A penthouse in Port Charles to a pineapple under the sea

News like that isn't shared lightly, but you know you have to.  I thought it better to get it over with quickly.

First, I texted LJ.  Yes, texted.  Because, well, if there was a chance either of us were going to become emotional, I didn't want it happening on the phone.  That would be the most uncomfortable moment in both of our lives.

"You see where Steve Burton is leaving GH?"

His reply was quick, pain-drenched, and expected: "Nooooooo! It's the first day of college football season and you had to go and ruin it." (Actually, he texted "football reason" instead of season, but as he only recently got his first-ever cell phone, I let it slide.)

We commiserated briefly.

Next, I texted Wolfgang.

His reply?  "Cool."

I immediately unfriended him.  Not on Facebook, in real life.  I can't surround myself with such callous, uncaring energy.

And so, as August gave way to the first tinge of fall in the air, I was already feeling the cold, cruel winds of winter.  For the day I had feared, dreaded, and hoped I'd never live to see, had arrived: Steve Burton, the actor who has played Jason Morgan on General Hospital for the great majority of my post-pubescent life, was leaving the show.

For so long, Jason has been one of my heroes, right up there with Mike Seaver, Luke Duke, and obviously, the Karate Kid.  I can't count the times I've compared myself to Jason Morgan.  He was often the voice of reason in Port Charles.  Somewhat remarkable considering he's in the mob -- er, coffee importing business.  And now?  He's leaving.

How will I cope without one of my heroes?  By bottling my feelings up inside, of course, in true Jason Morgan fashion.  Also by following Steve Burton on Twitter.  I don't know that it helps.  (Yes, it does.)

By the way, all this occurred over Labor Day weekend.  And yes, I'm just now getting around to writing about it, in true Bone fashion.  Apparently, posting five times in August left me scribically exhausted.

So I played laser tag later that weekend.  What, I was clearly disillusioned.  I've been trying to figure out how to smoothly transition between topics, but there's just no connection between Jason Morgan and laser tag.

Or is there? (Duh duh duuuuuuuuh!)

It was my first time to ever play laser tag.  And how shall I put this?  Well... I was dominating the dojo.



Did I mention I was mostly facing children?  What?  Most of them had obviously played before! 

Now I may have fudged on the rules a little.  They say "no running."  But I figured if things escalated to a physical confrontation I could take either of the three teenaged female game masters.  Or at least, outrun them.  And I did wind up shooting my own team members a few times, but thankfully that doesn't count against you.

At the end of the match, or battle, or recital, or whatever it's called, you push a little button on your electronic thingie and it tells you what your game name is so that you can find your score.

I finished 2nd!  And no, that wasn't out out of three.  There were actually thirteen of us playing, although I'm pretty sure a couple of the kids were too small to actually make their gun fire. 

My game name?

SpongeBob.

And suddenly, a new hero is born.

No?

Well, we gotta do something, because Frisco Jones isn't walking through that door.

"All I need / Is just a little more time / To be sure what I feel / Is it all in my mind / 'Cause it seems so hard to believe..."

Superfan & The Rooftop Caper

For some reason, the 8-month-long wait for college football seemed to drag on even longer than usual for me this year. Maybe it was the constant negative off-season news about college football -- which is kinda like having your friends bring up your ex-girlfriend every single time you're around them. It makes you think of her and miss her, all the while knowing you can't have her. Or maybe it was the complete dearth of anything interesting on TV this summer. I mean, how much keeping up with the Kardashians can one guy do? (I think I'm going for the record.)

But alas, now that the happy season is finally upon us, and my September love has returned, I was able to make it over to Wolfgang's to watch the Bama/Penn State game this past Saturday. Events transpired that day to necessitate a blog entry. This is that entry.

Firstly, at halftime we meandered outside to toss the football around. Because this is what guys do. Deep down, most guys really believe that we're not that far away from athletic glory. A minor tweak here, a coupla better decisions there, a few less donuts and potato chips, and that could be us on TV. This is why we do things like throw football in the yard. We're not out there to have fun. We're working on our form, perfecting our spiral, so that if that call should come some day (I dunno, that they've started an over-40 flag-football league?), we'll be ready.

So anyway, after a few minutes, I decided to try punting one. I kicked it pretty good, but kinda forgot I was wearing flip-flops. Well, my right flip-flop went even higher than the ball. It landed on the roof of their house, and never came down.

My shoe is on top of the house!  This could ONLY happen to me.

Perhaps most disturbing of all was that I had inexplicably taken my trusty spare pair of flip-flops out of my car. So there I stood, helplessly one-shoed in the front yard, as everyone laughed.

Well naturally, Wolfgang didn't have a ladder. So LJ broke a rather large branch off a tree. Then I, standing on the rail of their front porch, used the branch to "sweep" my flip-flop off the roof.

Can we say redneck?

Important side note: Completely overlooked amid all the madness, that was probably the best punt I've ever done.

The other thing that struck me from the weekend is a bit more personal and difficult to talk about. Are you sitting down? Because I'm not sure you're ready for this. But I think I've become a bit of a sideshow for my friends while watching Bama games. I've sort of suspected this from the Darryls for awhile now. But Saturday when Mrs. Wolfgang said she could "sell tickets to watch Bone" pretty much confirmed it.

You might recall my constant-state-of-anxiety-with-small-moments-of-relief habitude of watching Bama games? So I yell. And sometimes call the players/referees/announcers names. The muscles in my neck and back become one gargantuan monkey's fist. And I may or may not have been hoarse by halftime.

I'm sorry, but it's true. Fourteen times a year, seemingly mild-mannered blogger Bone Kent suddenly turns into Superfan.  Poor play and lack of execution are my kryptonite.

I did come across an interesting poll (on a Bama website) that asked which emotion was stronger: the elation of victory, or the agony of defeat? Over 70% said the agony of defeat. Yes! And for me, it's not even close. So that made me feel some better. It gives me hope, that maybe there are more out there like me.

Back to Saturday, by the 3rd quarter -- once the game was pretty much decided -- I had settled down somewhat. This was when the girls thought it would be hilarious to make fun of me. So they started yelling after every play. Look, I don't mind people having a little fun at my expense. I can and do laugh at myself. Often I'm the only person laughing at myself -- usually right after I tell a joke. But I felt their attempt was lacking.

I tried to explain to them the reason their yelling wasn't rising to my level was that they weren't really feeling it. That they'd never cried over a game.  Deep down, it has to mean something to you. It has to hurt your soul when Bama makes a bad play. You have to suffer every single play for the Crimson Tide.  In the end, it's all worth it for those few brief seconds of relief, er, victory.

I'm just so happy it's back!

Is happy the right word?

"I may be disturbed, but won't you concede, even heroes have the right to dream.  And it's not easy to be me..."

April 27, 2011

For me, that Wednesday began with a 5:20 wake-up call from Dad. Unexpected, but not surprising.

"You awake?"
"Uh, yeah."
"You need to watch this weather. They say it's gonna get bad today."

It was only ten minutes until I'd normally get up, so I turned on the TV and saw there were already warnings out west of us. Five minutes later while I was in the shower, my phone rang again. Turned out to be my sister. I had asked her the night before to call if her weather radio went off during the night.

The warnings started before 6 AM and were virtually continuous for the next fifteen-plus hours. My sister, who had a storm shelter installed a few years ago after a tornado passed within two miles of their house, was calling throughout the day asking if it was safe to come out. Her power was out and her weather radio had stopped working. Every time, the answer was either "no" or "maybe for a few minutes, but there's another storm coming."

I left work about 3 that afternoon, came home and continued to watch the weather. I guess it was around 4 that my power went out, which seemed a bit odd as it wasn't real stormy here at that time, just extremely windy. Later I would learn that TVA, which supplies electricity to most of north Alabama, had suffered severe damage to their main transmission lines and power wouldn't be restored for days.

After about fifteen minutes with no power and knowing the storms had been coming one right after another, I decided to go back to work. At least there we had a generator and could watch UHF channels. I stayed at work for the better part of the rest of the night, except for one foolhardy period when I decided to drive around to look for signs of storm damage.

Driving home that night was eerie, with no traffic lights, no store lights, and only the dim glow of candlelight coming from a few homes. I lit a few candles, found a couple of flashlights, and made a sandwich. The power was out, internet was down, and my cell service had been out since early afternoon, so I decided to go to bed. I'd heard reports of tornadoes on the ground, homes damaged, but had no idea of the kind of devastation and loss of life I would hear about and see over the coming days.

The stories came in first -- stories of the damage, loss of life, and heroism. Stories like a grandmother who laid on top of a baby to protect it. The baby survived while the grandmother lost her life. Then came the numbers, the fatalities. They started high and they climbed hour by hour. Then the pictures and the video began to come in -- footage as bad as anything I've ever seen and yet once you see the damage in person you realize the pictures can't begin to do it justice.

I drove to Dad's one evening -- I think Friday or Saturday, the days run together -- to help him set up a generator. I'm pretty sure he didn't need any help, but just wanted to see me. On my way there, I got my first look at some of the damage. When I got to Dad's, he showed me all the debris that had fallen in their front yard. Among it was a pair of kids blue jeans, size 4, and an 8x10 photograph of a little girl. They had no idea who she was. I could only hope she had survived.

An EF5 tornado -- the highest-rating given, for storms with winds over 200 mph -- passed within 3-4 miles of Dad's house, and within a mile of where Wolfgang lives. Minutes later, the same tornado destroyed my first cousin's house. She and her husband hid in a closet. All that remains of their house is that closet and part of one wall. They survived. Hundreds across Alabama didn't.

That particular tornado stayed on the ground continuously for over 100 miles. I drove through some more of the damage on my way to church Sunday. My eyes started to water. Every image, every location, breaks your heart all over again. The destruction is so massive that eventually words fail.

Another somewhat unique aspect to this disaster was the widespread and lengthy power outage. At one point, we heard over 600,000 were without power. Obviously, that is secondary to the tornado destruction, but still significant in that it no doubt prevented some people from being forewarned. The local TV stations were doing a great job covering things, but probably over 90 percent of north Alabamians weren't able to watch TV.

TVA was originally giving estimates that power could be out five to seven days. Some areas were on sooner. Some still don't have power today, eight days later.

People were unprepared for an extended power outage. Most lost everything in their fridge and freezer. Gasoline became a premium commodity. The few stations that had generators and were able to pump it had lines half an hour to an hour long the first day or two.

I had no cell phone service, no internet, and no home phone service for a couple of days, as both my landline phones are cordless and therefore need electricity. I am beyond embarrassed to admit that it crossed my mind Thursday to maybe go and stay overnight with friends in Nashville on Friday, just so I would be able to use my cell phone and text and call people back who had tried to check on me. It feels incredibly selfish now that the thought even crossed my mind.

Because as I began to see the damage and the relief efforts that were underway, I quickly realized this was not the time to skip town, this was the time to help your neighbor. I managed to find an old corded phone at work which I borrowed, just so I wouldn't feel completely disconnected from the outside world.

At work, management decided we would work through the weekend due to the situation. I had thought of griping for half a second, but in hindsight I'm so glad we did. It felt like people needed us there. Our generator began to run low on gas on Thursday or Friday -- again I forget the day. A frantic search for fuel paid off. We remained on generator power until sometime yesterday.

The relief effort has been amazing. It has risen to match and begun to overcome the devastation. There were reports of some areas even turning away volunteers or having no more room to store the supplies that had been donated. The outpouring of love and people's faith in the face of death and total loss has been incredible.

It makes me proud to be from this area and to call Alabama home. And hearing stories about people from all over the country showing up to help give me hope and make me proud of America. Race, religion, politics -- none of that mattered. People simply helped. And they continue helping. As I've witnessed this tragedy bring out the best in so many, it makes me wonder why we can't treat each other this way all the time.

Something else I've observed: Events like this divide people into basically two categories. There are those who help, as instinctively and as automatically as they breathe. It's as if there isn't even a choice. It's just what they do. And then there are those who seem completely oblivious to everything going on around them, whose only concern seems to be themselves, and everyone else can go screw themselves. And you don't have to ask which category someone falls into. You don't have to dig very hard at all. Just observe, and it becomes quite obvious.

I'm proud to say almost everyone I know was doing something to help. My sister and her husband went to try and help my first cousin. Dad, who was still without power at the time, called two different days saying they were getting supplies to take to volunteers and victims. Axl went out with search and rescue teams. Even LJ went out at least three days that I know of to help in the clean-up effort.

Several other things struck me during all this. Forgive me for jumping around here but I just want to get all my thoughts down.

People in one area that was devastated often had no idea there was just as much devastation in countless other areas, in some cases for days due in large part to the power outage. I realized this talking to Axl one night. He had been out with search and rescue but still had no power or internet and was stunned as I told him of the devastation I'd heard of in other counties and areas.

It also struck me during this time that you, people outside of Alabama, probably had a lot better idea of what was going on than most anyone here. Again because of the lack of power and communications.

And finally, having watched Japan, and Katrina, and numerous other disasters play out on TV, I have realized something I really knew deep down but just chose to forget or ignore most times. Just because a few days pass and the national media moves on to something else and suddenly you've become day-before-yesterday's news doesn't mean the disaster is over or things are normal.

Things won't be normal for months and months. And when they finally are, normal will be different from whatever it was before. We will never forget the images, the stories, the victims, the loss, the damage. Nor will we forget the heroes, the survivors, the rescuers, the volunteers, the love and the kindness. And if we ever think we might, we will drive past a place where a store or a school or a neighborhood used to be, or maybe a spot where the trees suddenly aren't quite as tall or dense as they are just down the road. And we will remember.

I write all this realizing I am incredibly blessed. Not only am I alive and well, but so are my family and loved ones. I suffered absolutely zero property damage. My town was one of the most very fortunate. Time and again Wednesday and Wednesday night, tornadoes would track a few miles north or a few miles south of us. And we were one of the first areas to get power restored. So yes, I feel blessed. And guilty. Why them? Why not me? I know that feeling well.

The tornado outbreak of 1974 had always been the stuff of legend around here. Someone wrote a book about it and I remember looking through it a few times and reading some of it. There were personal accounts of survivors and stories and sometimes pictures of those who died. I still remember this one family -- a man, his wife, and their kids -- who were all killed in the '74 tornadoes. I can still remember their first and last names. I can still see that picture. And I haven't looked at that book in at least twenty years.

When I asked Dad if he thought this was worse than '74, he didn't hesitate to say yes. The numbers -- of injuries, damage, and loss of life -- say it isn't even that close. At least in Alabama. The last I saw there were around 250 killed in the state and over 3000 injured. That's roughly triple the 1974 numbers of 86 fatalities and 949 injuries.

I grew up with what probably was an unhealthy fear of tornadoes. I hated the word, hated to see it in print, hated to hear anyone say it. Anytime there was a tornado warning for our county, Dad would make us get out and drive around, or sit under an overpass or go to the courthouse basement. As I got older, I started staying home when my family would get out. And after I moved out, the fear gradually dissipated and I'm sure I became too lax when it came to storms.

Today, I have a new-found respect, for a word and a monster I still hate.

"My home's in Alabama, no matter where I lay my head. My home's in Alabama, southern born and southern bred..."

While visions of lap desks danced in his head...

Every year while Christmas shopping, I usually wind up buying a gift or two for myself. After all, isn't that what the holidays are all about? No? Well, forget I said that. Anyway, I'd done really well this year, not buying myself a single thing. Until last week.

That's when I discovered what is quite possibly the greatest invention since the automatic paper towel dispenser: the lap desk.

Have you heard of these things? Sounds a little like lap dance, but it's much more satisfying. It's like silk underwear for your laptop! Not that I wear or endorse silk underwear, but I imagine it would be a luxurious and quite delightful experience. There's even a place for a beverage! If I could somehow attach a mini-fridge, I'd have it all.

Remarkably, I did manage to leave the laptop for a little while this past weekend, though I'm not quite sure how. I think I must have reached the end of the internet or something. The weekend consisted of caroling, driving around looking at Christmas lights, and that most treasured of holiday tradition -- bowling.

Caroling was a bit of a different adventure this year than last. The main difference being we didn't get the van with the seats in it this year. Instead we took my cousin's company van. He owns a dry cleaning business, and the only thing in the back of the van were two rods for hanging clothes.

So there were seven of us piled on the floor in the back of a van. At least it was carpeted. It had a very nativity-esque feel to it, I thought. If the wise men were traveling today, I feel confident in saying this is how they'd roll.

Saturday night, I managed to get the Darryls together to go bowling. I nearly split my yule log when I saw the rates: $5.25 a game, plus $4 for shoe rentals! Evidently bowling has gone the way of Red Lobster and is now only for the upper class.

Everyone agreed this was an outrage, especially Wolfgang who was there with his new wife and newly acquired children in tow. So I called the ghetto bowling alley to check rates. It was a good bit cheaper and, not surprisingly, they had plenty of lanes available, so off we went. This place was a tad scary, but with my street cred at an all-time high I figured we'd be OK, and we were.

Finally, for any who might be wondering, I will be hosting my annual Festivus celebration Thursday night. Every year, I keep thinking this is the year I won't do it. After all, how long can one man celebrate a fake holiday from a TV show that went off the air 12 years ago? Well apparently, at least six years in a row.

Maybe this is my ticket into the Guinness Book -- most consecutive years hosting a Festivus party. Then perhaps "Silver Pole" will find its way into Wikipedia, thus ending both of the great quests of my life. Of course, then I'd have to come up with new life goals for myself, and that could take a while.

Merry Christmas and Happy Festivus to one and all. Here's hoping you don't have to fight your father in the feats of strength this year.

"There'll be meatloaf, maybe pizza, at the Festivus meal. After grievances aired, hearts are heavy. Then it's time for Feats of Strength, it's Frank Costanza's big scene. Festivus won't be o'er 'til someone's pinned..."

I'm all thumbs

As much as I have considered granting unrequested permission to TruTV to feature my life on the first-ever blogger reality show (to be aired right after Forensic Files, of course), even I must admit there are issues to consider.

First off, is there enough interesting material in my life to even fill an hour a week? Secondly, I'd most likely have to wear pants around the house. Then of course, there would be the inevitable invite to be on Dancing With The Stars, where I would probably go out early like Kenny Mayne and the man from Apple because my mom can't see Russia from her house and I was never married to Jon Gosselin. Lastly -- and this is where today's post comes in -- every embarrassing moment of my life would be chronicled for all the world to see.

A little background, if you will:

During football season, if I'm not at the Bama game, I'm watching on TV. And I have a circle of friends with whom I am constantly texting throughout the game, sometimes after every play. I like to think of them as my mobile entourage. There's Axl, my sister, Wolfgang, and the female component of Kywana.

That brings us to earlier this week. I got a call from a number that's not programmed into my phone. Now, I don't usually answer calls from numbers I don't recognize, but I guess I was feeling uncommonly sociable on this particular day.

What follows is a never-before-published recap of that conversation, with my thoughts in italics, included for your enjoyment.

"Hello."

A male voice greets me. "Mister Bone?"

"Yes?"

"Hi, this is (name withheld) from AT&T. We noticed you had gone over your allotted number of text messages last month."

*cringe* "I am aware."

"Looking at your account, you actually would save money if you upgraded your data plan."

Looking at my account? Shouldn't that be illegal? Stupid Patriot Act.

"You currently get 1500 texts per month. You used over 1800 last month, which came out to about 12 dollars in overage charges."

You oughta be thanking me for using that many texts. Ever hear of frequent flier miles? I should be rewarded! There should be an 1800 Club for people like me. Or... at least a Texters Anonymous.

"If you were to go to the next highest plan, it would be 10 dollars more, but you would get unlimited texts."

(Pause for response. There is none.)

"So if you think you're going to be texting a lot every month, then that's something you might want to consider."

Apparently, I'm a teenage girl.

"Don't try to dig what we all say. I'm not trying to cause a big sensation. Just talkin' 'bout my generation..."

A wedding and a funeral

The Darryls have passed away.

Time of death was around 2:15, Saturday, September 25th. That's when the onset of wedded bliss stole the last gasps of air from Independent Wolfgang. Though honestly, Independent Wolfgang had been on life support for quite awhile. I mean he hadn't played golf since the spring, for crying out loud.

And without two Darryls, you really have no Darryls. It'd be like Bert with no Ernie, pancakes with no syrup, B.J. with no The Bear. Maybe that's why LJ didn't show up for the wedding. He claimed he had to work. But I wouldn't be surprised if it was all just too much to handle.

So RIP Darryls. It's the end of an era, and thus closes an entertaining, if occasionally disturbing, chapter of my life. But this is not my misty-water-colored-memories ode to the Darryls post. Oh no, that will come later, after a period of mourning. Besides, like I (would have) said in my wedding toast (had they asked me to make one), "This too shall pass."

In the end, I wasn't asked to be a groomsman -- there were no groomsmen. But I did attend, largely because the chapel was about three minutes from my place. And since I know many of you were deeply concerned about me possibly having to miss the Bama/Arkansas game, I have prepared a rudimentary timeline for you of the day's events:

1:45 PM - Arrive at chapel, see Wolfgang outside, pose for picture. What? No, I'm not family. Apparently I wasn't supposed to be in that picture.

1:47 PM - Enter wrong door. There were girls in dresses in there. What were they doing? I don't know. I heard giggling. Were they laughing at me? Hard to say. Close door.

1:48 PM - Find correct door. Enter and take seat near the back and at the end of the pew in case a quick exit becomes necessary.

1:50 PM - Have espn.com's gamecast pulled up on my Blackberry ready to go. I thought headphones would be too obvious. Seriously rethinking that right about now.

1:59 PM - I began to grow fidgety. When is this thing going to start? Why do weddings always start late?

2:00 PM - Music starts. Ah, that's what I'm talking about. Let's get this show on the road and get this poor bastard married off.

2:09 PM - Why is the unity candle song always so long? Everything is done, then the couple are standing there awkwardly for two-and-a-half minutes waiting for the song to end. All you're really doing is giving both of them time to rethink their decision. I mean, how long does it take to light three candles? Fifteen seconds. They should play Taps. That would be about the right length.

2:14 PM - I think about the parking lot. If someone has me blocked in there will be a crime committed today. Probably more than one.

2:20 PM - I do! And the congregation shouted "Hallelujah!" Or just I shouted, with my inside voice.

2:22 PM - What's this? The preacher is making some kind of announcement. The bride and groom will be back in a few minutes? In the meantime, entertain yourselves? OK, that's it, I'm outta here!

2:23 PM - Crap, here they come.

2:28 PM - Thinking I still have time to get some wedding cake, I work my way towards the reception area, and manage to nonchalantly break into the cake line, in front of the flower girls.

2:33 PM - Shake hands with Wolfgang. Wave goodbye to the bride. Simultaneously.

2:38 PM - Get home, turn on the TV, which I had purposely left on CBS in order to save precious seconds.

2:39 PM - They haven't kicked off yet! Vern Lundquist's face never looked so beautiful.

2:40 PM - 6:00 PM - A constant state of anxiety, interspersed with outbursts of cursing, table-banging, and brief moments of relief. (You'd think I was the one getting married.)

So to recap: Wolfgang got married. I was there -- for a little while. My coffee table is still in tact. And the Darryls are dead.

At least I have Nick Saban to console me on a weekly basis.

"Another chapter of my life its over. No, I'm never gonna feel like that again. Time's rushin' by me like the wind. Never be as young as I was then..."

On cases of interfaith marriage

I have a crisis.

You remember my friend Wolfgang, right? The Darryl who just got engaged? Well, as soon as he started dating this girl -- we'll call her Joy -- I began dropping subtle hints. Things like, "Just don't get married on the day of an Alabama game." OK, so maybe not so subtle. Whatever.

So when he texted me "she said yes" I texted him back, presenting him with three different Saturdays that Alabama was off this season and told him to pick one. I thought it was a helpful gesture.

Naturally, he (or more likely she) goes completely off course and picks a Saturday when they have a game. And a pretty big one at that, against Arkansas.

Sigh.

I don't understand. Bama only plays twelve (regular season) games a year. And this year, one's on a Thursday and another is on a Friday. So that's only like ten Saturdays you need to avoid. Is that too much to ask? Am I being unreasonable?

I even went out of my way to make a special exception and said that if they had to get married on the day of a game, then I would allow them to get married on the day of the Duke game. Even though that went against my entire being and everything I have been raised to believe. And that still wasn't enough. So you tell me who's being unreasonable.

What do they think, "don't get married on the day of an Alabama game" is just something folksy that people say in passing but don't really mean, like "good to see you" or "you better save for retirement?" That these stories about parents who didn't attend their child's wedding because it was on the day of the Alabama-Tennessee game are fables?

No. They're real.

They're passed down from generation to generation for a reason. And that reason is, so that you don't put innocent fans like myself into situations where we're forced to reveal where your friendship falls on our list of priorities. And it's not even so much your friendship, just your wedding.

LJ and I were discussing the situation during a sultry round of golf a couple of weeks ago when he informed me, "I think the last time Wolfgang got married, it was on the day of an Alabama game." Hello! You'd think that'd be a bad omen, wouldn't you? (Also, side note: Another bad omen? The Omen III.)

There is a sliver of hope, however, as they still haven't decided if they're having a wedding or just going to the courthouse. But I did get a text: "Hey, if we have a wedding will you be a groomsman?"

How did I respond? Well I, um, haven't exactly gotten around to replying yet. What? I don't deal well with hypotheticals.

What do I do? Can I really not go? What's the worst that can happen -- I'll be ostracized from the community? I gotta be honest with you, I'm not sure how much a part of the community I am in the first place.

I don't want to become known as the world's first groomsman-zilla here. But if these people are going to openly flout the rules, they are going to have to live with the consequences.

And this is precisely why it's never a good idea to marry outside the religion.

"Your best friend Harry has a brother Larry. In five days from now he's gonna marry. He's hopin' you can make it there if you can, 'cause in the ceremony you'll be the best man..."

A tough trimester, killer bees, and the bachelorhood loses one of its own

It's been a banner week in the life of Bone. A banner ten days, actually.

The second trimester, if you will, of July had a quite inauspicious beginning when I discovered I had left a virtually full pack of gum in the pocket of my shorts. That would have been fine, except that at the time of this discovery, said shorts had already gone through the washing machine and had been in the dryer for about forty minutes.

So there I was at 11:30 on a Friday night, on my knees using an SOS pad to try and scrub copious amounts of melted gum from the inside wall of my dryer. Fortunately, I was able to get most of it off, but my fingers smelled like Stride Spearmint for two days, which turned out to be sort of a pleasant surprise whenever I'd accidentally catch a whiff of them. It's quite the bachelor's paradise I have created here, don't you think? A veritable Eden of singledom.

Then on Monday of last week, I was taking out the trash when at once I found myself in the midst of a swarm of ginormous killer bees. The largest bees I have ever seen. There must have been twenty or thirty of them. I never even made it to the dumpster, instead turning tail and running the other way, trash bag still in hand. It was one of the most harrowing experiences of my mostly sheltered life.

As I sprinted, all I could see was Brian Williams on NBC Nightly News doing the lead story: "Killer bees have returned to the United States." Run, Bone, run! I don't want to be a statistic! I narrowly -- and I thought somewhat miraculously -- escaped without a single sting.

As luck would have it, there was a lady nearby who kindly informed me that I had just been "attacked" by a swarm of June bugs.

Oh... um... do they sting, too?

The week progressed, as weeks are wont to do. On Friday, tidings arrived by way of the text message that Wolfgang had gotten engaged. Yes, you heard it here first (unless you happen to be one of his Facebook friends): Wolfgang is getting married!

The engagement consummates a whirlwind five-month courtship, which is like light-speed to me. I prefer to plod along at a snail's pace, slow and steady. No one's in any hurry. Nobody's going anywhere. Let's not make any sudden movements. I'm like the tortoise in The Tortoise & The Hare, and I think we all know how that turns out.

More importantly, this is the end of the three amigos as we know them, and I feel... a bit odd. It's going to be strange with only one Darryl around. Do Remaining Darryl and I try and find a replacement Darryl, or move on just us two, Bosom Buddies-style? Neither of the Darryls ever got married on Newhart, so it's really hard to know for sure what to do. There is no guidebook.

I guess this is what comes from basing too much of my life on a TV show. I feel disillusioned.

And I always thought the second trimester was supposed to be the easiest.

"I got ketchup on my blue jeans, I just burned my hand. Lord, it's hard to be a bachelor man..."

Asking out a guy

As a guy, one of the toughest things to deal with is rejection. I know times they are a-changin', but for most of my dating life, I have been the one expected to ask out the girl. Sometimes I did and she accepted. Sometimes I asked and was rebuffed with great prejudice. And sometimes I never asked and spent the rest of my life up to and including this very day wondering what if...

Where was I? Oh yes. There is one thing tougher than being rejected by a girl, however. And that is being rejected by a guy.

If a girl rejects you, in a lot of cases you probably never have to see her again, or at the least can avoid her most of the time. But if a guy rejects you, it's likely one of your guy friends, and it can be awkward. Not as awkward as having your hands accidentally touch as you're riding down the road -- that's the single most awkward situation known to modern heterosexual man and must never be spoken of by either party as long as they both shall live -- but awkward, nonetheless.

I dealt with this very situation recently. The being rejected by a guy, not the incidental hand-touching. I called Wolfgang -- OK, texted, everyone knows we don't talk on the phone -- to see if he wanted to hang out one Friday night. For months, we'd (the Darryls and I) had a standing date every weekend. But things were different now. We hadn't been out in weeks since he acquired a significant other (another significant other, other than LJ). As I thought about all the good times we had, I waited nervously for his reply. Then piercing the stillness of the room with my sonar-like text alert, there it was:

"I already have plans for tonight."

OK, so it wasn't outright rejection. But it was still a declination. And still awkward.

Now, once the initial awkwardness subsides after the man-date rejection, you then have to decide when and if to ask this guy out again. And it's a difficult decision, because the only thing worse than being rejected by a guy is to be rejected a second time by that same guy. Am I right ladies?

If you ask a girl out two, three, ten times, you might be considered persistent. But if you ask a guy out more than two times without him accepting, just... don't... ever share that with anyone else.

Being rejected by a girl is also much easier in part, I think, because as guys we almost expect it sometimes. I know I do. I mean, the average guy is probably turned down, what, tens of times in his life, if not more?

Lastly, if you're turned down by a girl, well there are three billion others out there. But if you're turned down by a guy, well you only probably have a handful of guy friends, and at this point in my life anyway, I'm not really out there trying to meet any new guys. Should I be?

That is why I think guys generally just accept any man-date we are asked out on. We understand how difficult it is to ask someone else out, whether it be a girl or another guy. If we really don't want to do something with another guy, then we just won't answer the phone when he calls, thus avoiding having to say "no" and all of the awkwardness that would thereby ensue.

This is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg when it comes to man-dates. Maybe someday we'll look at some other topics of interest, including who pays, how long should you wait for your man-date to show up before leaving, and last but not least, man-shakes and fist bumps -- how soon is too soon?

"Tell me, why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?"

Who goes bowling at one o'clock on a Saturday?

Friday marked the passing of another year in the life of Bone. As I commemorated the occasion, my Dad commiserated, "You're not a year older, you're only a day older than you were yesterday." Which sounded pretty good until I realized that I was on day number thirteen thousand, five hundred fourteen.

Phew. That's a lot of times hitting the snooze button.

It also reminded me of one of my favorite all-time George Costanza quotes: "If you take everything I've accomplished in my entire life and condense it down into one day, it looks decent!"

In other birthday weekend news of note, Wolfgang had started texting early in the week asking if I wanted to come bowling Saturday at 1 PM to meet his new girlfriend. My first (and second, and third) reaction was, "Who goes bowling at one o'clock on Saturday afternoon?" Not to mention that Wolfgang had pretty much dumped LJ and I since acquiring said girlfriend and I hadn't seen him in three weeks. But mainly, I just kept thinking, "Who goes bowling at one o'clock on Saturday afternoon?" So I resisited. Still, he was oddly persistent and would not relent until, at last, I acquiesced.

Or to shorten that paragraph, I went bowling Saturday.

As I pulled into the parking lot of the bowling alley, I saw my sister's vehicle. What is my sister doing--- Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! Before I could even finish my thought, I knew. It was a surprise party for Bone. They fooled me! Augh! I was lied to by people I trusted!

It turned out to be quite the event. Worlds collided somewhat as the Darryls met the parents, which was... awkward at best. There was also the second meeting of Nephew Bone and the godson. They mostly stared as they appeared to be sizing each other up. It was kinda like when Godzilla first meets King Kong.

Some people were hesitant to bowl at first, but Nephew Bone finally got the ball rolling. Literally. He used a bowling ramp. And someone had to put the ball on top of it. And most of the time he didn't wait around to see how many pins he knocked down. But he did push the ball down the ramp.

Even my Dad bowled! He said he hadn't been since he was 17 or 18, which I think is true. Or he could have just been making up excuses for his score, I'm not sure. It was hard to tell which one of them had more fun. I'm gonna go with Nephew Bone, but it was close.

I had a good day on the lanes. There was just the right amount of oil on the ball and pizza grease on my fingers. Wanting to set a good example for Nephew Bone, and with images of all my bowling heroes -- Norm Duke, Kelly Kulick, and of course, Walter Ray Williams, Jr. -- running through my head, I threw a 186-179-161 series. They gave me a real bowling pin and three balloons! Turns out that was for my birthday and not for my bowling performance, but still.

Also, AMF Bowling Centers apparently has their own syndicated radio station. They were giving shout-outs throughout the day to people having birthday bowling parties all across the country. Of course, most of them were under 16. But let's not nitpick. Besides, it helps to answer the question, "Who goes bowling at one o'clock on a Saturday afternoon?" Apparently, 14-year-old Megan from Grand Rapids and all her friends.

Finally, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that I also got a Wii this weekend. I figure that's right in keeping with my tendency to be on the trailing edge of technology. I could foresee 2011 being the year I finally get a DVR. OK, maybe 2012.

By the way, does it seem odd to anybody but me that all the other people in the Wii bowling center have no legs?

Anyway, that was my weekend: a Wii and a birthday party at the bowling alley. A day older? Yes. A day more mature? Maybe next year.

"Too old to be wild and free still. Too young to be over the hill. Should try to grow up but who knows where to start..."

The day the blog stood still

We were at a double-A baseball game. It was around the second or third inning. Day had all but surrendered to night's gradual but certain takeover. Wolfgang, Little Joe, and Little Joe's girlfriend were talking amongst themselves. Meanwhile, I was halfway through an order of nachos, and had been amusing myself by listening to the girl behind us asking her poor husband/boyfriend/brother things like "What quarter is it?" and "How come they got two?"

If I recall correctly, I had just finished barking along to the last few bars of "Who Let The Dogs Out" when Wolfgang turned to me and said, "Why didn't you tell me my name was Wolfgang?"

And there it was, that always unexpected and often awkward clashing of the blogosphere and the real world.

As you might imagine, I have been questioning everything the past few days, including my very existence (in the blogosphere). Is this the end of the Darryls as you know them? What a blow that would be not only to my blog but to Newhart references in general.

Speaking of concerts in the greater-Nashville area, I am supposed to go see Counting Crows tonight. I say "supposed to" because there has been one issue after another regarding the tickets. First, they were going to be mailed, then they were going to be emailed, and now they are supposed to be at will call.

I figure best-case, I get to see Adam Duritz belting out "A Long December." Worst-case, they don't let me in to the Ryman and I have something in common with Hank Williams. Then we go on a self-guided tour of the former Opryland location--which just happens to be my favorite tourist destination in all of Nashville--and I get to see a few Perseids while driving home. So, win-win.

While I am or am not at the Counting Crows concert tonight pondering the future of my very blog, which has become as much a part of me as any of my bodily appendages, I offer a repost. Originally posted in 2005, it goes along quite well with the subject du jour.

---------------------------------------------

OPRYLAND HISTORICAL TOURS

Announcing the all-new Opryland Historical Tours, by Bone. Come and relive the magic of Opryland USA. Tours are held Monday-Saturday, beginning at 9:00 AM, at the original location of the Grizzly River Rampage at the Opry Mills complex.

Each tour guide is arrayed in an original Opryland park employee outfit, and will share with you interesting stories, personal memories, and historical facts about the theme park. Each tour includes a a thirty minute video about Opryland USA, including footage shot by visitors to the park during its twenty-six years in operation.

After the video, you'll be able to walk thru the river bed of what once was the Grizzly River Rampage, where you will have plenty of photo opportunities. You can also take pictures next to the "Opry Mills Sucks" and "Gaylord Stole My Childhood" signs.

And browse thru tons several items of Opryland memorabilia, including an original Tin Lizzie, a log from the Flume Zoom, a skee ball, a half-eaten slice of pizza from Julio's, and some chicken wire from the park's famous petting zoo.

Refreshments are available, including fruit-shaped fruit drinks, just like those sold at the original Opryland USA. So if you have fond memories of Opryland, or even if you never got to go to Opryland because your baby sister always got to go where she wanted on vacation, you will not want to miss the Opryland Historical Tour.

Legal disclaimer: Opryland Historical Tours is not liable for the actions of any guests. We will not be held responsible for any legal action that may be taken against you or any member of your party by Gaylord Entertainment or any of its subsidaries, nor any physical harm or trauma that may be caused by the Opry Mills security. By taking part in this tour, you may or may not be trespassing, but most likely are.

Well, that's my dream. My entrepreneurial thought for the week. Or for the year. Whichever.

"They paved paradise and put up a parking lot, with a pink hotel, a boutique and a swingin' hot spot. Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone..."

Short shorts

This post is brought to you by Nair. For men.

Well, as it has every Friday evening since the advent of the five-day work week--which based on everything I know was somewhere around the time of The Flintstones--the weekend has arrived. I plan to spend part of mine watching some of the British Open as well as the Tour de France. I figure that'll suffice for my monthly allotment of British and French culture.

After spending the past couple of months sweltering, including one stretch of twenty consecutive days over ninety degrees, we're actually forecast to have near record low temperatures this weekend. As in, it could drop into the upper 50's Saturday night. I'm going to do my best to avoid cutting the heat on. Just my little way of going green.

I would like to close today with three short and unrelated anecdotes. My ultimate hope is that these brief glimpses into my life will bring a smile to your heart, if not your face, and a sunniness to your disposition, if not your sky.

Anecdote #1: My new girlfriend
Yesterday at work, the secretary burst into the office and with urgency in her voice said, "Bone, come here, I found you a girl! Hurry!" Well, I figured something was up, especially after I'd recently taped a piece of cardboard over the sensor on her optical mouse which took her like ten minutes to figure out. But I played along. After all, she did say the word "girl."

So I got out to her office and she pointed to the TV. The local 12 o'clock news was on and they were interviewing a roller derby girl. Is it wrong that I was more than a bit intrigued?

Anecdote #2: More than just a few digits short
I probably should provide some background on this story. LJ--you remember him from my tales of Wolfgang & LJ, also known as The Darryls--does not have a cell phone. He's never had a cell phone. You might recall that he procured a girlfriend a few months ago. A couple of weeks ago while we were hanging out at his house, he got to texting his girlfriend with Wolfgang's phone.

Zoom forward to this week. LJ is out of town for a few days. He left yesterday. This afternoon I have the following text exchange with Wolfgang:

WG: You're not gonna believe what I'm about to tell you. LJ called me this morning.
Bone: OK. What'd he want?
WG: He wanted to know if I could remember the first 3 numbers of his girlfriend's phone number.

Remind me again why I've not turned their lives into a sitcom?

Anecdote #3: Know your Woodys
Last, and least, this one needs no explanation.

"I kinda wanna see that new Larry David movie. Even though I haven't been to the theater in about two and a half years."
"What's it called?"
"I can't remember. It's a Woody Allen film."
"I've never been a big fan. Woody Allen is in my least favorite movie of all time."
"Really? What's that?"
"White Men Can't Jump."

You just can't make this stuff up.

"Call my line, call me anytime. I'll be there for you. I've been searching high. I've been searching low. Baa-ba-ba-baa, baa-ba-ba-baa baby, don't forget my number..."

What you missed this week on Facebook

I was Wiki'ing tonight. And, well let me get right to the point. So in that old windshield wiper commercial, that wasn't really Laurel and Hardy? And not only wasn't it them, but they were already dead?!?! I feel so disillusioned.

It was a fine week here in Bone Diego, USA. Several of us attended the Braves/Brewers game in Atlanta last Saturday where we enjoyed seeing the Braves light up the scoreboard with zero runs. The week also included a round of golf, dinner with Lil Bootay, as well as spending time with the nephew, the godson, and the Darryls (all at different times and different locations). Wow, all that wouldn't even fit into one Tweet. I guess I really was the proverbial social butterfly this week. As opposed to my usual anti-social caterpillar-that-likes-to-nap persona.

But enough about life away from the computer. Let's get to the important stuff. Here at IYROOBTY, we are all about inclusion. So here are a few things you might have missed on Facebook this week. You know, if you actually have a life and aren't on Facebook, or if you are on Facebook and just haven't accepted any of my repeated friend requests.

Little Joe and Wolfgang each created "How Well Do You Know Me" quizzes. I scored 50% on Wolfgang's and 66% on LJ's. I was pleased with those scores--not terrible, but low enough so as to still appear hetero. Wolfgang, however, scored 100% on LJ's quiz. I suppose that's only natural though. After all, they are the Darryls.

What's even funnier--if that's possible--is that LJ's girlfriend took the quiz and only got 83%. We joked and joked about that. Or, I joked and joked about it.

Oh that's right, we finally got to meet the girlfriend last weekend. A few days before the big event, I had "the talk" with LJ:

"Does she watch General Hospital?"
"I don't know. I haven't told her about that yet."
"Well, what are you gonna do when we start discussing it Saturday, just pretend you have no idea what we're talking about?"
"I guess I need to tell her."

He did. She doesn't. But she has agreed to accept his lifestyle. Wolfgang and I have decided this is it for LJ, you know because clearly that's our decision to make. He asked me the other night,"If LJ gets married, where does that leave us?" I've often wondered the same thing. I mean, what are you talking about? There is no "us."

In other what-you-missed-this-week-on-Facebook news, I took the "What Kenny Chesney song are you" quiz and got the result "Soul Of A Sailor," which I don't even really know. Soon thereafter Wolfgang and LJ took the same quiz (because apparently I'm their leader). Thankfully, they each got different results.

Then last night, I noticed LJ had taken the quiz a second time. Odd, I thought. Even more odd was the message that had been typed above his result. Evidently, his girlfriend had taken the quiz under his name, and had typed a little love note on his wall for all the world to see. But as she was signed into his account, it appeared like this:

Little Joe: "I love the man I'm with, and always will."

Clearly, that needs no further embellishment or explanation.

Let's close now with some final tidbits from the past week in Facebook, or what I like to call, Facebits:

I received a friend request from a girl I made out with one time in high school. She, of course, is married with two teenage kids now.

I managed to avoid being poked, prodded, or kidnapped the entire week.

I scored a bingo in Lexulous (aka Facebook Scrabble) with the word "detente."

And last but not least, I posted this picture of Uncle Bone and Nephew Bone (but mostly Nephew Bone):


(Memorial Day 2009, circa 9 months)

And that's the week that was in Facebook.

"Too old to be wild and free still. Too young to be over the hill. Should try to grow up, but who knows where to start..."

That time my nipple was on fire

Welcome to the Spring of Bone. The season of my shaven head, if you will. The past few days have been a whirlwind. Thursday was the Kenny Chesney concert. Saturday morning I ran a 10K. And Saturday evening, I had another engagement. Three events in three days! That's a lot, compared to my usual number of zero. Not to mention the season finales of The Office and 24. Plus, Michael coming out of a year-long coma on General Hospital. Whew! I think I need a weekend off to decompress.

Let us begin with the concert: the Kenny Chesney Sun City Carnival Tour. It was held at the Oak Mountain Amphitheatre in Birmingham, a perfect venue for an outdoor concert on a gorgeous Alabama night. It wound up just being the Darryls and me. Jamie was supposed to go, but she got two tickets from a radio station and ditched us. Can't really blame her, considering our tickets were on row V in the very last section. Not bad for 95 bucks. I'm pretty sure it was the worst seat I've ever had at a concert, except for that one year at June Jam when the actual curvature of the Earth itself prevented us from seeing most of the stage.

The opening acts were Lady Antebellum--who we missed because we were stuck in traffic--and Miranda Lambert--who we unfortunately did not miss. She was not very good. There was one highlight, however, when she brought Blake Shelton on stage and he sang a song. I texted my sister, "Blake Shelton just came out!" Well, I noticed she didn't reply for awhile. She told me later she forgot I was at the concert and so when she got my text all she could think was, "Nuh uh! I thought he was dating Miranda Lambert!"

Kenny's part of the show was excellent. He sang about twenty songs. (I have the set list if you'd like. I texted it to myself.) I don't think I realized how many hits he's had until we were on our way home and started naming off at least as many songs that he hadn't sang.

At one point during the show, LJ pulled out a disposable camera, aimed it in the general direction of the figure we thought was most likely Kenny Chesney, and started clicking. He asked me if I thought he'd be able to see anything in the pictures. Um no, not unless the word Hubble appears somewhere on the camera.

Saturday morning was my 10K race. That's 6.2 miles, which coincidentally, is just slightly farther than we were from Kenny Chesney. I got off to a terrible start, due largely to starting at the back and having to navigate the mass of bodies the first half mile. My one mile split was like eight and a half minutes. I picked it up from there and finished in 48:29, good for fifth in my age group. My time was fourteen seconds slower than last year, but that was kind of expected since I haven't been training as much. To have run a faster time would have been to cheat the very ideals of hard work, training and dedication. And also likely would have caused me to pass out and/or begin wretching.

Saturday night, I went to a dance recital, 'cause that's how I roll. I went to see Kywana Jr. in... umm... I keep forgetting the name of the program. Twelve Angry Men? No, there weren't that many men in it. The Princess Bride? Nope, no Andre The Giant. Dances With Wolves? No, but it was four hours long. Wait, I got it. Twelve Dancing Princesses! Yes, that's it. And it's even less exciting than the title would indicate, if that's possible.

Oh, I almost forgot! A bizarre thing did happen on the way to my race Saturday morning. My right nipple started burning. I mean, it was on fire! Have any of you ever had this problem? I examined it, but really couldn't tell much. I mean, what does it usually look like? I don't know. Anyway, that led to an odd, if not disturbing scene Saturday around lunchtime, as I stood shirtless in front of my bathroom mirror rubbing Neosporin on my nipples. I mean, if there is one microcosm I could give you to sum up my life, that's it right there.

You are currently experiencing the Spring of Bone...

"And I go back to watchin' summer fade into fall. Growin' up too fast and I do recall wishin' time would stop right in its tracks..."

Destin '09

(I apologize for not being around more the past few weeks. Tonight is the Kenny Chesney concert, then Saturday is my 10K run. After that, I think things should start settling down a bit. I'm just now getting around to recapping my recent beach trip, which took place between the 30th of April and the 3rd of May, in the year of our Lord two thousand and nine.)

From the start, there was something different about this beach trip. And not just because Wolfgang and I both had freshly shaven heads. (Yes, when he saw mine he immediately decided to get his shaved. Let's not even analyze that.) No, it was something else.

Perhaps it was because LJ is dating someone for the first time this decade. He recently acquired a girlfriend after going to a speed dating event. They spend an inordinate amount of time on the phone. And although we--Wolfgang and I--still haven't met her, we agree that LJ will be married within a year. The whole trip, Wolfgang kept saying this was the last fling for the three amigos. I didn't even know he knew any Spanish.

Unfortunately, I was unable to use my camera this trip because, apparently, rechargeable batteries are only rechargeable up to a certain point. The cut off seems to be around four or five years. So I have no pictures for you today. Instead, close your eyes and allow my words to paint the images of Destin '09 upon the canvas of your mind. On second thought, you should probably keep your eyes open.

The highlights--or lowlights, I'll let you decide--began our first night there. I saw a girl who appeared to be pulling up her pants in the Wal-Mart parking lot. A bit odd, I thought, but figured she was probably just changing clothes or turning tricks. After she had zipped up, she saw me looking and said, "Yes, I just peed." As if you needed another reason to never go to Wal-Mart barefooted.

Things took a turn for the better on Friday, as I was lying on the beach tanning. (That is, exposing my body to ultraviolet radiation resulting in increased production of melanin; not making leather.) A girl, who I would presume to be between the age of 16 and 35--because who the heck can tell--approached me and said, "Excuse me. Would you mind helping us? We've got a pregnant girl down here and we can't get our umbrella to stay up." (See how much more attractive that is than "I just peed.")

Well, that sounds like a job for me. I sprang from my prone position and what did my wondering eyes behold but an oasis of girls about thirty yards down the beach. There must have been fifteen of them, and yes you guessed it, all between the ages of 16 and 35. Turns out it was a bachelorette party from New Orleans. I successfully planted their umbrella deep within the sand, received many words of undying gratitude, bowed graciously, then returned to my camp and said to Wolfgang, "Now let's get out of here before it falls."

Saturday brought another disturbing example of incorrect, inexplicable and inconsiderate human behavior. I was sitting on the second floor balcony overlooking the pool when a guy came walking down the sidewalk with a dog on a leash. He opened the gate, walked to the edge of the pool, picked the dog up, and PUT THE DOG IN THE POOL! The pool that people swim in! Thus answering that age-old question, what's worse than someone peeing in the Wal-Mart parking lot?

I couldn't believe what was happening. It was clearly posted, "No pets allowed in the pool." Do we really have to have a sign to tell people that? Well, apparently so. Needless to say, none of us got in the pool the rest of the weekend. And if I were a more confrontational person, there could have been a rumble.

As usual, enjoying some seafood was one of the highlights of the trip for me. We hit up The Back Porch, Fudpucker's, some place called AJ's, and of course, my beloved Donut Hole. I would be remiss if I didn't mention Wolfgang and LJ's ultra-conservative eating habits. Wolfgang ordered a burger at every single place we ate, except for the Donut Hole which doesn't even count because that was breakfast. LJ did the same, except he did branch out and order a barbecue sandwich at Fudpucker's.

In other culinary news, the All American Diner had closed down, tragically. That was a highlight for me. However, the Donut Hole was out of key lime donuts, which was a definite lowlight.

And so we close the book on Destin '09. A book with no pictures. Actually, there were a couple of pictures. Before we left Sunday morning, Wolfgang wanted me to take a picture of him, which I did because I needed him to take a picture of me and my hair, or lack thereof. Then he suggested we ask someone to take a group picture of the three of us together. Um, no. Maybe in Whoville. But not here in Heteroville.

Overall, it was a fun trip. The weather was beautiful and my head did not get burned. I returned home feeling refreshed and recharged. Once again left with that old familiar feeling of why have I still not moved close to the beach.

Will this be the last ride for the three amigos? Only time will tell. For my sake--and my blog's sake--I certainly hope not. That means I'd have to fast track going from friends-in-law to friends with Wolfgang.

"I took off for a weekend last month just to try and recall the whole year. All of the faces and all of the places. Wonderin' where they all disappeared..."

The reason for Febrezin'

A funny thing happened on the way to playing golf with the boys this weekend. We met at LJ's and as we were getting ready to leave LJ discovered he had locked his keys in the house.

Fortunately, he has a spare key hidden. Unfortunately, the spare key was hidden in the garage. Even more unfortunately, the garage was locked. Fortunately, it's not the best area--LJ's actually had a few things stolen there before--so none of the neighbors thought anything of seeing three guys prying open a garage door in broad daylight.

Golf was good. We went to Valley Landing. I shot a 101 and got a little bit sunburned. In March! I actually sort of like the first sunburn of the year. It's invigorating. Just another little reminder that summer is on the way and the seasons will be following their usual pattern just as they have since the last ice age. It's comforting. Well, besides the pain and burning when I shower.

After golf, we decided to hang out at LJ's and watch some of the NCAA tournament. I don't think I'd even sat down yet when I noticed it.

"Did you vacuum?"

"Yep."

Well that can only mean one thing, my friends: He's having a girl over.

We bachelors sometimes have a tendency to let things go a little around the house. Laundry piles up. The kitchen table becomes a collection area for junk mail and last year's Christmas presents. With our busy golf-a-day lives, menial tasks like dusting, vacuuming, and putting a trash bag in the trash can sometimes get put on the backburner.

But as soon as there is the impending presence of a female on the premises, we all turn into tub scrubbing carpet cleaners.

To my knowledge, LJ hasn't dated much recently. We're not talking in terms of months or years here. We're talking Presidential administrations. So I could not say with 100% certainty that he had ever cleaned his house since he moved in a few years ago. I guess that's why the clean carpet stood out to me almost immediately.

The Darryls went to a speed dating thing a few weeks ago, which is where LJ met this girl. (Girl, woman, which is it? At what point does a girl become a woman? Nevermind, don't answer that.)

So, it appears the latex glove is on the other foot, er, hand now. On the plus side, I'm looking forward to a much cleaner, more fastidious environment for our future GH roundtable discussions.

Kidding around, sort of, I told LJ we were going to have to live vicariously through him now that he has a girlfriend. He remarked what a change that was as they were usually the ones living vicariously through me. At which point I remarked about how very sad that was and spent awhile contemplating my life and wondering where it all went wrong.

While we were shooting pool, LJ's woman called. (See? Now I'm calling her woman. I don't get it.) After trying a couple of shots with the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, he put the phone down on the table without saying a word and shot while she yammered on. Wolfgang and I were literally in the floor laughing.

Then I suddenly remembered having done that very same thing before. At the very same table.

Of course, that occurred during a previous administration.

"Now I'm holding umbrellas and openin' up doors. I'm taking out the trash and I'm sweepin' my floors..."

Why it was never just Larry and Darryl

In recent years, Wolfgang, LJ and I have hung out fairly often. To the point that I refer to them as Darryl and Darryl to my Larry. We've been to the beach, gone to ballgames and concerts. We've bowled, golfed, shot pool, and had many in-depth discussions about General Hospital.

Yet those activities have always had one key element in common: LJ.

Wolfgang and I have never, ever hung out just the two of us. Ever. This despite the fact I have known him roughly eighteen years.

We are, as I like to refer to it, friends-in-law.

I relate to him through LJ. If the three of us are together and LJ leaves the room--even just to go to the bathroom--there is instantly an air of awkwardness. You would think we had just accidentally touched hands and now neither one of us knows what to say.

If LJ is gone longer than a minute, we began to yell things like, "What are you doing in there? What's taking so long?" OK, we don't really, but we're thinking it. Or I'm thinking it.

If LJ has to work that night, we just don't go out. I remember one time we were planning to go bowling--LJ, Wolfgang, Jamie and I. LJ got sick and had to cancel at the last minute. When Wolfgang found out, he cancelled, too. Why? Well, I think it's obvious. That would have been like LJ going to the bathroom for two hours. Wolfgang wasn't ready for that, and frankly, neither was I.

If we ever do find ourselves alone, our conversation almost immediately turns to LJ. We start to make fun of him, dicussing his undiagnosed narcolepsy, his ex-girlfriends, how he has a top five list for every category imaginable, etc.

I cannot take credit for the term friends-in-law. I first heard it on "The Dog" episode of Seinfeld. Elaine used it to describe her relationship with George in explaining to Jerry why she and George couldn't go to the movies without him.

However, friends-in-law never quite caught fire and took what I feel is its proper place in popular culture like so many other classic Seinfeldian phrases: yada yada, no soup for you, low talker, close talker, high talker, regifter, germophobe, manhands, double dip, he took it out, not that there's anything wrong with that. I could go on.

Friends-in-law is as relevant as any of those. OK, maybe not as relevant as germophobe. Or double dip. Those are sanitary issues necessary for a healthy, happy existence. But I digress.

The friend-in-law concept is fairly simple. It's basically the friend of a friend. Someone you know through a mutual friend, and generally only see when said mutual friend is present. And for whatever reason, when said mutual friend is removed from this situation, things become weird.

I will now take a couple of reader questions.

Bone, what happens if LJ and Wolfgang get a friend divorce?

Ah, excellent question. This scenario has crossed my mind a time or two. Like when Wolfgang and LJ are arguing over who's better looking--Carly or Sam--and things get heated. If a friend divorce were to occur, it stands to reason that the friend-in-law relationship would be legally absolved as well. Of course, these are not hard and fast rules.

Here's our next question: Can you go from friends-in-law to just friends?

I probably get this as much as any question not involving catheters or my bread-eating habits. I would say that while it is possible, it probably doesn't happen often.

Coincidentally, Wolfgang actually IM'd me for the first time ever the other night. It was a little awkward at first, but it's bound to be when it's your first time. I'm planning to take things slow, but I could foresee us maybe having a phone conversation within six months or so. And who knows, we could be hanging out one on one by 2010.

OK, 2011. You can't rush these things.

"Friends, slowly drift apart. They give away their hearts. Maybe call you now and then. But you wanna be, just friends..."

Love me, love me, say that you love me

Remember that song? Lovefool. Cardigans. 1996. It's been stuck in my head. All. Weekend. Long. I've been walking around singing it in my well-polished falsetto, which I first honed while imitating the inimitable Jordan Knight on "I'll Be Loving You Forever" in 1989.

The ability to get a song stuck in someone else's head is one of my little known talents. Some might even say an annoyance. Still, for some reason I was having a bit of trouble getting anybody to pick up on this one.

Saturday night, we went ice skating at the local ice complex, tween hangout & Brian Boitano training facility. (Actually, I just made the Brian Boitano part up.) There were six in our group--Kywana, myself, Little Joe, and two minors. That's down forty-five percent from last year's Valentine Date Skate. I blame the decrease largely on the threat of Winter Storm '09, which would leave us buried beneath half an inch of snow by Sunday morning.

Skating was fairly uneventful. I fell three times, which as I stated last year is actually pretty fun. Honestly, I think I could start calling it body sledding and have all the kids doing it. I've always wanted to be the person who started something. Like the Macarena. Or the wave. Or the guy in that Michael Jackson song, Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'.

There was an entertaining little guy dressed in a toboggan who kept trying to teach us tricks. I assume he worked there, but he could have just been a poser. Anyway, he was kinda corny. He made me think of somebody who would've been on Mister Rogers Neighborhood. Say if Mister Rogers took his neighbors to an ice rink during an episode, this would be the guy at the ice rink showing Mister Rogers around.

As we were getting ready to leave, the female fragment of Kywana looked over at all our shoes sitting underneath a bench.

"Who's shoes are those?" she asked.

"Those are Little Joe's," I responded, shielding my eyes. I already knew which pair she was referring to. That would be the blindingly bright brand new solid white Reeboks. LJ has been wearing solid white Reeboks since the 80's and hasn't looked back. I honestly don't know how he keeps finding places that sell them. They looked like something you'd see on display in a shoe museum.

After skating, I headed over to LJ's and wound up shooting pool with him and Wolfgang for a bit. LJ had gone to the bathroom or something and it was his turn, so we were just standing around waiting. Without warning and probably without thinking, Wolfgang busted out in song.

"Love me, love me, say that you love me."

Yessss! Still got it.

"Leave me, leave me, just say that you need me. I don't care about anything but you..."

Sugar Bowl and bust

If you ain't been there
Then you ain't been nowhere
The livin's lazy and the lovin's fine...


(Bourbon Street, from my phone, circa 2009)

My first trip to New Orleans was eight or nine years ago. A few of us stayed in Mobile and made a day trip over to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras. Bought some beads, had some cajun food, but never saw any... how shall I put this? Let's just say it would be akin to visiting the Louvre and not seeing the Mona Lisa.

This weekend marked my second trip to the Crescent City. Friday morning, the Darryls and I headed out for the Sugar Bowl. Wolfgang had volunteered to drive. But instead of his truck, he drove his old car which I hadn't seen in three years and didn't even know he still had. Evidently, his thinking was that it would be better on gas. So off we went in a faded red Mitsubishi Mirage with one windshield wiper. Fortunately, it only rained about half the trip.

We stopped in Mississippi for lunch and when we got back in the car, the check engine light was on. Wolfgang said it probably just needed water. Apparently, he knew there was a leak but hadn't bothered to mention that until now, three hours into our trip. At that point I was thinking, just let us make it to the game and we can rent a car to get back home.

We did make it to New Orleans around 3:30. By the time we found our hotel and got checked in, it was nearly time to start walking to the game. This was the first bowl game I have ever attended. And even though we wound up losing, I'm glad I went. The Superdome is massive, or maybe it just seemed so because I was up so high. And crowd-wise, it was almost like a Bama home game.

There was a lady behind us who had obviously imbibed several of the adult beverages that the Superdome had to offer. She kept imploring me to turn my hat around to make a rally cap, which I never did. Later on, after a particularly bad play, she grabbed me and said, "It's your fault. You're the reason for the season!" To which I replied, "I'm Jesus?" I don't think she got it.

After the game, we walked down Bourbon Street. It was crazy crowded. We found a place to eat--though I can't recall the name--and got seated on the balcony overlooking Bourbon. Spent the rest of my evening there, where I enjoyed a cup of gumbo and also, at long last, caught a glimpse of the Mona Lisa.

Saturday, we had lunch at Bubba Gump's on Decatur and then souvenir shopped for a bit. It started raining Saturday evening, so I was glad that I had packed the umbrella which my mother inexplicably gave me for Christmas. Though I don't know why she got it. I never carry an umbrella. I find them a little effeminate. Nevertheless, I figured since I ooze manliness in all other areas of my life, I could stand to show a softer, more sensitive side just this once.

We walked over to see the resplendent Saint Louis Cathedral, then had supper at The Gumbo Shop on St. Peter. I had a combination plate with jambalaya and red beans and rice, and a slice of pecan pie for dessert.

The downpour kept the streets nearly empty, and we spent the rest of the night indoors listening to live music. To be sitting in Louisiana listening to a band play Sweet Home Alabama, and hear about fifteen people yell "Roll, Tide, Roll!" when they got to the chorus, that was pretty cool.

We also enjoyed the dueling pianos at Pat O'Briens for a bit. The pianists were singing popular songs like Sweet Caroline and Vogue. But they were playing them at a hyped-up tempo. It sounded a whole lot like the Will Ferrell/Ana Gasteyer skit on SNL where they are the music teachers at Altadina Middle School. It was humorous, and fun.

We left Sunday morning, stopping to fill up with gas. And water. We decided to stop and have lupper at the famed Dreamland in Tuscaloosa. Despite all the Bama games I've been to, this was my first time eating at Dreamland.

As we got out to go inside, the car was smoking. And not in a "Man, that Audrina is smoking!" kind of way. Smoke was wafting out from underneath the hood. By this point, is anyone really surprised by this? Wolfgang opened the hood and discovered the problem. Apparently, Mister Goodwrench had forgotten to put the radiator cap back on when he added water that morning. The ribs were delicious, by the way.

By some miracle, we made it home. There's more, but I have a feeling New Orleans could take a lesson from its friends in Las Vegas. You know, sort of a "What happens in N'awlins stays in N'awlins" kind of thing.

It's impossible to go to New Orleans, or even think about it, without thinking of Katrina. As far as I could tell, the French Quarter showed little to no signs that Katrina had ever happened. There had been two murders in the 9th Ward on New Year's Day, so we opted not to drive through there. But going down I-10, nearly all the houses and apartments visible from the road still looked abandoned and as if they hadn't been repaired at all. Each a reminder of the catastrophe.

I guess I'll always be sad for New Orleans. But I'll always pull for it, too. New Orleans is a wonderful city with a way of making you feel at ease and right at home. I look forward to visiting again, because I learned something about myself this weekend. I really love art!

"Pour me something tall and strong. Make it a Hurricane before I go insane..."

That hardest and most wonderful of all years

Dad called the other night. "We're just sitting here enjoying these cute pictures of Nephew Bone." (One of the things I gave them for Christmas was a Nephew Bone calendar I made at Walgreens.com. Also, he doesn't actually call him Nephew Bone, which I find odd.) "There's just one thing we don't understand."

"Uhh, OK?" At this point, I'm thinking I got someone's birthday wrong or something.

"What is this fes-TEE-vus in December?"

And I thought he read my blog.

Festivus IV was a rousing success. There were thirteen survivors in all this year. That's one shy of the all-time mark set back in 2006. In hindsight, I'm glad I decided to have Festivus again this year. After all, airing the grievances I have against myself gets old after awhile.

Highlights included some of the Festivian children learning the difference between a Festivus pole and a shower curtain rod in a tree stand. The group singing of Silver Pole was a hit, as usual. Next year, I think we may try it in the round. (Or whatever you call it when you sing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and everyone starts at a different time.)

The Festivus Dinner featured a tempting schmeer of pizza, cupcakes, chips and salsa, and Twix--the only candy bar with the cookie crunch. As an added feature this year, we watched The Dealership episode of Seinfeld, which features George's candy lineup. ("Please, I think I've reached the point in my life where I can tell the difference between cookie and nougat. So let's not just say things that we both know are obvious fabrications!)

The Feats of Strength this year featured two card games of immense skill and lightning quick reflexes: Spoons and Egyptian Rat Screw. I wanted to play Scene It Seinfeld, but got out-voted like twelve to two. (I voted twice.) Wolfgang and Little Joe were the first people knocked the first couple games of Spoons, which resulted in Wolfgang letting the expletives fly. Fortunately, the children were gone by that time.

I also received a The Office wall calendar from LJ. Then later I found out he got Wolfgang a calendar featuring scantily clad women giving golf etiquette rules. "I didn't want to get ya'll the same thing," he explained. And here I thought he was just impressed with my golf etiquette.

So, grievances have been aired and the pole is back in the crawlspace. All that's left now is to repair damaged friendships and reflect on another year that has passed us by. And I will do that now.

Two-double-naught-eight. It was the year I first had something I'd written published in an actual book. It was the year I first became an uncle and a godfather. The year I visited Myrtle Beach for the first time. And of course, it was the year Bama spent seemingly half the season ranked #1.

But most all all, I will remember 2008 as the year the each member of my immediately family experienced one very significant event. The year began with Mom recovering from her minor stroke. Then Dad found out he needed open heart surgery and had a successful triple bypass in April. And then in August came Nephew Bone. Now the world revolves around him, and no one would have it any other way.

The worry and uncertainty about Mom and the hours sitting in the waiting room as Dad underwent his surgery were the most anxious moments of my life. Then there was the indescribable wonder, joy, and hope Nephew Bone brought with him into the world. Those are the reasons that 2008 was the hardest and most wonderful of all years.

Thank God that Mom and Dad made it through everything OK. And thank God for Nephew Bone.

In a few hours, the ball will drop on 2009. Though personally, I would prefer not to spend New Year's Eve with Ryan Seacrest. I mean, does he have to take over everything? First, it was American Top Forty. Then it was Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve. Next thing you know, he'll be guest starring on General Hospital and dating Audrina on The Hills. At which point, I will not be able to take it anymore!

I wish you all have a happy and safe New Year's and an amazing 2009.

"Today, you know, that's good enough for me. Breathing in and out's a blessing, can't you see? Today's the first day of the rest of my life. And I'm alive, and well..."