whether through inexperience or through necessity, brought us the round in short half-pint glasses with tall shot glasses. This of course, ruins the experience, as the Jameson and Bailey's do not mix with the Guinness. When we informed the bartender of this error (after we drank the shots, of course) she offered another round later on. "Why not now?" I heard from my left and right almost simultaneously.

"Oh, shit," I thought to myself. I asked for just a Guinness, but my request fell on the back of the bartender's head as she was already off to make another round of shots. The thing about Irish Car Bombs is you can't just sit and sip it- the ingredients will curdle and taste nasty unless you complete the shot in a dutiful manner. I, grudgingly, did my duty right after I ordered a beer and a glass of water. I knew full well I was going to need it.

That night was the last night in the City of St. Paul that it would be legal to smoke in bars, which was why we were there in the first place. My friends were planning on going out with a bang, so I knew I was going to be in this bar until 12 on the dot, then we would be moving on.

Once the chimes struck midnight, sure enough, we were in the parking lot, hopping in the car to head to the next bar. We went to one of my favorite places on earth, Nye's Polonaise Room. We parked ourselves at the piano right away, then I headed downstairs for a bathroom break. On my way back up, I fell in love with the magical red bowling shirt. I went to the bar and asked if they had the shirt in black. "The black ones are only for the waitstaff, but I can sell you the red one," the bartender said.

Sold. Sold along with a Grey Goose and tonic.

I went back to the piano to find my friends singing piano karaoke- a challenge I don't really want to try again, as I failed so miserably that night with a version of my favorite karaoke song. As it turns out, I might me a significantly less talented singer than I originally thought. We closed the bar, then I heard the last words I wanted to hear: afterbar. Turns out A knew a place that stayed open illegally, so guess where we went? Oh yeah.

This dingy hole of a hole of a hole of a hole in the wall was a windowless box hidden away in a forgotten neighborhood. Ordinarily, my perfect kind of bar. On a night where the only thing keeping me awake was knowing that if I fell asleep I would be abandoned, not so much. Right after we walked in A turned to me with a slight look of panic in his eyes.

"Can you do me a favor?"

"What do you need?"

"Can you pretend to be my boyfriend while we're here? Otherwise that guy's going to hit on me all night and try to take me home." He nodded at a not-so-scruffy-looking guy rapidly approaching us with a smile and a cocktail.

Now I've played the boyfriend for various female friends of mine so many times I can't even fathom the number. I'm pretty good at it, too. I've played the role for some male friends of mine, too, but I knew how attracted to me A is, and I didn't want to lead him on.

"I'm playing it butch as hell and you're buying me drinks." I managed to get that all in before our mark arrived. A was a dutifully submissive boyfriend for me- immediately getting me a drink while I fended off the advances of Mr. Wrong, who seemed to have troubles understanding that we were in a committed relationship and we were exclusive. What I actually said was "he's with me now, bitch, and you're not getting a threeway."

That seemed to seal the deal, and we were left alone with our drinks for a while. I was walking back from the bathroom when I spotted Mr. Wrong hitting on my fake boyfriend. I decided this would be a fun opportunity, so I went with the jealous-boyfriend act. As I walked up, Mr. Wrong spotted me, looked me in the eyes, and said, nervously "I don't want any trouble."

"I'll tell you once more, stay away from my man."

Last I heard, Mr. Wrong hasn't spoken to A since.

We left the afterbar bar around 3 and headed back to my friend L's house. She decided we were going to have a sleepover, so she put sheets and pillows on her living room floor. The three of us settled down and started to fall asleep when her husband came down the stairs, undoubtedly hearing three rather drunk people come in from a night of very heavy drinking. L went upstairs with her husband, leaving me along with a 300 pound gay man with a serious crush on me on the floor of their living room. He had fallen asleep, so I walked off to my "bedroom" which is actually the world's greatest four (almost five) year old's room. I crawled into bed and fell asleep.

A couple hours later I was awakened by A trying to crawl into bed with me. It was funny to watch, honestly, and I am forever thankful to whatever IKEA engineer is out there who designed this bed to hold not only my 200 pound frame, but add to it the 300 pound man with a crush on yours truly.

No, friends and neighbors, there was no sex. There was no making out. There was some maybe-if-I-put-his-hand-on-me-he'll-change-his-mind style fondling, which was eventually met with gentle slaps on the hand. There was also a slightly twisted ankle suffered by your humble narrator while vaulting over A when I woke up in the morning.

-The Morning After-

One of the troubles with having a heavy night of drinking followed by getting ready to sleep on your friend's living room floor with her and a 300 pound gay man is that you tend to put things you desperately need to function down in the strangest of places. Fortunately for me, I had the assistance of the world's greatest four (soon to be five) year old. The first game we played? Find Uncle Dave's glasses. After I won that game, we moved on to find Uncle Dave's cellphone and then, when I saw the state of my boots, we played clean Uncle Dave's boots. Then other people finally started to wake up, so it was time for breakfast and to take A home.

That's when I looked closely at the door to my room. Hanging from the door was the most beautiful red bowling shirt I had ever seen. Finally, I remembered buying the shirt, and I realized it was mine all mine.

Suddenly, I was rather happy.

Still up and coming:
The Indroduction of one Logan's Dave to his newest nephew, LJ
The Amazing New House and Bike
The Reunion

and lastly:
The Hickey

Cookies and pub quiz, oh my.

Last night's pub quiz was for a Team in Training participant and pub quizzer of mine. We had a record 68 people crowded into the back room, to the point that Scott and I gave up our table so we could fit another team back there. I'll say this about running pub quiz without a table- it was the last time I'll try that trick again.

We were tremendously busy, but I kept things rolling, and we managed to finish on time. I was impressed with everything. Afterwards I was speaking with a table of friends who were talking about this video. They thought of me whenever they saw the commercial, and wondered if I had seen it. I haven't, but she sent it to me this morning, and let me tell you, friends and neighbors, it is hilarious.

Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out

Our former Governor was found guilty on all 22 counts today. I say don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out and welcome to PMITA prison, George.

While I still think putting a moratorium on the death penalty was a good thing, there are so many other things you did to screw over the people of Illinois. I have no sorrow for you.

Say goodnight, Georgie.

O Captain! My Captain! Part II

One of the things that I forgot to mention yesterday was that for the first time ever, during the T-shirt toss, they finally threw a t-shirt at me. What they don't know is that I don't want their fucking t-shirt, never have. So, when it came at me, and I was drinking my beer and talking with my friend, I didn't move at all. All I had to do, my friend reminded me, was stand up, and wham-o presto, free t-shirt I don't want (or need).

Shockingly, this happened again. This time I was standing up, and this time some guy in the row behind me laid into me. My friend two seats over caught the shirt, and gave it to a kid sitting in front of us.

My surprise had surpassed all reasonable limits when yet again, a shirt was heading right at me. This time I figured it was fate, so I went for it. I wound up tipping it up, but it wound up two rows behind me.

Ah well. I wouldn't have wanted it anyways. I was amazed, though, that in 9 years of going to Wolves games, I've had t-shirts come near me, well, only 3 times. All on Saturday. Goofy how fate works, no?

O Captain! My Captain!

Last night the Chicago Wolves did something they have only done once before- they retired a number. Given, the team has only existed for 12 years, but this is still a pretty big deal.

Now I don't usually like scorers. I'm more a fan of the hard-nosed, hard-hitting defenseman or a goalie than a scorer. But Steve Matlais was more than a scorer. I've seen him lay checks that most football defensive linemen would be jealous of, and it has been said that what most players tend to forget about Malts is that he is a very tall 6'5" and skated at about 220 pounds for most of his career. Not exactly your first choice to get hit by. I've seen him score goals that were mystifying, goals that made me want to cry, goals that made me respect him for everything he could do.

He certainly earned that respect. He was captain of the Wolves for 10 of his 11 seasons- 10 of the 12 seasons the Wolves has existed. He holds the records for most career goals, assists, points, games played, and penalty minutes. He led us to three championships and earned the unending respect of the players, fans, and coaches.

He was the team, and he will be missed.

This has already been proven. When I went to my first game this year, I felt something was out-of-place when I couldn't find the familiar number 11 on the ice. I checked out a roster when I got home, and he wasn't on it. I got worried. I did some digging, and sure enough, on a Wolves message board, there it was. The news that he had retired. Back then, there was no news of a Steve Maltais night. No news at all that he had retired. I wasn't exactly happy about this. Last night fixed that.

Don't let me forget to mention that this is the first year the Wolves have missed the playoffs. Coincidence? I think not.

Good bye, Steve.

A long, long time ago...

Yesterday was my father's birthday. Let's just say that he's turned an age where I am compelled to give him the gift of a deck of cards. Well, that and a book that I just finished that I think he'd really love. Not that he has much time for reading, what with babysitting LJ and all.

LJ, by the way, is my new nephew, the one I spent so much time playing with that my stepmother asked me when he was getting a playmate.

My response, which at this point is rather well-rehearsed, was that she has definitely bet on the wrong horse- my brother and his wife are definitely in the lead on that one.

Anyways, I was heading to the shower before I stopped to wish my dad a happy birthday a day late on my blog. I'm a little smelly after this morning's first team training ride, a 32-mile jaunt for me. I feel good, except for some knee problems and a couple tight IT bands, but this is normal for me. In a couple weeks, all will be well.

That last line, by the way, is a little white lie I'm telling myself before I get my knee evaluated. C'mon. Let me pretend I'll be able to make it though this summer without injury.

Where have you gone, Logan's Da-a-ave?

I'm still alive and well, no matter what the rumor mill is churning out. I just don't have time to say much, and, frankly, there isn't much to say beyond "I'm at work" or "I'm still at work" or "I'm trying to get some fucking sleep."

I will say that all this overtime is going by a little quicker, thanks to my newly pimped-out computer, now with DVD drive and a second flatscreen monitor. I'm finally able to watch the Netflix that had previously been gathering dust on my coffeetable for the past few weeks.

I know that I still owe you guys stories from my magical trip to Minneapolis, and they will be here soon, just not today. Tomorrow, maybe. For now, a little something fun, well, probably not so fun for Red Sox fans, but for fans of the old RBI videogame, well, it's a treasure.

Royal Rainbow

Yesterday was a friend of mine's birthday. I call him an old friend, because we first met some 7 years ago. I remember the moment exactly- we were in class together, and we were writing our first Visual Basic program. The program was a fairly simple one- as first programs in any language you learn typically are- it was a program that took the names and ages of two people, and told you who was older than who, and by how much.

Because we were sitting next to each other, and because we didn't know anyone else in the class, we exchanged information. I was 26, G was 18. That freaked me out. He certainly didn't look like he was 18. He certainly didn't act like it, either. We became friends and worked well together in several classes, including several large projects. We kept in touch after school, I went to his wedding a couple years ago, and we had a barbeque at his house just before my most recent knee surgery, we're always in fantasy sports leagues, too, but we don't get to hang out much.

Last night, when I walked into Piece at about 8, in jeans and a sweatshirt with a backpack full of cycling jerseys over my shoulder (I had told them that I would be late as I was running around getting my team sized for their jerseys) and felt immediately out of place. Imagine if you will a Shakey's redone with today's modern yuppie asshole in mind. That's what I walked into, save for the fact that the pizza was far worse.

Fortunately, I found my friends right away, and already knew where I was going to sit: his family was to one side, all us school friends on the other. We shared a pleasant evening, I kept watching the Frozen Four and laughing and drinking with friends, catching up and eating sub-par pizza. I quickly lost track of time.

I still had one more person to get sized for their jersey, so I made some phone calls and walked to her house, played with the dog and kept a close eye on the time. It was late, late for me on that kind of day, and I needed to get home. She was gracious enough to give me a ride home, and I walked in, exhausted, and wondering what else I had to get done before I went to bed. I decided to give up and just go to bed, which was probably for the best. I had to wake up early and get those jerseys packed up and ready to ship back, and I had to get myself to work by 6, yet again.

I was having a very pleasant dream, nothing too out of the ordinary. I was walking around a Katamari Damacy world with a bunch of Stormtroopers from episodes IV-VI, but they were the good kind, you know, before Order 66 was issued. It was cool, just a bunch of folks hanging out. I realized that I wasn't supposed to be asleep anymore, that I had earlier hit the snooze bar a few too many times. Realizing I was in danger of oversleeping, I turned to the closest Stormtrooper and said "Royal Rainbow, Commander."

"Right away, sir!"

Sure enough, I woke up, and it was good that I did. I had just enough time to shower and hop a cab to get here on time.

An open letter to the CTA

To whom it may concern:

I would guess that during a crisis, especially one like the one you encountered with this morning's derailment, things get rather hectic at all levels of your organization. This is completely understandable, even expected, and I am certain that you have quality people at every level who are trained to be able to handle the situation capably and efficiently. I understand that your spokesperson had announced the problem to the media, and that most news programs made it their top story this morning.

What I don't understand is why there is never any communication with the rider. While it is quite laudable that you alerted the media, not everyone riding the train watches the morning news, or listens to the radio. What they do have in common is that they all get on the train at a station. Why is there no station-level information for the riders? While it is true that there are more than 30 stations located north of Belmont, where the first word of a problem was revealed to the riders, there is at least one attendant at those stations, who could have informed the riding public of the problem. It is shameful that even though

I boarded the train more than two hours after this morning's derailment, oblivious to the fact that it was going to take me three times as long to get to work because a train derailed, essentially shutting down three train lines. I wasn't alone, either- most of the people I was on the train with expressed similar distaste with the situation. Informing us ahead of time at the most common source of information would be the best course of action. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, after all.

Sincerely,

[Logan's Dave]

Jalapeño Sabroso

There are a ton of really good Mexican restaurants in Chicago, which is a very beneficial thing for someone who really loves good Mexican food. Add to the fact that Jalapeño Sabroso serves really, and I mean really good margaritas- on the rocks with just a hint of salt is my preference, and I could taste the difference in tequila from the previous week's margaritas. While the price was actually cheaper, the tequila was much, much better.

I was early, and had some time before my friends arrived, so I was halfway through my first margarita when my friends showed up. I had perused the menu a couple times and had settled on having chicken fajitas. The chips and salsa I had been sampling were excellent- the chips were unsalted and the salsa had just the right amount of cilantro.

I ordered a second margarita just after my food arrived, which sizzled so loud I could almost hear it over the guitar player. Once my entire meal arrived (the waitress, who looked oddly familiar, forgot my fixin's), I put together one of the best fajitas I've ever had. My portion was so big that I had to bring some home- an event, that I assure you, almost never happens.

The bill was rather reasonable, too. Although the fajitas were $14, there was more than enough, and the margaritas, while $7 a piece, were so good, I would have paid twice that for them. Couple all this with the fact that Sabroso is less that two blocks from my house, and well, I've got myself a new favorite place right in the neighborhood.

Not bad, not bad at all.

Saturday wasn't nearly as tasty, what with an MS meeting, then the relatively boring Bike Show, and then it was off to the Wolves Game, which they won in style, a 4-0 shutout against San Antonio. As always, I had my usual chant of "there's no hockey in Texas" ala Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own. I had a very hard time, at least, I had a hard time until the beer loosened up my tongue enough, resisting some good goalie taunting on Karl Goehring. I won't go into too much detail about the heckles, but I would like to point out that he probably went to the same high school as my dear friend Jen. We should look into that, actually. Did I have fun? Oh yeah.

Giggety.

Sunday, I did something I hadn't done in almost 6 months- I went to the pub quiz at Ginger's Ale House. My team did well, won second place, and afterwards I had a couple drinks with my friend and mentor in all things pub quiz. He headed for home, and I was sitting at the bar watching Sportscenter when a woman at the end of the bar started waving at me. Annoyed, I walked down to see what she wanted. "Hi."

"Hello" I was probably visibly annoyed, and I realized it. I just wanted to finish my drink and go home, after all.

"So, how long have you been coming here?" I knew something was wrong by the way she said hi, and now I was just getting creeped out by some part of her that I hadn't quite placed.

"I don't know, maybe 6 or 7 years, maybe longer. This is one of my favorite bars, but I don't get here that often any more."

"So do you live in the neighborhood?"

Now things were starting to feel desperate, and I didn't like the smell of things. "Yes." She then regaled me with a story of love lost and moving back to Chicago and needing a roommate and how her dog left her and all kinds of stuff.

"Tell me about your ring" she mentioned it almost in passing. Sometimes I think that people think it is a wedding ring, which it isn't, but a gift my high school sweetheart gave to me for graduation. I told her about it, and instantly regretted not lieing and telling her it was in fact a wedding band. "Let me try it on." Oy. This was feeling worse and worse and the marginal interest I had for her (she was, after all, kinda cute) was waning. Scratch that. It was long gone.

She made me try on her ring- her engagement ring and told me about her plans to have it altered and improved. I was having a hard time not running though the window and not stopping until I got home when she popped up with "So how do we talk again?"

I made the quick decision that I was going to try to be tactful. Of course, I failed miserably. "Well, I should be here next week, provided my flight isn't late." She said goodnight and left. I had been ignoring all her prompts to buy her a drink. I wasn't getting fished by her. No way, no how.

Yesterday, as I was sitting in the airport with my flight delayed rather grumpy about the situation I was in at that time, once I realized I would actually be able to avoid another chance meeting with her, suddenly, I was much happier.

Running on Empty II

Because I just got back and because I just finished catching up on the things I absolutely HAD to get done tonight, I am yet again, giving you only a glimpse of the wonderfully raucous weekend I had, and am in a serious story debt to my readers.

Up and coming are:
The Story of the Irish Carbomb Twins and the Red Bowling Shirt
The Morning after the Irish Carbomb Twins and the Red Bowling Shirt
The Indroduction of one Logan's Dave to his newest nephew, LJ
The Amazing New House and Bike
The Reunion

and finally:
The Hickey

So, I owe you guys a lot. I'll get on it, promise.