More to love

What did you do this summer?  Travel?  Swim?  Tan?  Work?  Post four thousand Facebook statuses?  Nothing?

Well, that's all better than what I did. 

I, Bone, gained weight.  Between the months of April and September, I packed on not nine, not ten, but ELEVEN pounds.  Thus putting me at the heaviest weight of my life.  Which would be great if I were a boxer and trying to move up a weight class, but I'm not.  I thought briefly about boxing when I was younger, but I have a fear of getting punched.  So I stuck to Mike Tyson's Punch-Out on the Nintendo.  Don Flamenco, Bald Bull, Soda Popinski -- those were more my speed.  But anyway, I'm getting off track here.

Thus was the summer of my stomach's great content.  I did not exercise much.  Well, I played lots of Word Mole and online Scrabble, but apparently mental exercise doesn't count so much when it comes to weightier matters.  All the while imbibing carbonated beverages like they were about to make them available by prescription only.  What did I expect?

My abs have gone from not-quite-six-pack to she's-just-starting-to-show.  The taut pre-teen Swedish boy body is no more.

So where do I go from here?  I mean, Richard Simmons is not walking through my door.  Believe me, I've tried.  I've written him like three times.

It wasn't at all a surprise to me that I had gained weight over the summer.  I knew.  I was dreading and putting off stepping on the scales.  What has been a surprise, however, is how immensely difficult the pounds have been to shed.

I started eating (slightly) better and running (a lot) more.  I've been doing that for three or four weeks now.  Grand total weight loss in that time?  Three pounds.  Double-you-tee-eff?  Has gravity increased or something in the last few years?  They really should do some research on that.

I'm starting to think this may be the hardest thing I've ever done.  I'm not even kidding.  To understand that, you must understand something about me: I tend to shy away from anything that appears even slightly difficult. 

Oh, also, for years, I lived in a carefree world where things like calories and the future were something for other people to worry about.  I had a metabolism somewhere between an Olympic swimmer and a hummingbird.  As long as I ran two or three times a week, I could pretty much eat anything I wanted.  And indeed, I did.

But now it appears that era of my life has come to a close.  My hummingbird days are over.

Let us mourn the death of my metabolism.

"My next thirty years, I'm gonna watch my weight.  Eat a few more salads and not stay up so late..."

This is really hard

I never thought I'd love that way again.

The year was 1993.  I wasn't long out of high school.  There were tears in my eyes when the burly bartender I'd been seeing for several years came to the door and said, "Cheers is closed." 

A part of me died that day.  A part of me that was young and innocent, idealistic and hopeful.  But somehow I managed to pick up the pieces and move on from my first real love.  I found a new guy.  Single, thin, neat, early thirties.  Well actually it was more of a group thing.  Him and his friends, and me.  A little different, but I wasn't complaining.

In fact, things were great for a few years.  Until he and his friends got into some legal trouble up in Massachusetts.  After they were all thrown in prison, I was back on my own.  Like a Whitesnake song.  But this time I was certain, that I'd never love again.

And then I met him.

When I first encountered him, he was a 40-year-old virgin.  I found him only tolerably amusing, and a bit over-the-top.  By the time we began our weekly Thursday night trysts, he was way over-the-top.  Never did I ever think I would soon come to love this man.

I'm speaking of course of Steve Carell, aka Michael Scott. 

The new season of The Office begins tonight.  And it will do so without its fearless leader, now former leader.  They say the show must go on.  But I, for one, don't see how it can.  Michael Scott was to The Office what Gene Frenkle was to Blue Oyster Cult, what Trapper John was to Trapper John M.D., and Bob Barker was to The Price Is Right.  That show hasn't been funny at all since Barker left.

If you watched The Office you already know what I'm talking about.  If you didn't watch The Office, if you've never seen Michael Scott in all his glory, I have to wonder, have you ever really loved at all? Did I say loved?  I meant laughed.

While I cannot enumerate all the ways Michael Scott was great -- for that would take far too much time and typing -- I would be remiss if I failed to mention his signature joke and crowning achievement: "That's what she said."

Michael Scott single-handedly brought "That's What She Said" and it's internet shorthand counterpart, TWSS, into the daily vernacular.  You'd be hard-pressed today to find a message board frequented by juvenile men (and women) that doesn't have a TWSS reference.  It's a timeless, if slightly immature, joke.  Brilliant both in its simplicity and versatility.  I try to fit it in wherever I can..........

So before we move on -- and some of us never will -- let us look back and remember, Michael Gary Scott.  A man I will miss.  A man who has ruined all other men for me.

Here are a few selected Michael Scott quotes for your enjoyment:

- "It’s how I like to do business, everybody joking around.  It’s like Friends.  I am Chandler, and Joey.  Pam is Rachel. And Dwight is Kramer."

- "I like Donna. Is it wrong to keep seeing her?  Depends on who you ask.  I mean, if you ask her husband, or you took a random poll, yeah, it's wrong."

- "You know what eats a large amount of the day are naps.  You go to sleep it's light out, you wake up it's dark.  That's the whole day.  Where did that day go?  I have no idea."

- "I am actually great with old women.  In fact, for the longest time my best friend was my grandmother.  And then she met Harriet.  And now she thinks she better than everybody."

- "A boss’s salary isn’t just about money.  It’s about perks.  For example, every year I get a $100 gas card.  Can’t put a price on that."

- "My philosophy is basically this.  And this is something that I live by, and I always have.  And I always will.  Don't ever, for any reason, do anything, to anyone, for any reason, ever, no matter what, no matter where, or who or who you are with, or or where you are going, or where you've been.  Ever.  For any reason.  Whatsoever."

- "Jim is like Big Bird.  He is tall and yellow and very nice.  But would I put him in charge?  No.  I don't think so.  Big Bird doesn't make the tough decisions.  If I was gonna put someone in charge, I would put Bert in charge.  Or I would put one of the real grown-ups in charge, like Maria or Gordon, maybe."

- "How do you tell somebody that you care about deeply, 'I told you so.'  Gently with a rose?  In a funny way, like it's a hilarious joke?  Or do you just let it go, because saying it would just make things worse? ... Probably the funny way."

- "I don't need to be friends with Pam.  I have plenty of female friends.  My mom.  Pam's mom.  My aunt... although she just blocked me on IM.  What's her face, from Quiznos?  I see her like four times a week."

- "A boss is like a teacher.  And I am like the cool teacher, like Mister Handell.  Mister Handell would hang out with us and he would tell us awesome jokes and he... actually hooked up with one of the students.  And then like twelve other kids came forward.  It was in all the papers.  Really ruined eighth grade for us."

Best of luck, Michael, in your new life with Holly in Colorado.  Oh who am I kidding?  This is going to suck!  It's going to be like when Bo and Luke left Dukes Of Hazzard and were replaced by Coy and Vance, times a hundred!

I'll miss your mispronunciations and your song parodies, your women's pants and your man-crush on Ryan (and possibly Jim), your Dundie Awards and Scott's Tots, Prison Mike and Date Mike, Lazy Scranton and the Golden Ticket idea, your fake suicide attempt and real George Foreman grill foot injury, the Michael Scott Paper Company and Threat Level Midnight, and perhaps most of all, your uncanny ability to always say the wrong thing and make even the most seemingly benign situation painfully uncomfortable.

I'll miss you, Michael.  In the immortal words of one James Halpert, "You always left me satisfied and smiling."

(sniff) That's what she said.

"I wish you the best.  And I wish you nothing less than everything you've ever dreamed of.  And I hope that you find love along the way.  But most of all, I wish you'd stay..."

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..."

Somewhere between summer and fall

Fall came suddenly to Alabama this year. Not with its usual tap-on-the-shoulder, whisper-in-your-ear hint of a chill in the air. But rather much more pronounced. Thanks to Tropical Storm Lee, temps went from 97 to 60 in what seemed like a day.

I spent the Labor Day weekend as I believe it was intended: avoiding labor at all costs. Monday night, I put on a sweatshirt and watched the sun set over the lake. The sky was perfect. The wind coming off the water brought a bit of a chill. I lingered for awhile, not wanting the summer to be over.

Of course, it'll be back. Probably this weekend. But now only in shorter bursts and smaller and smaller pieces until it's gone for good.

And so I spend the week trying to both embrace the coming autumn and cling to the fading summer.

I watch all the football I can -- even those ESPN high school games-- unable to get my fill. But I'd love to get to the beach for one final summer fling.

I turn off the AC and roll down the windows to go out in the crisp evening air. I think of putting on a long-sleeved shirt for the drive, but opt for a plain white t-shirt and one more day of flip-flops instead.

And somehow it all seems to suit me.

There's an easiness to the days now. Memories abound in even the slightest autumn breeze. But that's OK. I like remembering. And though the days are noticeably shorter, and I know the winter won't be far, it doesn't worry my mind. For now, for today, it seems OK to just be.

I leave you today with this most disturbing poll.

Rolling Stone's Ten Worst Songs Of The '90s:

10. 4 Non Blondes - "What's Up?"
9. Right Said Fred - "I'm Too Sexy"
8. Baha Men - "Who Let The Dogs Out?"
7. Celine Dion - "My Heart Will Go On"
6. Hanson - "MMMBop"
5. Chumbawamba - "Tubthumping"
4. Vanilla Ice - "Ice Ice Baby"
3. Billy Ray Cyrus - "Achy Breaky Heart"
2. Los Del Rio - "Macarena"
1. Aqua - "Barbie Girl"

Umm, apparently we have very different definitions of the word "worst." As I have at least half those on my iTunes. And I'm pretty sure I had a couple of those cassette singles.

Also, I'd completely forgotten about 4 Non Blondes! Just went and downloaded it. Thanks, Rolling Stone.

"Lately I've learned how to listen, for a sound like the sun goin' down. In the magic the morning is bringin', there's a song for the life I have found..."

Decemberists at the Ryman (8/6/11)

I was late to the Decemberists party. Then again, I'm late to a lot of things. Most times I'm just thankful (and slightly amazed) when I manage to arrive at all. When I saw they were playing at the Ryman -- quite possibly my favorite venue -- it seemed I was destined to go.

But then, I realized none of my friends around here like and/nor have even heard of the Decemberists. For crying out loud, a few weeks ago at a minor league baseball game, Wolfgang revealed he'd never heard of the group Chicago. Anyway, weeks turned to months and as the date approached I had resigned myself to skipping the concert. Until...

I was surprised with a pair of tickets!!!

And just like that I was on my way to see the Decemberists. In August. At the Ryman. I was more excited than Rob Schneider when a new Adam Sandler movie is announced. OK, maybe not more, but just as.

Any trip to the Music City for me frequently includes a stop at my absolute favorite barbecue place in the world -- Famous Dave's in Franklin. I know it may not seem very trendy to choose a chain restaurant as one's favorite, but this is different. Trust me. I'm from the South. If there's two things I know, it's barbecue and sweet tea. Also, fried pork skins. OK, three things.

I've made the two hour drive more than once just to eat at Famous Dave's. The food (and sweet tea) and service have been exceptional every single time. (If you're reading, Dave, I'm open to an endorsement deal.) The only -- and I do mean only -- problem I have is that their sweet water catfish may be even better than the barbecue. But then, Dave must have foreseen this would happen. That's why he gave us the combination plate.

They also have some pretty cool t-shirts for sale. I almost bought this one:



But then I tried to imagine wearing that out in a social setting, and, well, I figure I already have enough trouble trying to appear "normal" at kids' birthday parties.

On to the show, there was evidently a Keith Urban concert in town the same night, which made traffic a lovely exercise in hand gestures and honking. And there was no sign of Nicole Kidman.

The opening act was Caitlin Rose, whom I'd heard of but never heard. She was good, enough so that I made it a point to check her out on iTunes later. She played a short set, probably five or six songs. One of the songs she sang entirely with the mic turned off, enhancing the vulnerability in her voice, as it wafted over the pews, up to the ceiling and stained-glass windows of the old place.

The Decemberists came on stage after a quirky recorded introduction befitting them by the mayor of their hometown, Portland, Oregon. They opened the show with "Oceanside" and followed that up with my favorite song of theirs, "Down By The Water." That was extremely cool to hear live, though it did not quite ascend to the level of hearing Counting Crows do a "A Long December" live at the Ryman, which ranked as the #1 highlight of my life for the year 2009.

It's possible music affects me entirely too much.

One of the first things you notice about the Decemberists is that this is most definitely a live band. The show is high energy, the musicianship flawless, and the sound far exceeds what you hear on the CD.

I'm not sure what genre the Decemberists are considered. According to Wikipedia, they are "indie folk rock." There's definitely some folk there -- Colin Meloy's lyrics are almost more poet than songwriter. Whatever you label it, Meloy's voice sounds as if it were created for the sole purpose of singing it.

I don't remember the entire set list, but I know they did "We Both Go Down Together," "Rox In The Box," "Calamity Song," "This Is Why We Fight" and the most surprising song of the night, a cover of "Folsom Prison Blues."

They came out for two encores. The first of which included the crowd-participatory "Mariner's Revenge." They closed the evening with "June Hymn."

My only minor disappointment in the show is that they performed neither "January Hymn" nor "O Valencia," even though some guy kept yelling for the latter at every opportunity. And no, it was not me. Although if I'd thought of it...

Did I mention I love going to concerts at the Ryman? The acoustics are outstanding. Plus, it is the quintessential not-a-bad-seat-in-the-house venue.

Though you should know before you go that the Ryman was originally a church -- the Union Gospel Tabernacle. I thought this was common knowledge, but apparently it is not. Therefore, the seats are literal church pews, unpadded. I'll admit, it has a way of inspiring you to stand up and get into the show a bit more.

Ah, but there's something sacrosanct about the old lady. Rising above Lower Broadway. Unchanging for all those years. Maybe that's one reason I like the Ryman so much. I hate change. I hate when old stores or buildings shut down or are torn down, and all that's left are reminders of what was, and worse, what isn't anymore.

Then again, there's probably an old codger somewhere, around 103-years-old, lamenting the days when the Ryman was still a church.

"But oh, if I could only get you oceanside, to lay your muscles wide, it'd be heavenly..."

I have experienced a year's worth of socialization in four days

The past few days brought a barrage of social activity to my life, the likes of which I have not seen quite possibly ever.

There were the annual toddler birthday rounds to make. You know, the cake and pull-up mixers. (We're 3 now, we've moved on from diapers.) But separate and apart from those, I managed to socialize with four different friends in three different settings. I had kinda forgotten I even had four friends.

A backyard bash for Nephew Bone kicked off the proceedings Thursday night. My sis rented one of those inflatable water slides. (The business is called Just Add Kidz, by the way. Love that name.)

Now inevitably, whenever you have that many kids together, someone starts trying to show out and go up the slide the wrong way.

And I almost made it once.

I actually think the adults may have enjoyed the slide even more than the kids -- for a little while. Hurling a 38-year-old body down a 20-foot water slide fifty times or so into a little catch net? You do the math. The next day I was sore in places that I'm not sure have ever been sore.

Sunday afternoon, I attended the godson's party. It was held at this place in the mall that has a bouncy castle and slides and other things for kids to play on. Well, I arrived six minutes early -- which is about eleven minutes earlier than I normally arrive -- and didn't recognize anyone.

So I proceeded to the counter where I had a bit of an awkward conversation with the girl there. I asked if this was the right place. She said yes but that they hadn't arrived yet. Then she asked if I had any kids with me, and I said no. But it felt more like, "No, I'm just an adult male with no offspring who enjoys attending kids' birthday parties. Now if you'll excuse me I'm gonna go sit by the wall and try not to look too creepy."

Betwixt and between all that fun, I managed to hang out with the Darryls on Saturday night. We played XBox 360 and shot pool at LJ's, because... that's what 38-year-olds with no offspring do? Or perhaps that's the reason for the no offspring? Hmm, who knows how our lives get to be how they are.

While I wish I had some great new Darryls stories to share, the sad truth is that I do not. Mostly, we spent the evening not making new memories so much as talking about all the old ones. I can easily see the three of us having the exact same conversations with one another in a retirement home in forty years. One can only hope, right?

Oh, before I forget! I would like to close with one final anecdote I thought you would enjoy.

I guess it's been a bit of a struggle for Nephew Bone to learn to say "Uncle Bone." So my sister called me on Friday to inform me that "Nephew Bone has a new name for you."

(Pause for effect.)

"Bubba."

(Pause again to allow laughter to subside.)

Me? A Bubba?

I don't think so.

But it was at this point I realized that he could have pretty much called me anything and I would have loved it. And before you get any ideas, Nephew Bone is the ONLY person who shall be able to get away with calling me this.

So anyway, as we're getting off the phone, my sister says, "Say bye Uncle Bone."

And I hear, "Bye, Bub-ba."

I reiterate. The. Only. Person.

"All the wild nights and bar fights, the ditches and blue lights, are a million dark nights gone before..."

Rockin' Robin

From the get-go, Twitter sounded like a verb I may have tried doing to a girl once when I was nineteen mistakenly thinking she would enjoy it. I never really saw the point. Of Twittering, that is.

Who wants to read someone else's every waking thought of every single day? Well, apparently 2,687,219 people, if the someone else is Snooki.

Also, I have always been afraid of saying something in cyberspace that could come back to haunt me and any future political career I may have. Not that I'm pursuing one, but you never know. And so I continued to resist Twitter.

Besides, I'm not what you would call a social media socialite. I post a status update on Facebook maybe once a month -- albeit often an incredibly witty one, if only in my own mind.

Figuring that if I'm already a bad Facebooker, there's no way I would be a good Twitterer, I took the only logical next step: Throwing caution to the wind as it pertains to any future political aspirations, I joined Twitter.

That's right, I am now one who Twitters. Or as the kids say, Tweets. Whatever you call it, suffice it to say, I am in that Twitting arena.

While that may not seem like much to you, it's kind of a big deal to me. You see, if things continue to progress, I will soon become the first person in my family to use a hashtag. Sorry, sometimes I get choked up talking about it.

One of my first impressions of Twittering has been how difficult it is to keep Tweets to the predesignated limit of 140 characters or less. To date, I have Twitted eight times in five days. But I've probably typed at least that many others that were well over the limit. To somewhat remedy this, I've decided that any over-the-limit Tweets which cannot be shortened without losing the integrity of the original thought will be filed away under possible future Facebook statuses. Or stati, as I like to pretend the plural of status is.

Meanwhile, one of the unforeseen benefits of Twittering is that it really cuts down on the time you need to spend conversing with the other humans. I mean, if you Tweet the highlights of your day along with most every thought you have, what's left to say?

Answer? Not a lot.

You just wind up having lots of conversations like this:

Bone: "Hey, did I tell you I finally popped my enormous back pimple?"
Twitter friend: "Yeah, I saw you Tweeted about it."
Bone: "Oh.... well, I'll see you later then."

Needless to say, that's just an example of what a conversation might entail. I haven't had a back pimple in months! Still, there's an indescribable peace that comes when you realize you don't have anything left to say. Or maybe that's just me.

In closing, I would say that Twitting has been better than I anticipated. And while I'm just getting started, I fully expect that after this post my number of followers will at least double. From four to eight.

As for what comes next for me, it's hard to say. Perhaps I'll finally break down and get that DVR.

I feel like I'm rushing headlong into 2008.

"Even on a slow day, I could have a three way, chat with two women at one time. I'm so much cooler online..."

NaBloSoFroDraWe 2011

It's that time of the year again. Time for the week you thought you'd forgotten about, but someone just won't let you. Time for the blogging project that has ruined you for all other blogging projects.

It's National Blog Something From Draft Week!

Begun in 2008, NaBloSoFroDraWe (also known as NaBloSoThaDraWe) encourages bloggers everywhere to select something they've written in the past, but for whatever reason never posted, and finally share it with the world.

It's kinda like getting back together with an ex. You completely ignore all the reasons things didn't work out in the first place, close your eyes, and hope for the best! And that always works out, right?

I like to think of NaBloSoFroDraWe like this: Less travel than BlogHer, less writing than NaNoWriMo.

NaBloSoFroDraWe is a mystery only in its inexplicable lack of popularity. I know I was baffled when reading over the list of obscure holidays for August 10th this morning and saw that Duran Duran Appreciation Day was cited, but not NaBloSoFroDraWe. And this from a guy who likely has more appreciation for Duran Duran than any other 38-year-old heterosexual male you know.

So come on, bloggers. Time to dig out that post you never quite finished, or thought was too personal, or just really wasn't very interesting, and let it see the light of day! And remember our slogan: "Some day we'll look back on this and cringe."

For now, here is my entry for NaBloSoFroDraWe '11. It's something I wrote in 2009, about a dream I had. I have fought and defeated every urge to edit it. And believe me, there were plenty.


CLOUD NINE

I was on cloud nine that day. My mind, a glorious confusion of thoughts and emotions. The prevailing question was how did this happen.

I remembered very clearly and precisely when I first clasped your hand in mine -- both our hands shaking so slightly but the feeling of now that we'd gotten this far not wanting to let go. Then at some point we kissed. The rest was a blur. But it did not matter. For when one is on cloud nine, one does not question how one arrived there. One simply enjoys the all-too-brief stay.

Someone called my name from a bench on the sidewalk. I did not recognize the fellow, but he asked if I wanted to go into a nearby pub for a drink. Since I had just realized that although I was walking, I had no idea where I was going, I accepted.

We sat there for ten or twenty-five minutes, him rambling on like we were long lost friends, me pretending to know who he was but never figuring it out. Then he spilled his drink and got into a shouting match with some lady I had seen there before but did not know her name, and I left.

Back out on the street, I still had no idea where I was going. I was just walking, and thinking, and smiling. Wondering when I'd see you again.

"It gets worse once we get to her room. She stops and she sings, doot do doo do do doo do doo. I claim New Religion is my song. Ah, she doesn't get it. It's all before she was born..."