It's time to get the pole out of the crawlspace!

No, that title is not a euphemism.  Although I suppose it could be... Uh, let's not even speculate.

It is, rather, one of the traditions of that grand and most under-celebrated holiday of all: A Festivus for the rest of us!

Tonight is my annual Festivus At Bone's party/gathering/communal dinner/spontaneous relationship intervention.  What, you thought surely I wouldn't still be celebrating a fake holiday from an episode of a TV show that aired fifteen years ago?

Well, you thoroughly underestimated me.  Or is it overestimated?

This will be the ninth year for me to host a Festivus celebration.  Or eighth, I'm not entirely sure.  It really doesn't matter, for as you'll see in a moment I've taken the liberty of tabbing this the "umpteenth" one anyway.

What?  History gets rewritten as time passes.  You think George Washington was really the first President?  He was probably like the third or something and the other two guys just had bad PR.

By the time I'm done I figure this story will have morphed into me being the inventor of Festivus, who served as a consultant for the episode on Seinfeld to ensure the integrity of the holiday was not compromised, in the process becoming a comic hero of Larry David and someone he secretly considered funnier than himself... and who was romantically linked at various times in my life to Sandra Bullock, Kate Beckinsale, and possibly John Cusack.  (What? We were in Serendipity together.  I was having confusing feelings.)

But for now, I'll have to settle for being known as the guy hung up on some TV show from the '90s who held Festivus gatherings for entirely too many years in a row.  Or in other words, the guy who saved Festivus.

As a special treat to you this holiday season, I now present this year's official Festivus Evite (sent out earlier this week so as to discourage :

Bone's Umpteenth Annual Festivus
Host: Bone
When: Friday, December 21, at 6:30 PM
Where: Bone's Humble Abode (That's abode, not adobe. Although adobe would be kinda cool.) 
Address redacted so as to discourage paparazzi.

You are one of the few souls who have been generously invited to Bone's Umpteenth Annual "Festivus For The Rest Of Us."  I mean, think about it: Our of nearly 7 billion people in the world, you're one of 15 or 20 (but probably closer to 15) who have been selected.  The chosen few.  You have better odds of winning the lottery than being invited to Festivus!  And the lottery would probably be a LOT more fun. 

Nevertheless, come one, come several.  I don't know if there'll be snow, but there'll be pizza.  And probably several little kids.  (Did that sound weird?  Probably should take that part out.) 

We'll gather round the Festivus (read: coffee) table to watch the Seinfeld Festivus episode.  That'll be followed by the always contentious, yet lengthy Airing Of Grievances, then the singing of "Silver Pole."  And of course, the night will wind down with the Feats Of Strength, which this year will consist of someone trying to beat Bone at Words With Friends.  (Nearly impossible.)  Or someone trying to win an arm wrestling match with Lil' Booty.  (Less impossible.)  Or most likely, a game of Taboo.

And who knows, if the Mayans are correct, the world might actually end DURING Festivus.  Talk about a Festivus miracle!

Who wants to have some fun?

Reply options:
I wanna have some fun! (Yes)
Lalalaaaaa... I don't knoooooow. (Maybe)
I'm outta the contest!  (No)

As always, you are all invited.  Evite asks you to set a limit on the number of guests, so I put 400.  I figure that keeps anyone from feeling excluded while at the same time sufficiently violating the fire code.

And I'm still open to doing an online Airing Of Grievances this weekend if anyone is up for it.  Renee?  Ed Abbey?  Anyone???............  Uncle Leo?

As for tonight, if the world were to end mid-Festivus, I'm not sure if that would make this the best Festivus ever, or the worst.  Hmm.  I'll get back to you on that.

Or, I won't.  You know, if...  well, obviously.

"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 / 'Neath the silver pole / Silver pole / It's Festivus in the city..."

Did someone grant me three wishes that I wasn't aware of?

I don't know if any of you have noticed or not, but lately I have been drifting, aimlessly. I had no center, no direction. Sometimes it felt as if I were merely existing, rather than living. Well, I finally figured out what was missing in my life. A girl? A family? Motivation? Ambition? A social life?

No! Seinfeld!

It was revealed to me a couple of weeks ago when I saw a commercial for the new season of Curb Your Enthusiasm. And what were they promoting but a Seinfeld reunion!

Of course. How did I not see it before? In the eleven years since the show went off the air, I still haven't moved on. Oh sure, I have a pretty steady thing going with The Office now, but I've never really gotten over my one true love. To this day I still reference Seinfeld every chance I get, to the delight of all, I'm sure. And somewhere in that deepest part of my heart which holds my most secret desires and dreams, I clung to the past, and a tiny shred of hope that someday there would be a reunion.

Now the day I have been waiting for, lo, these many years has arrived. My ship has finally come in.

Of course, Curb Your Enthusiasm comes on HBO, which I don't have, but thankfully you can watch everything online these days. Not that I wouldn't have ordered HBO or found some way to get it illegally. That's not to imply that I'm getting any channels illegally right now, nor have I or would I ever. What I meant to say is that maybe I could get a free trial period of HBO from my cable or satellite provider--whose name happens to be Mason. As in, jar, or Dixon. He can also start your car or get into your house without any keys. And he only accepts cash, or ammunition.

Now if this had been the only piece of good news I received all year, that alone would have been enough to make this one of the best years of my life--right up there with the year I got an Atari, the year I discovered Clorox disinfectant wipes, and the year I stopped peeing the bed. But more good tidings were yet to come.

Days later, General Hospital posted a message on Facebook that Jonathan Jackson would be reprising his role as Lucky Spencer beginning in October.

This had been my dream! For years, I told the Darryls and anyone else who would listen that I wished the original Lucky would come back. (Also, that Frisco and Felicia would come back, and Robert and Anna and the WSB, but let's stick to one dream at a time here.) I could scarcely believe my eyes. I even Google news'd it to make sure it wasn't a hoax. It wasn't. No more weird middle Lucky or lame third Lucky. (Sure, third Lucky has lustrous hair and rugged good looks, but I need more. The character had become about as exciting as an all-day scoliosis screening.) At long last, the original Lucky is returning!

I simply cannot believe my luck. It's as if a genie visited me while I was in a deep sleep one night and granted me three wishes, two of which have already come true. I'm bursting! We're talking Tom-Cruise-on-Oprah's-couch happy. No, happy as a lark. I'm a lark jumping up and down on Oprah's couch.

So let this be a lesson to us all. People may tell you not to cling to the past, but clearly that has been proven wrong. And sure, most hopes and dreams die hard, never having been realized or even chased, but... uh, I need something uplifting here. Hmm..... well, anyway.

As for my third wish? I have considered several obvious possibilities: A Wham! reunion; that Tab would make a comeback; that just once I could play the word QUETZALS in Scrabble covering two triple word scores and get the maximum 347 possible points.

But in the end, I passed them all over. Now I don't want to jinx anything by telling you what I finally decided on, but I will give you a couple of clues.

Clue #1. Two words: Brandon. Walsh.

Clue #2. Blank-0-2-1-0.

Happy sleuthing!

"I'm a genie in a bottle. You gotta rub me the right way. If you wanna be with me, I can make your wish come true..."

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..."

Festivus IV

Every year around this time, I start hearing the questions. It really should come as no surprise. I mean, I'm single, thin, mid-thirties, and have an above average knowledge of all things Seinfeld.

"When's Festivus?"

"Are you having Festivus this year?"

After last year's 3rd Annual Festivus At Bone's drew only eight guests, down from the previous year's all-time high of fourteen, I had been considering not having Festivus this year. (Pause for gasps and bellows.)

I know, it's like telling a child Christmas has been cancelled. I just never realized how hard it would be to sustain a fake holiday. As I wrestled back and forth with the decision of whether or not to have a bunch of people over to trash my place, time just slipped up on me.

Tuesday is Festivus. Yet my Festivus pole remains in the crawlspace. Festivus evites have not been sent. And no Twix have been purchased for the candy lineup. Most importantly, my apartment has not been cleaned because I haven't had a girl over in weeks.

It's all these menial tasks. Laundry, grocery shopping, getting on here and surfing the internet. Do you have any idea how much time I waste on this computer? Throw in the fact that the city council has outlawed cockfighting, as well as unsanctioned cage fighting--severely limiting the options for the Feats of Strength--and it looked like Festivus wasn't going to happen.

Still, I was holding out hope right up to the last minute. Maybe some unexpected event, the magnitude of Donna Martin Graduates or the Save The Max radiothon, would occur to save Festivus.

It's kinda like in Liar Liar when Jim Carrey promised he was going to play baseball with the kid who played Lucas on General Hospital. And that girl from ER waited and waited until the very last minute even though Jim Carrey had let them down time and again. Then Jim Carrey gets thrown into jail, which is where the Festivus analogy kind of goes awry. Except that they boarded a plane for Boston with the guy who played David Lookner on Seinfeld, which kind of brings the whole thing full circle. But anyway...

I was ready to come to terms with the fact that there would be no 4th Annual Festivus At Bone's. Then the female portion of Kywana called the other day and said "Silver Bells" had come on the radio when she was in the car, and Kywana Jr. started singing "Silver Pole" instead of "Silver Bells." *sniff sniff*

Well, I just about lost it. And that's when I remembered what Festivus is all about. It's not about having a clean apartment or how many of your friends don't show up even though they tell you they will. Festivus is about getting together with people and feeling no obligation to buy them a gift. It's about letting those you care for know all the ways they have disappointed you over the past year. Most of all, it's about passing Frank Costanza's vision on to the next generation.

So Festivus at Bone's is on for Friday night. It's another Festivus miracle! Besides, if I don't do it, who will?

Sure, it's probably too late to book Christopher Cross. Actually, it's probably not. Still, there'll be lots of shouting and plenty of food if you get there early. And considering how close this Festivus was to not happening at all, I'd say there's a good chance it will surpass all Festivuses (Festivi?) past--all three of them.

Here's wishing you all a Happy Festivus For The Rest Of Us! Now, please join me in singing that favorite of all Festivus songs, Silver Pole.

"Silver Pole, Silver Pole. It's Festivus in the city. Tinsel free. So sturdy. Soon it will be Festivus..."

The curious case of the drive-thru attendant

I'm not sure if has to do with being from the South, or how I was raised, or because when I was little my uncle would give my cousins a whoopin' anytime they dared address any adult without saying sir or ma'am. But I say "yes ma'am" and "no ma'am" to most all women.

A couple of weeks ago, I stopped by a local fast food establishment to order a dessert. A woman's voice came on the thing and I placed my order, which included me referring to her as "ma'am" a couple of times.

When I got up to the window, all I saw was this guy. He took my money and handed me my order. That's odd, I thought. (That it was a guy, not that he took my money and handed me my order.) But I know sometimes they'll have one person with the headset taking the order and another person just handing out the food--or at least that's how it is when I imagine the innerworkings of a fast food establishment--so I didn't think much more of it.

Then this past Thursday, we ordered from the same place for lunch and I went to pick it up. It was sort of a long order, so there were quite a few "yes ma'ams" and "no ma'ams." When I got to the window, the same guy was there. Except this time, he started chatting with me.

"It's finally warming up out there," he said.

My friends, he spoke with the voice of a woman. A real life high talker! Not a loud talker, a high talker. Just like the Seinfeld episode.

I wasn't able to look at him because I felt bad and also because it was taking everything I had not to laugh. But on the other hand, it was such a rare phenomenon that I was tempted to call someone just to let them hear.

He seemed like a nice guy, and this was the second time in a week that I had called him "ma'am." But what could I do? He sounded more like a woman than most women I know. They put him in the drive-thru where no one can see him. Plus we're basically in the sir and ma'am capital of the world here. It's entrapment!

I'm sure many "normal" people would let the story end there. But not me. Oh no. This wasn't over. For the next couple of days, it was all I could think about. I jovially shared with family and friends my story of meeting the high talker. I even pondered the possibility of a Bone Reality Tour, with the high talker and my Festivus Pole as the featured stops. Or, the only stops. But at the same time, I felt terrible about the whole ordeal.

After much consideration, I devised a plan. I would go back up there and no matter what, I would say "yes sir" and "no sir" when I ordered to make the high talker feel better. It seemed like the natural thing to do.

It was perfect. So inspired. Yet so simple. I imagined how good the high talker would feel to finally be called sir after hearing ma'am day after day after day. It made me proud that I was such a good person.

I carried out my plan yesterday. Of course by this time, I was sick of eating at the place--it's far from my favorite anyway--so I decided I'd just get a coke. What follows is the unedited version of the conversation that transpired shortly before 1:00 PM Central Time Saturday afternoon:

"Welcome to KFC, may I take your order?"

"Yes. Uh, yes sir." (I almost forgot, right off the bat!) "I'd like a medium Mountain Dew, please."

"One medium Mountain Dew. Is that all?"

"Yes sir."

"That'll be two-fifteen."

$2.15?!?! Suddenly coke has become more expensive than gasoline? Wow. Still, I figured it would be well worth it to right this wrong and bring this episode to a happy conclusion. I pulled up to the window and, um, well... it seems the high talker wasn't working.

Turns out there was but one flaw in my carefully designed plan. And that was it. So basically I paid two dollars and fifteen cents to call a 16-year-old kid "sir."

I'm sure many "normal" people would let the story end there...

"I won't make the same mistake by coming here again, cos I can't tell difference between the hers and hims. No, I can't tell the boys from the girls. And friends, it's really messing up my world..."

Have you Scene It?

It was your typical weekday afternoon. I was fighting to stay awake for another hour or so of work, trying to get over the shock of seeing Sonny Corinthos stabbed and dropped in the river with cement blocks chained to his feet. (Fortunately, Carly happened by the waterfront, dove to the bottom of the river, somehow picked the locks on Sonny's chains, unchained him, and swam him back to the surface, all while holding her breath.) A commercial break came on, and that's when I heard it.

"General Hospital, brought to you in part by Scene It Seinfeld."

Wait. Did I hear that right? It couldn't be, could it? Two of the very cornerstones of my life coming together? Apparently, the answer to those questions is yes. Yes I did. Yes it could. And yes they have.

My initial reaction was probably not unlike many of yours--after all this time, my Nuvaring post was finally paying off! At last, they've begun marketing to the 25-39 year old straight male soap viewing crowd. And why not? There must be dozens of us out here.

Next, a Vagisil commercial came on and my thoughts turned to this new product: Scene It? Seinfeld. They've done it! It's been done.

The problem here is the same problem I always face with Seinfeld-related releases, especially around the holidays. Either everyone will get me one and I'll wind up with like four, or no one will get me one because they think everyone else will be getting me one. It can be quite the conundrum.

It didn't take long for people to start contacting me. I must say, there is something quite comforting about friends--even those I've not heard from in awhile--knowing me so well that I'm the first person they think of when there's news regarding Seinfeld, Matchbox Twenty, or Lindsay Lohan.

The female half of Kywana IM'd me one morning to see if I'd heard about it. We discussed what a great addition this will be to this year's Festivus celebration. Then Friday, a girl I've spoken to maybe once in the past year called to tell me about it. She also raised an issue I had yet to think about, saying, "No one will want to play with you because you'll know every single answer."

Drat! She had a point. I would dominate. It'd be like Kramer fighting children in karate. After careful consideration, meditation, and asking myself what would Jason & Jerry do (WWJJD), I came to a decision.

I've decided that I'm perfectly fine with always winning.

"Master of the house, doling out the charm. Ready with a handshake and an open palm..."

Like Elvis, at Libertyland

I have decided that I have the ideal life for a writer. Oh sure, there are no Hemingway-esque safaris to Africa. No lavish Black & White Balls, a la Capote. But my life is so routine that it provides a monumental daily challenge for me to try and make it sound interesting. It's excellent practice really.

I was, however, unusually social this past weekend. Included was dinner at a theme restaurant, a mini Seinfeld marathon at Axl's, and watching the Bama/Tennessee game at Kywana's. It is this latter event which I want to focus on today.

Here is something you should know about me in case we ever hang out. I don't really like watching Bama games with anyone.

First of all, watching the game on TV is like a four hour exercise in anxiety for me. I get extremely nervous just before kickoff and remain that way until the outcome is decided. I pace the floor, put my hands over my face, walk into the kitchen and open the freezer multiple times for no apparent reason. My neck and shoulders become one gargantuan monkey's fist. And we haven't even gotten to the yelling. It's like 95% anxiety, 5% elation and relief. And that's if Bama wins.

As long as I'm at the game, I can stand up and jump and cheer, providing an outlet for my nervous energy. But at home, there isn't as much of an outlet. Especially not with other people around, who I would rather continue to think me sane and allow me around their children.

Over the years, I've conditioned myself to be able to watch a game on TV with one or two other people who know how I am. Anymore than that, or anyone I don't really know, and I'm very uncomfortable. There are certain times one needs to be alone or with one or two members of one's inner circle. It's kinda like when Elvis would rent out Libertyland for the entire night and ride the Zippin Pippin over and over. Or it's nothing at all like that.

Anyway, all season long, various friends have invited me over to watch the away games on TV. And I had turned them all down, or just not answered my phone. Until Saturday night.

Feeling generous, or guilty or something, I accepted Kywana's offer to watch the game at their place. Needless to say, I would never agree to such a meeting without preconditions. I was under the impression it would only be me and Kywana watching the game. The main reason I was under that impression is because they said it would only be me and them watching the game.

Well, I was misled. There wound up being seven adults and five children present--if you consider me an adult--prompting me at one point to remark, "It's like Romper Room up in here." (NOTE: "Up in here" is a hip, cool phrase meaning "in here" or "in dis hizzy.")

I was none too happy at first. But once the game started, I zoned everything else out. Fortunately, I managed to keep my outbursts to a minimum. I think I only yelled a couple of times. Athough it could have been more. I'm not sure I even realize I do it sometimes. It turned out to be not the worst experience in the entire world. Of course, it helped that Bama won.

So I'm thinking maybe being a bit more social isn't so bad after all. I might even start answering the door when someone rings the bell. Or making eye contact with people.

"Thought I knew her, this lady. Opportunist, misled. Always searching for adventure. Like Pandora's box, misled..."

The race is on

Girl: I knew there had to be another side to you.
Jerry: No, no, there's no side!
Girl: There is a side, an ugly side.
Jerry: No, no, no ugly side.

I'm not sure how each of you view me. My inclination would be as some sort of odd Jerry Seinfeld/Jason Morgan conglomeration. But I do have vices. And here is one: I don't like to be passed.

I'm not talking about driving, like those psychotics who hold up traffic and then speed up when you try to pass them. No, I'm talking about when I'm running. There are two ways to be passed while running. One is when you're going the same direction as someone else. The other, and maybe less obvious way, occurs when you're running opposite directions.

Two people, running opposite directions at the same rate on the same track, will meet in the same spot, exactly two times per lap. Let's call this spot Checkpoint Charlie. Thus, it stands to reason that if one person is running faster than the other, they will meet in a different spot each lap, and it will be obvious who is more fit and manly and who is the slowpoke.

So anytime I'm running and someone else is running the opposite direction, I speed up a little so that I can pass Checkpoint Charlie before they do. Some people might not notice such a thing. But that's what makes me different.

I say all that to say this. Last night while I was running, there was an incident. I was nearing the end of my second lap when I encountered this high school kid on his first lap. I made a mental note of where we passed so I could be sure I was ahead of him the next time around.

Only, I wasn't. I had lost about fifty yards to this punk kid in one lap.

Alright, we're taking it up a notch.

I increased my speed a bit, but still lost ground on lap four!

Good grief, what are they feeding this kid? And how tall is he? I'm 6'1" but this kid's like a gazelle, whatever that is. He covers like ten yards a step.

It was at this point I decided that no matter how far this kid ran, I'd keep running until after he was done. I would run all night if that's what it took to prove my superior stamina and conditioning.

It's a marathon, Junior. Not a sprint. You may be faster. But I'm stronger. I'm like Dwight Schrute on 'roids. Bring it!

Lap five was more of the same.

This kid's like a machine. It's like I'm running against Ivan Drago here. Hey kid, Manute Bol called. He wants his legs back.

Then it happened. On my sixth lap, Manute Drago had slowed to a walk.

Aww, could the little baby only run four laps? That's exactly how far I had originally planned to run not bad... for a beginner.

I kept running until he finished walking, careful each time we passed to make it seem as if I was barely putting forth any effort at all.

I was running when you got here, and I'll still be running when you're gone. Bone rulz!

I wound up running seven laps in all. To recap, that's:

Bone - 5.25 miles (<-----WINNER)
High school kid - 3 miles (<-----LOSER)

But who's counting?

"And I ran. I ran so far away. I just ran. I ran all night and day. I couldn't get away..."

Letting out my inner Costanza

After reading J-Mo's post about one of the great sociological questions of our time, I decided to go to Sonic for lunch today.

So I'm sitting there and of course I have no idea how much to tip or even if I should tip at all. Because the place is like a gigantic roundabout anyway. Who knows what to do. You pretty much just hope to get out of there without running into anything.

Anyway, my order comes to $5.39. I briefly consider giving her $6 and telling her to keep the change, but that never seems like enough to me. I feel like the carhop is standing there thinking, "Gee thanks. This will pay for my little brother's operation to fix his lazy eye."

Next, I consider giving her a $10 bill. Then as she's giving me the change I can make it a point to return one of the dollars to her. This seems like a pretty good idea, except who wants to break a ten. Those big bills just disappear once you break them.

So then I dig around in the coin repository that is the console of my car and find thirty-nine cents. I don't have a five, so I decide that I'll give her six one dollar bills and thirty-nine cents in change. That way, she'll be getting a full dollar tip. That should help her brother out.

Well, she comes, I pay, she leaves. Story of my life. But she doesn't count my ones. She just takes the money and walks away. So then I'm thinking that she's thinking I gave her exact change and has no idea I even tipped her. I mean, she said thank you. But it was just a regular thank you, not an oh-thank-you-so-much-kind-sir-for-my-tip-is-there-anything-else-I-can-do-for-you-today thank you. So basically, I got NO CREDIT for my tip.

Oh sure, when she gets back inside and starts going thru her money, she'll find a nice little Washingtonian surprise. But what good does that do me? Isn't the whole point of tipping at Sonic so I don't get dirty looks or feel guilty?

Oh, it's not?

Oh... Well, nevermind then. Forget I said anything.

"If you wanna go and take a ride with me, we three wheelin' in the fo' with the gold D's. Oh why do I live this way? Hey! Must be the money..."

Mystery of the frozen scene

While flipping channels Friday, I came across the following scene from Seinfeld on cable channel 8:



There was no movement. No audio. It was just frozen there on my television, as you see it here. A scene where Jerry and George appear to be talking.

I looked around. Was I the only one who could see this? Was Larry David trying to send me a signal? Was my TV set even on? Was this my second bowl of Apple Jacks, or third? Maybe, just maybe, this was my "if you build it, they will come" moment that I had waited on for ten years since the series finale.

After about ten or forty-five minutes, it became apparent they weren't going to play the rest of the episode, so I changed channels. The event gradually and quietly slipped into the dark recesses of my brain. Until the next day.

I don't know if it was divine intervention or the kinship of all living things, but something told me to check channel 8 again on Saturday. So I did. And I found the exact same scene. Still there. Still frozen. Like a hidden treasure waiting for me to kiss it and turn it into a beautiful princess.

By that time, I was certain this was no random occurrence. Someone was trying to tell me something. But what? And then it hit me. If I could somehow figure out which episode the frozen scene was from, I would thereby solve the mystery of the riddle and surely know what Larry was trying to tell me.

I began to analyze the scene. It appeared fairly generic, but I noticed a couple of things. They weren't in Jerry's apartment. They appeared to be in some sort of office. Also, George was older, so I was thinking Season 8 or 9. Within about fifteen seconds, I had my guess: The Bizarro Jerry.

The only thing left to do now was to check to see if I was right. Well, that and take a picture of the TV screen for blog purposes. Since I don't yet have Seasons 8 or 9 on DVD (hint hint), I had to dig thru my library of Seinfeld VHS tapes. This task was made slightly more difficult by the fact that before I knew the names of each episode--or that the episodes even had names--I would label the tapes with my own descriptions.

For example, instead of The Fire, I wrote "Jerry heckles a heckler." Instead of The Pie, I had "A mannequin looks like Elaine." Instead of The Rye, I put "Accidentally recorded Caroline In The City." Anyway, you get my drift. I finally found the episode I was looking for and fast forwarded to the scene. Booyah! I was right!

I'm still not really sure what this all means, other than I know a really really lot about Seinfeld. It's either very exciting or very very sad. Since this is my blog, we're gonna go with exciting. Surely there must be a need somewhere for my uncommon ability, a place at Larry David Enterprises for me.

I turned back to channel 8 later in the day Saturday, and they had resumed regular programming. Of course they had. But not before and until I had solved the mystery of the frozen scene.

It's all in a day's work. My name is Bone. This is what I do.

"Now for ten years we've been on our own. And moss grows fat on a rollin' stone. But that's not how it used to be..."

Bone's 3rd Annual Festivus For The Rest Of Us

I've written quite a bit about Festivus on this blog. Well over twenty posts make mention of the F word, with several of those dedicated solely to that greatest of all non-religious, non-commercialized holidays. So when you do a google search for "festivus traditions" guess what comes up #2, right behind Wikipedia?

That's right, friends. Me. Number two! Behind my beloved Wikipedia! Do you realize what this means? Well, neither do I. But rest assured if I figure out what it means that I will take whatever it means very seriously. I can only hope I have made Frank Costanza very proud.

With that being said, the day is fast approaching. I sent out my Evites today. Bone's 3rd Annual Festivus For The Rest Of Us Shindig, Banquet, and General Gathering Of Discomfited Individuals will be held Saturday, December 22nd, at 6 PM. And you're all invited!

Sequels often leave something to be desired. But hopefully, this one will be kinda like Friday the 13th, Part 3, except without all the violence. Or the brief nudity. Or the hockey mask.

Don't worry about bringing anything, either. Though I will need one of you to be in charge of coats. (No "man furs" please.) And I'll need someone else to stand by Gabe Kaplan's tank and make sure no one taps on it.

I might also recommend that you have some sort of signal in case you get into a bad conversation with someone. Head patting is good. Although personally, I prefer the slightly more subtle chicken wing.

So many great memories have already been made during the first two Festivus celebrations, most occurring during the Airing of Grievances. Like last year, when Lil Bootay said she didn't like Three Word Wednesday.

My response? "Oh yeah? Well, the jerkstore called. They're running outta YOU!" OK, so I didn't really say that. I didn't think of it until after everyone had left. But that line would've really smoked her! Don't you think?

Again this year, I'm planning to serve pizza for the Festivus Dinner. We'll watch "The Strike" episode of Seinfeld. And of course, we'll have the Festivus Pole and the Feats of Strength. All the usual Festivus Traditions you've come to know and love.

Although due to an obscure city ordinance, there'll be no cockfighting this year. So we'll have to think of something else for the Feats Of Strength.

And now I leave you with one of the memories burned into our brains from last Festivus. And don't worry, the party wasn't this wild the whole night. People were just hopped up on Twix and black and white cookies at the time.



The lyrics for "Silver Pole" written by Bone. Music by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans. Proceeds from Festivus will benefit Kramerica Industries: A solitary man with a messy apartment which may or may not contain a live chicken. And the Human Fund: Money for people.

"All these worksheets, grievance worksheets, lined with blanks yet to fill. In the air there's a feeling of terseness..."

Y-Chromosomitis

I received an IM from a friend the other night that read simply:

"Why no T-Bone?"

No "hello." No "hi, how are you?" Just those four words. Yet immediately, I not only recognized it as a line from Seinfeld, but I knew the specific episode and scene it came from, as well as who said it.

Granted, that was an easy one, since that is the episode my name, Bone, was derived from. (By the way, thanks Renee for explaining that on another blog. I love my readers!) But it's not the first time this has happened.

I can pretty much do that with any Seinfeld line. Yet someone has to tell me when their birthday is at least five times before I can remember it.

I can name at least eight current pro bowlers off the top of my head, and recognize them when I see them on TV. And I don't even watch bowling all that much. (Except apparently I do.) Yet I have trouble remembering much of anything any female said to me even twenty-four hours ago. Or five minutes ago.

How can this be? Well, I have come up with a theory. You may want to sit down for this. You know, if you normally read my blog standing up...

I think I may have selective memory.

(Pause to wait for gasps of disbelief to subside.)

Please don't let this negatively affect your opinion of me. I'm still same old rugged, General Hospital-watching, 24-recapping, Seinfeld-quoting, Jason Morgan-esque ladies man you've come to know and love. But, I do have a problem. And admitting it is the first step to recovery.

Now... what were we talking about?

Oh, yes... bowling!

No, seriously. I've also come to believe my selective memory could be partly due to the fact that, at times, I may also have selective hearing.

I know, I know. This is almost impossible to believe. It's like hearing that Rosie O'Donnell hangs upside down for fun. But let me give you an example:

If I'm watching sports (or Letterman, or poker, or You've Got Mail) and a girl calls, I would venture to guess that I fail to comprehend anywhere from 50-75% of what she is saying. If it's a really exciting game, or Alabama is playing, that number could be as high as 99%. (I would say 100, but I normally eventually hear them saying my name repeatedly when they realize I'm distracted.)

Why do I do this? In my opinion, it basically comes down to two simple facts. I have a short attention span. And, I can only concentrate on one thing at a time. Sure, sometimes I fake it, who doesn't? Like with the television and phone calls. But in reality, only one thing or the other is getting thru. And if I'm listening to her, then I'm missing the game. And, well, obviously...

Now one might ask, "Bone, why do you specify when a girl calls, and not a guy?" Well, with guys, conversations tend to be short and have a specific point. Let's look at a couple of examples of guy conversations:

Example one:
"Hello."
"Are you watching this?"
"Yeah."
"Did you see that crap call!?"
"Yeah."
"That's terrible!"
"I agree."
"Alright, I'll call you back."
"Alright."

Example two:
"Hello."
"Hey, I'm not gonna be able to make it tonight. Sheena and I got back
together."
"Oh. Alright. That's cool."
"So, uh... I guess I'll talk to you later."
"Yeah. Later."

In these examples, notice how a short attention span wouldn't really come into play. I can usually pay attention to the first three or four things someone says when they call. But after that, it's all downhill, swiftly and steeply.

Contrariwise, with women, there's often a lot of "how was your day" and "guess what happened to me today" kind of stuff. Conversations can, on occasion, begin to wander aimlessly, dragging on sometimes for hours.

It stands to reason that if I don't even hear half of what she says, there's no way I can be expected to remember it. So selective hearing leads to selective memory, and that, I believe, is what I have.

When I mentioned this newfound realization--epiphany, if you will--to a couple of women, their responses were surprisingly uniform. Of course you do, you're a man.

Yes friends, aparently my selective memory and selective hearing are only symptoms of a much more serious, terminal condition, known as being a man.

"I'm only a man in a funny red sheet. And it's not easy. It's not easy to be me..."