The weather is beautiful, wish you could forecast it

"Here is my card. It's got my cell number, my pager number, my home number, and my other pager number. I never take vacations, I never get sick, and I don't celebrate any major holidays." ~ DKS 2007

I was out sick today. Make note of that, as I take fewer sick days than Dwight K. Schrute. Anyway, it's just a cold and a sore throat or something. I'm sure I'll be back operating at my usual 30% of capacity in no time.

Anyway, in the midst of my sick day Office-viewing marathon, I uncharacteristically watched not one, but two local weather forecasts this evening. Have I ever told you how much I adore our local weather forecasters and the how-many-jellybeans-in-the-jar-like job they do of guessing, er, predicting the weather? I'm sure I've mentioned it a time or twelve. In passing, of course.

Well tonight, I observed two distinct differences in these two forecasts. (Warning: What follows may alarm and further confuse you.)

Channel A said there was a 40% chance of rain on Wednesday. They also said that the high on Friday would be 81.

Channel B said it would be sunny on Wednesday. And that the high on Friday would be 69.

Now if you've been practicing your flash cards, you've already figured out that is a twelve degree difference in the high temperature on Friday at two television stations located in the same city, probably not five miles from each other. And good luck figuring out if it's gonna rain Wednesday or not.

And that, in a nutshell, is why I pay no attention to the weather forecast.

"The weather is here, I wish you were beautiful. My thoughts aren't too clear, but don't run away..."

Whatever gets you through the day

I do not live my life moment to moment, hour to hour, or even day to day. I choose rather to live from point A to point B, where each point represents some event, great or small, that I look forward to. In this present life, I am currently up to point #75,461: Watching the Duke/Villanova game tonight. Point #75,460 was watching The Office earlier this evening.

In the next couple of months, I am looking forward to attending the Alabama A-Day game (and also eating at Taco Casa), seeing Kenny Chesney in concert, running my hometown 10K, and spending a long weekend in Destin. My calendar hasn't been this full in... well ever. Of course, I don't actually have a calendar. The only calendar I really need is the one that pops up when I double click on the time in the lower right hand corner of my computer screen.

These life events that I look forward to aren't always as grand as a beach trip or a concert. Most are rather simple things that help me get through a day, an hour, or a week without weeping openly. Things like dinner with friends, staying up to catch a favorite band on Carson Daly, or urinating without pain or difficulty.

I've done this for as long as I can remember.

- In second grade, I looked forward to kickball day in PE. Also dodgeball so I could really nail the kids I didn't like.
- In middle school, I looked forward to Weekly Reader day.
- In ninth grade, I looked forward to physics because I sat in front of Ally Purcell. She was a senior who would always fall asleep during class and I always took great pleasure in waking her up, if you know what I mean. (That doesn't mean anything, just trying to liven things up a bit here.)
- In eleventh grade, I looked forward to every other weekend so that I could go out with Rachel and make out in the back of her Camaro. (You might recall that I saved up my lunch money for two weeks so that I could afford to take her out.)
- Freshman year of college, I looked forward to Calculus so that I could go to the mall. Though I didn't look forward to retaking Calculus.

These days, a typical week might involve me looking forward to watching 24 on Monday night, golfing on Tuesday, getting to see Nephew Bone on Wednesday, and a nice long afternoon nap on Thursday. This is how I get through life. Or as the kids say these days, how I roll.

Show me a man who has nothing to look forward to and I'll show you a man who doesn't play golf.

Some might say that I am wishing my days away, rather than living in the moment, breathing in the sweet nectar of each precious second. To those I would say, Duke and Villanova are starting. After that, Letterman will be on. Then I'll probably get some baked Doritos and listen to iTunes while surfing the 'net in my underwear.

All of which are things I have been looking forward to all day.

"Don't blink. Just like that you're six years old and you take a nap. And you wake up and you're twenty-five and your high school sweetheart becomes your wife..."

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..."

I meme...because I have nothing to write about

Yes I...just made meme into a verb.
I have not...participated in a meme in ages.
I have been...going through a bit of a writing dry spell lately.
I found...this over at Ally's.
Feel free...to participate yourself.

I am...honest to a fault.
I think...way too much.
I know...more about Seinfeld than probably anyone you have ever met.
I want...to be walking on a beach somewhere.
I have...enough.
I wish...I were better at golf.
I hate...yelling.
I miss...feeling sure of love. Also, Milli Vanilli, Casey's Top Forty, and WKRP In Cincinnati would have been accepted here.
I fear...catheters.
I feel...frustrated.
I hear...my text message alert. It sounds like a submarine ping.
I smell...pretty decent, I think. I used shower gel this morning instead of soap.
I regret...spending too much time in the past.
I love...Nephew Bone.
I care...about my writing.
I always...enjoy a nap.
I am not...good at the movie category in Trivial Pursuit, at all.
I believe...in miracles. Where ya from, you sexy thing?
I dance...to embarrass those I'm with.
I sing...almost constantly when I'm driving.
I write...entire blog entries in my head sometimes.
I win...almost always at putt-putt.
I lose...my voice at most Bama games.
I never...feel ready to get out of bed in the morning.
I listen...as long as nothing shiny is around to distract me.
I can usually be found...trying to make people laugh.
I am scared of...having to be catheterized.
I read...directions only as an absolute last resort.
I forget...almost everything, so don't take it personally.
I just...smelled my arm again to verify the "I smell" line above.
I am happy about...warmer weather arriving soon.

Also, I've added a few categories of my own.

I only...use 2 to 4 slices of every loaf of bread I buy.
I need...a new ringtone. "How Far We've Come" is just a little old now.
I wonder...if I ever become famous if my fans will be proud to call themselves Boneheads.

"Maybe you and me were never meant to be. But baby think of me once in awhile. I'm at WKRP in Cincinnati..."

A splendid splinter (with apologies to Ted Williams)

I was talking to someone the other day about the weather. (Don't worry, things will start to pick up here in a minute.) They made a remark about how they couldn't believe we were already having summer-like weather.

That really stuck with me, you know. Mainly because I don't talk to that many people.

We have been having gorgeous weather the past few days, but it's not here to stay quite yet. It must have been 80 here yesterday, but the high tomorrow is only supposed to be 48.

So I started thinking. I've never really considered March a winter month. Yet it only gets like 10 days of technical spring. So what is it? Maybe we need a new term for the period between winter and spring.

In my head, I started calling it splinter, obviously combining spring and winter. I thought it pure brilliance, and could already see the Wikipedia entry for it forming in my head:

Splinter
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Splinter is a term given to the period of time comprising the end of winter and beginning of spring. Also roughly equivalent to the month of March in the northern hemisphere. It is usually characterized by drastic swings in temperature, and often features days of spring-like weather followed by days of winter weather. The term was first used by Bone, an early 21st Century blogger, whose lifetime goal [citation needed] it was to have his own Wikipedia entry.

For other uses, see Splinter (disambiguation).

My brain continued to percolate, as I thought of words like spummer, autner and the seemingly oxymoronic summall. I was smiling to myself at yet another ingenious idea when it hit me:

There is no L in winter or spring.

It should be sprinter, not splinter. Why did I put an L in there? It's a wonder I even remember to stand on my head every morning and contact the home planet. But of course, sprinter just doesn't have the same zing as splinter. And since I'm inventing the word anyway, I'm going to continue to call it splinter.

I've been having a splendid splinter. Monday, I celebrated National Napping Day with a solid 90 minute siesta. Yesterday I played golf with some guy from Memphis, who asked if he could join us on the 3rd hole. I fought the urge to ask if he'd ever been to Graceland--it seemed kinda cheesy, plus I'm sure he gets that all the time--but it wasn't easy.

To top things off, last night I figured out that my Blackberry has speakerphone. Sixteen months and I'm still learning new things. Sometimes I get the feeling it has a thousand functions and I know how to use like four.

This new time is scratching me right where I itch. It has really brought me out of my winter hibernation. There just seems to be more... daylight or something. I've been relaxing. Sort of drifting aimlessly. Taking it easy. If I were a radio station, I would be easy listening. If I were a lipstick, I'd be easy, breezy, beautiful Cover Girl. If I were an Eagles song, I'd be... hmm, can't think of one.

To recap, I have just composed an entire post about a non-existent semi-season featuring my very own fake Wikipedia entry while also managing to compare myself to lipstick. I'd call that a full splinter's day.

"I've got seven women on my mind. Four that wanna own me, two that wanna stone me, one says she's a friend of mine..."

I know how this dream ends

I dreamt of you last night. It's funny. I hardly, if ever, dreamt of you when we were together. But now that you're out of my life, there you were. Maybe my subconscious was just trying to fill the void.

In the dream, I drove six hours to see you. As I approached your house, I could see you were having a big party. The doors were open and cars were parked up and down the street. I decided I would just pass by, that it would be better that way. It was enough just to have been there, to see that you were doing OK.

But then I found myself sitting in the floor against your bedroom wall. I was alone. The party was going on in another part of the house. There was a letter lying on your bed. I thought, hoped, that you were writing it to me. That maybe it would clear up some of my questions. Questions I'd had since you told me you were going away for the weekend and that we'd talk when you got back, but we had never talked.

I picked it up and started to read, then felt guilty for doing so. There must be a reason you never sent it. Maybe you weren't ready for me to see it, or maybe it wasn't meant for me at all. Still, I read. It appeared to be unfinished and the name of the intended recipient was missing or rubbed out.

Then you were there. You seemed sympathetic towards me, but unwavering. We spoke, though I don't remember what was said. It was over. Your feelings had changed and nothing I could do would ever change them back.

As I started to leave, others were there. I looked at the faces of the people I passed, wondering if these were the "friends" you so often spoke of, and wondering which of them had taken my place in your heart.

One of the guys, a short fellow, said something about how pathetic it was that I had driven all that way for nothing. I grabbed him and slammed him against the wall a couple of times. He didn't say anything else.

The last thing I remember, I was driving, ever conscious of the fact that I was getting farther and farther from you...

So often, dreams provide a welcome escape from reality. An alternate world where love is requited and fantasies come true. How cruel it seemed then that even in my dreams, I couldn't make us work. To dream something I never wanted. To dream a dream that had already come true.

"She's out of my life. She's out of my life. And I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I don't know whether to live or die. And it cuts like a knife..."

Threadbare and sentimental

Good. Bye.

Perhaps no two words in the English language conjure up more emotion than those. But really, isn't it just one word? Yes, of course it is. What was I thinking?

Goodbye.

'Tis the sweet memories of time shared darkened by the sudden knowledge of what will never be again. What was it Bone wrote? "For had I known that someday goodbye we would say, I rather would have chosen never to have lived that day."

Goodbye is never easy to say, and even harder to do. Especially when the thing you are saying goodbye to is... a favorite sweater.

I think the time has come to part with my DQ sweater. No, not GQ. DQ. As in, Dillon Quartermaine. I wore it Monday and, well, let's just say it has seen its better days. The once royal and pristine gray is showing the slightest signs of fading. It has started to pill. And also has begun to lose its shape. A couple more wears and frankly, I'll look like I'm draped in a Snuggie. And no one wants to see that.

Why is the sweater such a tragic figure? It's the Holly Golightly of the wardrobe. Like the really hot, high maintenance girl you date. You know it's going to require a lot of work and extra attention and in the end it's not going to last. But you do it anyway. Just because she's so pretty and soft to touch.

Of course, eventually she becomes threadbare and you begin to see her flaws. Her arms start to sag and she loses her shape. And you realize she is no different than every other soft and pretty thing you've ever touched. Wait, what are we talking about again? Oh, right.

We are here today to pay our final respects to the DQ sweater. It has served me well. It wasn't the best sweater nor the worst sweater, not my last sweater nor my first sweater. But it is the only sweater I have ever written an entire blog entry about.

I will always remember its mockneck collar with three-button placket, and how well it went with a pair of jeans and my black leather jacket. I remember when one of its buttons came off, and how I found some girl to sew it back on. And then how it came off again, and...is there anything in the world less reliable than the buttons on clothes?

And so with that, let us lay to rest the DQ sweater. But do not mourn for me. Rather beware. For while today it is mine, all our sweaters shall one day fall.

"If you want to destroy my sweater, hold this thread as I walk away. Watch me unravel..."

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..."