Hard habit to break

Lately I've been wandering about the house in a state of disoriented malaise. OK, so that's not really anything out of the ordinary. But I've also been unable to go to sleep before 2 AM on weeknights. My body is rebelling. It stays up, expecting to see volleyball, or platform diving, or Michael Phelps' Mom. But instead all that's on are Will & Grace reruns or the Steve Wilkos Show. I like Steve, but that only lasts an hour. Then what.

I'm having withdrawals. And I think a huge part of the problem is the lack of anything decent on TV right now. The Democratic National Convention is OK, but it doesn't quench my gold medal thirst. Maybe if Hillary could have done a front handspring with full twist and stuck the landing. Or maybe if they invited Bela Karolyi to be a guest analyst. How sad is it that I know how to spell Karolyi without even looking it up anymore.

I've been having a recurring nightmare of a female gymnast who falls during her vault landing, but still receives perfect 10's. (Yes, I know they don't give 10's anymore, but it's a dream, go with it.) Each time, I wake up in a cold sweat calling out, "Bela!!!"

I miss the secure feeling of knowing that some Olympic event is on NBC, CNBC, MSNBC, or USA no matter what time of day or night it is. I miss cheering for the Americans, and sometimes cute German and Australian girls. (This means you Britta Steffen.) I even miss Jim Lampley's stoic, monotone delivery.

I've tried everything I know to get my fix. I searched for that hokey Olympic theme music (BUM BUM ba bum bum bum bum) on iTunes, sent Hope Solo a friend request on MySpace, and I'm seriously considering giving myself a Dalhausser. I even tried showering off each time I use the restroom just to be like the divers. Didn't help.

How bad has it gotten? Last night, I turned over to Jimmy Kimmel to see if he had any Olympians on.

Jimmy. Kimmel.

Clearly, these are desperate times. Thankfully, he didn't but Letterman did. Bryan Clay, the decathlon gold medalist, was on the Late Show. I watched him throw shot puts and javelins at a cab. Clay, not Letterman.

Tonight, Misty May and Kerri are on. Thank goodness, too. Google images just wasn't doing it for me anymore. Anyway, that should tide me over until tomorrow. And then, who knows. With an addiction like this, all I can do is take it one day, one hour, one Logan Tom-less moment at a time.

At least until college football starts Saturday.

"I guess I thought you'd be here forever. Another illusion I chose to create. You don't know what you got until it's gone. And I found out a little too late..."

Babies R Us

Guess what.



If you guessed that I shaved my facial hair, you are correct. I actually did it a few months ago. It was a pretty big decision, but I figured it was time.

Did you notice anything else different in the picture? Look closely and see if you notice... A WHOLE OTHER PERSON!!!

That's right, my friends. After all these years, I've finally done it. I'm an uncle! Say hello to Nephew Bone. (He's the one on the left.) This picture was taken just as I was telling him all about blogging.

My sister was admitted to the hospital early Tuesday morning to be induced. Nephew Bone finally arrived Wednesday evening at 8 pounds, 3 ounces. I figure thirty-six hours isn't that long to wait for a whole 'nother person, right sis? And no, they didn't name him Seven or Jacob Martin, despite my constant urging friendly suggestion.

From what I can tell, here is a breakdown of how Nephew Bone spends his day:

Sleeping - 70%
Eating - 15%
Causing people to swoon by opening his eyes - 10%
Whining at bothersome, albeit sometimes attractive, nurses - 5%

Total time spent looking cute = 100%

I want to be the best uncle ever. And by best uncle, I mean, fave uncle. However, I've been unable to find any books on uncle-ing, so I've had to come up with other means of research. I have devised what I think you will find is a simple, yet comprehensive two-pronged approach.

First, I have been trying to recall things my uncles taught me. Things like if you hit a golf ball just so, it will run along the cart path and greatly increase shot distance. Although I guess I would have eventually figured that out myself.

Secondly, I have been trying to catch reruns of Full House, Dukes Of Hazzard, and My Three Sons whenever I can. I figure the knowledge I can glean from Uncle Joey, the Uncles Jesse, Uncle Charley and other famous uncles will be invaluable. And what about that old guy on Lost In Space? Was he an uncle, or just some odd character they picked up somewhere in the galaxy?

It is an incredible thing hold a baby while thinking he wasn't even born a few hours before. To experience the miracle of life is... indescribable. I can only imagine how it will be someday when I finally impregnate some unsuspecting girl.

What? I didn't want you to think this was going to turn into one of those boring uncle blogs. I promise a return to golf, General Hospital, and other uninhibited bachelor tales very soon.

I also want to say congratulations to Kywana on the birth of their son this past Monday. He is beautiful! And thanks for letting me be part of that. Well, a small part. It's not like I was there for the delivery or anything. I am also honored they have chosen me to be Kywana Jr's godfather. Starting immediately, you may refer to me as Godfather B.

It's been a busy week around here. Lots of time spent in hospitals. I am most thankful that everything went smoothly (easy for me to say) and that everyone is healthy.

There are two less pregnant women in the world. Two new beautiful Bama fans. And one proud new uncle and godfather.

"His fingerprints are everywhere. I just slowed down to stop and stare. Opened my eyes and man I swear, I saw God today..."

Obligatory Olympics entry

I've never had much of a problem going along with the crowd. When I was four and some neighborhood kids were taking turns throwing bricks at a wall while one person stood against the wall and tried to dodge the bricks, with mortar stained hands I willingly participated. In 1987, I was rolling my jeans so tight and so often I'm surprised I don't have long term chronic circulation problems in my feet.

Tie dye, slap bracelets, talk to the hand, 90210 sideburns, the Rachel haircut, you name it. Whatever the crowd was doing, there I would be, following along and trying not to stand out. Just put a numeric neon green pager in my hand and prepare to be amazed by my upside down spelling abilities. So in the spirit of fitting in and going along with the blogging crowd, I now present my obligatory Olympics post.

I wasn't all that excited about the Olympics before they started. I figured I would watch Misty May and Kerri Walsh, maybe some of the basketball, and not a whole lot else. Then Jason Lezak happened. By the time he had smashed the French and I found myself standing up yelling "(non child friendly word) France" all alone in my bedroom, I was hooked.

The past ten days, my TV has been on something other than the Olympics and General Hospital for maybe two hours. I'm watching NBC, CNBC, MSNBC, and USA. Men's water polo, team handball, women's double skulls, you name it. Morning, afternoon, evening, and late night. I get very sad when I can't find Olympics on any channel.

A few other thoughts...

Why are they taking softball out of the Olympics? How is BMX a more popular sport than Jennie Finch, I mean, softball? A bunch of twenty-something-year-old guys riding around on dirt bikes? Please.

One sport I truly don't understand is the 3000 meter steeplechase. They run around, there's a hurdle every once in awhile, then once a lap they go completely off the track to jump a wall and land in one or two feet of water. It just seems all really bizarre, and I'm not sure what it determines. Maybe if there was a small flood or water heater disaster and you needed to jump out a window and run thru standing water--but not a lot of standing water, just a couple of steps--to safety, these would be the best people for the task?

Anytime I get a little fed up with Bob Costas, Jim Lampley, or Mary Carillo, I just remind myself, "Hey, at least it's not Joe Buck or Chris Berman."

Why is there no 100 meter doggie paddle?

Here's maybe the oddest fact I've learned during the Olympics: Georgia's men's volleyball team is made up of two Brazilians named Geor and Gia. Seriously? That's an onomatological phenomenon! That'd be like if the US team was made up of two Serbs named Bratislav United and Nikolai States.

But of course, our men's beach volleyball team are the dynamic duo of Todd Rogers and Phil Dalhausser, the latter of which George Bush affectionately nicknamed Big Fella. I can only imagine how that came about. I'm guessing it was after several failed attempts to pronounce Dalhausser.

I think if I were a diver, and I was way behind going into my last dive with no hope to medal, I'd have to try a cannonball. Oh come on, like you hadn't thought the same thing.

I love Dara Torres. And here's why. When I watch these teenagers and twentysomethings winning medals and representing their country, inevitably I begin to examine my life and how very little I've done with it. Of course, it doesn't help that as I'm watching, I'm lying on the couch trying to lick the last bit of icing out of a cupcake wrapper. But then I watch Dara Torres and I think, "Eh, I've still got time." She's like the Kenny Rogers of the Olympics.

I love Natalie Coughlin, too, but for entirely different reasons.

"When Brian Boitano was in the Olympics skating for the gold, he did two Salchows and a triple Lutz while wearing a blind fold..."

Expectant mothers, Nintendo, & the bachelor

Well, I haven't been blogging much lately. That could be attributed to a number of things, such as being exhausted from NaBloSoThaDraWe, which with at least two participants including me was a rousing success. (Thanks, Eileen.) But I think mostly it comes down to the fact that I haven't been typing things in this box and hitting publish much lately. I've done that like zero times in the past ten days.

It was quite an eventful weekend for me, though. Friday night, I hung out with the Darryls. We did your typical guy stuff. Shot pool, discussed the latest happenings on General Hospital, and even sang a bit of karaoke without music. (I know what you're saying. Is it still considered karaoke without the music, Bone? And all I have to say to that is, probably not.) It was all very manly though, not that I needed to clarify that or anything.

Saturday night, I went to a friend's 40th birthday celebration. At some point in the evening, I found myself in a not uncommon position for a bachelor, wedged between two pregnant women. Not physically. Well, sort of. Anyway, that was even more fun than it sounds.

Unfortunately, I didn't plan ahead, and had no signal to get me out of a conversation, such as head patting or chicken wing. So there I sat, as they discussed contractions, itchy stomachs, minivans, and dilations. Who knew pregnancy affected the eyes!

I found myself unable to contribute much to the conversation, since my gynecology knowledge is pretty much limited to Nuvaring commercials. But I wanted to learn what I could, figuring it could always come in handy later. So during a break in the conversation, I chimed in with, "So what exactly does a contraction feel like?" Not long after that, I went over and started petting the dog.

After the party, I went back to Kywana's for a bit. It's what the kids call the "after party." They had downloaded Super Mario Brothers for the Wii, so we were all taking turns playing. Then when it got to Kywana Junior's turn to play, she asked her mother, "What do I do?"

Oh my gosh. She's never played. It was like I had stepped on a rake and the handle smacked me in the face. Except that I didn't cry. I was sad for her at first, because she had never played Super Mario Brothers. Then I was sad for me, because I was old.

All turned out well though. It wound up being sort of like a little video game history lesson. Early Mario World Civilization 101: The Origins Of Mario Kart.

Tune in next time when I offer Bone's Helpful Lamaze Tips. And also provide an editorial commentary on why Luigi got the shaft. Or maybe I'll just blog about the Olympics.

"Her boyfriend, he don't know, anything about her. He's too stoned, Nintendo. I wish that I could make her see, she's just the flavor of the weak..."

Car Wash: The Remake

Today on IYROOBTY, we are proud to announce a modern-day, updated version of a true cult classic, Car Wash. Keen observers and film aficionados may notice a few inconsistencies between the new version of Car Wash and the original. This can mostly be attributed to the fact that I never watched the whole movie.

Really, this is more like a mime version of the original. It stars, coincidentally, a guy named Bone, and naturally, a car wash. The setting is on or about July the thirtieth, two thousand and eight. Here's a brief summary, or a lengthy detailed description. Whichever.

Act The First:

Our star, Bone, is driving around with bugs on his car, a not uncommon human dilemma. He has waited patiently for three days hoping for rain to come and wash the bugs away, but the land remains dry and dusty. Tired of public ridicule and people writing "wash me" on his vehicle, our star decides to take action. The express drive thru car wash is already closed for the evening, so he pulls into the self-service car wash, thinking he'll spray off the car for a temporary fix. (Yes, you can tell what he's thinking by his miming. He's really good.)

Act The Second:

This scene begins with a wide angle view of the car wash, which shows someone washing another car in an adjacent bay. There has been speculation that this someone is one of the original members of Rose Royce, but at this time, that is still unconfirmed. The camera then pans to a close up of the control box and a sign that reads: "$1.50 to start. Extra quarters mean extra time. Quarters must be deposited before time expires."

Our hero (notice how our star has now become our hero) then retreats to his vehicle where he opens the top of a container, revealing a hidden treasure of quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies, and napkins. And not just any quarters, but new ones like Oklahoma and New Mexico. (NOTE: Despite an internet leak, this is not the story's climax.)

Our hero deposits nine quarters into the slot, figuring that will give him ample time to spray off the car. After soaping and rinsing the entire car with the super high powered jet sprayer, and in the process speeding up the onset of carpal tunnel syndrome by one thousand percent, our hero discovers that the machine is still running. The camera pans to the foam brush across the bay.

Act The Third:

Still in the car wash, our hero flips the knob to "foam brush" and a hot pink--how shall I describe this--well, foam starts coming out in clumps. In a flash, Bone rushes over and begins to cover the car in pink foamy goodness.

Unfortunately, there is no "time remaining" indicator. Somehow our hero senses his time may be short--not on this Earth, just in the car wash. So he returns to the vessel of loose change, retrieving three more quarters. He deposits them into the slot, but it is too late. The car wash has stopped.

Distraught but not defeated, our star--who was once compared to a young Danny Glover--returns yet again to the vessel of loose change. Using his lone superpower--ability to solve simple math problems without the use of pen and paper--he figures it will require three more quarters in addition to the three he has already deposited to start the car wash again. He has figured correctly.

A thorough foaming is followed by more high powered rinsing and carpal tunnel acceleration. This is definitely the action scene, which includes frequent splattering of the pink foam onto our hero's otherwise manly ensemble of distressed slightly below the knee cargo khaki shorts, bright orange and white fitted striped polo, and American Eagle flip flops. (Can you say endorsement deal?)

Act The Fourth:

Still at the car wash, rinsing is almost complete when the not unthinkable happens. The time has expired again. It is here where our hero appears to yell something. However, to preserve the integrity of the mime performance, this audio has been omitted. It is unclear what he says, but in this instant he appears to be less than enamored with the vehicle cleansing contraption.

And here we have the great conflict in our story. There is still foam on the grill of the car, as well as part of the hood and front quarter panels. Our hero grapples with the decision of whether to spend $1.50 more, or whether to drive out of the car wash looking like an idiot with pink foam covering the front of his car.

Deciding his twelve bits can be put to better use someplace else, our hero devises a plan. He will try and drive really fast on the way home in hopes the suds will blow off his car. This leads us to the requisite car chase scene. Except it's not really a chase. Just a single car race. Against normal human behavior and common sense.

I Plead The Fifth:

(SPOILER WARNING!!!!)
Our final act opens with our hero arriving home. He gets out of the car and walks to the front, appearing both hesitant and anxious to see if his plan has worked.

It has not.

Whether foiled by the 30 mph speed limit or the fact that it was only a four block drive from the car wash home, it is unclear. Our hero is once again down. The pink foam still clinging to the front serves as a sudsy reminder of his latest setback.

Displaying amazing resilience, learned from losing thirty consecutive games of Othello online, this modern-day MacGyver comes up with one final plan. He goes inside and soon returns to the parking lot with a pitcher full of water.

Our final scene shows our hero standing in the parking lot of his apartment complex at 8:30 in the evening pouring a pitcher of water over his car, gracefully and successfully washing away the remaining pink foam. Twelve bits none the poorer.

Who's the idiot now.

"Let me tell you it's always cool. And the boss don't mind sometimes if ya act the fool..."

The mother of (blog entries about) invention

These are the dog days of summer. (No really, I'm not just saying that.) They are typically accompanied by a lull in blog material. (I am just saying that.) Therefore, I invite you to join me as I proclaim this National Blog Something That's In Draft Week, or NaBloSoThaDraWe. (Also, feel free to add a NaBloSoThaDraWe tag to your blog.) I expect this to catch on at least as well as my Sunday Show & Tell idea. NaBloSoThaDraWe is for those entries that never saw the light of day because they weren't quite as interesting or funny as the ones you posted, but... actually there is no but. While browsing today, I found that I had 77 things in draft. I now have 76.

I have a tape measure. It was made in Korea. But let's not get into the discussion of why in the world we're having to import tape measures from Korea. I'll save that for my first appearance on The Colbert Report.

Occasionally, I'll stand up and measure myself. I'm not sure why. I figure it must be one of two things. Either I'm expecting myself at age 35 to suddenly hit a growth spurt, or I'm really really bored.

The tape measure was an excellent invention. First we had the ruler. Then the yardstick. Then the less popular two-yard stick, which was a little awkward to carry around. Finally some genius said, "Hey, we can put these lines and numbers on something flexible, roll it up, slap Stanley on it, and make millions."

Some inventions seem to have stopped evolving. For example, they're not really making a lot of technological advances with pens lately. The other day I saw a pen with ink that was guaranteed to prevent check washing. Isn't this coming along a little late? I didn't even know people still wrote checks. That would be like if they came out tomorrow with some technological update for 8-track players.

The Erasermate seemed brilliant, for awhile. Then after a few years, we were like, eh screw it, we'll just cross it out. Have you ever noticed that sometimes people don't just cross things out? Sometimes they do this entire black out thing where they scribble and scribble until the paper is nearly worn thru and there isn't a single trace of what once was. Makes me wonder what they had orginally written.

I mean, it's like three or four words marked out. It's not like there's space to write out a complicated assassination plot or some militia manifesto or anything. What are these people writing? What could be so important and secretive that they want to make 100 percent sure not any part of a single letter is visible? "Death To America." "Colonel Mustard did it." "I love the Bee Gees." I mean, no one's scribbling out "milk, detergent, eggs" you know?

Bumper stickers aren't evolving much, either. It would be nice, however, if they could come with an expiration date for them. "Hey '87 Tercel, I think it's safe to take off that Dole/Kemp 96 sticker now. At this point, I don't think there's gonna be a recount. However, Bob Dole does appreciate your support."

Nail clippers. There's another one that hasn't evolved much, though they do have the separate clippers for toenails and fingernails now. And from a fungal standpoint, I'm most thankful for that.

Why do they always put nail clippers by the register? You're getting ready to checkout, you're thinking, "I've gotta find my super saver card, and oh my gosh look at my nails!"

The items near the checkout are always quite varied. It's like a little telepathic message: "While you wait, here are a few things you may have forgotten. Some batteries, a Mounds bar, the National Enquirer, a glue stick, and look, here's some film for the camera you don't own." And I end up buying them. I have like three glue sticks! I haven't used glue for its intended purpose since 1984.

You gotta hand it to candles. They're hanging in there. I mean cars came along, the horse and buggy pretty much gave up. But light bulbs came along, candles evolved. They said, we can burn in jars. We can smell. Burn us at dinner. It'll be romantic. Trust us.

Necessity, of course, is the mother of invention. Unfortunately, necessity isn't sure who the father is.

Do you ever stop to think about how many inventions came about as a result of people making mistakes? Erasers. The backspace key. Liquid paper, which I still say began as a hallucinogen. Prison. Napkins. Child support. TMZ.

I don't understand the whole sliced bread cliche, either. Was slicing bread such a humongous inconvenience that avoiding it became the greatest invention in the history of the world? Did communities stage "bread slicings" instead of "barn raisings?" Were there volunteer organizations like Whole Grain For Humanity that would come in and slice bread for families without the means or manpower to slice it themselves?

Some things have yet to be invented, even though there is an obvious need. For example, why don't they sell ironing boards in the shape of pants and shirts? I'd buy two.

Sometimes I wonder about the person who invented the jigsaw puzzle. How did that come about? You're sitting there with this nice pretty picture and suddenly just decide to fire up the ol' power saw and chop it up into a thousand tiny pieces? I think someone may have had some rage issues.

I remember when I was little and Dad bought a jigsaw. I was excited. Looking forward to lots and lots of puzzles. Turned out to be a bit misleading. And we won't even get into the first time I heard the term "carpool."

Do you ever wonder about the person who invented the rubber insulation on electrical plugs?

Inventions like that, you really have to wonder about the trial and error aspect. Like for instance, the parachute. "No, Charlie. Really. This will catch you. Go ahead, jump....."

I think one of the great inventions of all time is the tennis racket. You don't agree? Imagine tennis without it.

Many inventions are the direct result of another invention. Call waiting and caller ID, for example. I wonder how long it took before Alexander Graham Bell started avoiding calls. "Blimey, I know that's Watson again. Why'd I ever give him my number?" I mean, he couldn't really say wrong number. There were only two phones.

I wonder how guys picked up girls before there were phone numbers. I've thought about it. I really don't know. Did they ask girls out by letter? The girl's talking to her sister. "He still hasn't written." "Well, it's only been nine days. Give him time. Guys never write the next week, plus the mail is slow." Or maybe they just hung out at the General Store. They see a girl. "Hey, um, you wanna come over later? I think we're having a bread slicing."

"I love the gal who invented kissin'. I don't recall her name. But I do believe that gal should sit high up in the hall of fame..."

Branches and roots

Monday was Dad's birthday. I know I haven't posted any updates lately, but he is doing very well. He claims to be walking everyday like he's supposed to, and he recently started a new job. I found myself appreciating his birthday and Father's Day a bit more this year.

Sunday afternoon, we took him out for birthday lunch. He was going on and on about a hydrogen fuel cell or something, so I know he's back to normal. Of course, now I'm expecting just any day to see him on the news: Man Blows Garage Off House. After all, Dad's all about making the blog.

After lunch, we went to the cemetery where Dad's parents are buried. (Doesn't everyone visit the cemetery on their birthday?) I'm ashamed to say I didn't remember exactly how to get there. I've probably only been four or five times that I remember. For whatever reasons, we never visited it as much as we did Mom's family's cemetery.

We were just never as close with Dad's family. First of all, Mom had eleven brothers and sisters. Dad only had two half-brothers, and they were both fifteen to twenty years older than him. Dad was the baby of everyone, by far. At least one of his first cousins was thirty years older than him. He's actually about the same age as his nephew, who I got to meet when Dad was in the hospital for his open heart surgery.

Riding down the quiet, narrow two-lane road that leads to the cemetery, I looked at Dad and tried to imagine what he must be thinking and feeling, about to visit the site where his parents were laid to rest. I couldn't. But in that instant, I appreciated him and I appreciated the day even more.

When we arrived, I instinctively headed for my grandmother's grave. My grandfather's first wife died young and he is buried next to her with a joint headstone. About ten feet away sits my grandmother's stone, all by itself. It breaks my heart all over again every time I see it. Maybe because it seems all too fitting.

As I said earlier, we gravitated more towards Mom's family. Dad's father died when I was one. My grandmother had a serious car accident not long after that and never drove again. I remember Dad would go get her on Christmas Eve day and she would bring presents for us. They were really bad presents, too, like athletic socks with wide red stripes and bad games like dominoes or something. And I feel guilty even as I'm typing this.

Then we'd spend Christmas Eve at my other grandma's house with Mom's family, and we'd go back there for lunch on Christmas Day. I remember sometime on Christmas afternoon, Mamaw or Mom or one of my aunts would fix up a plate and put tin foil over it and Dad would take it to his mother.

And in her whole life, as long as I knew her, she never once complained. Of course, now I wonder why was it like that? And I imagine her sitting there on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning all by herself. And I can't think about it without becoming deeply saddened. And I just want to tell her I'm sorry now, but I can't. So that's why it breaks my heart anew each time I visit her grave.

Sunday afternoon, I walked around more than usual and tried to find more Bone family graves. It's an old cemetery with lots of graves dating back to the 1800's. There were two Bones who were in the Confederate army and one who served in WWII.

With Mom's family, I've heard many stories. And what I don't know, I still have Mom, four uncles and three aunts that I can ask. But with Dad's family, I hardly know anything. And there's no one left to ask other than Dad. So I asked lots of questions, trying to learn all I could.

I don't know why it had never hit me before, but I realized that my grandmother was the only person buried there that I had actually known. And I miss her, for sure. But standing there Sunday, I found myself missing relatives that I never met.

That started me thinking about doing research on Dad's family. I want to get to know, at least in some small way, the family I never knew. I want to write things down and be able to pass along stories to the next generation. And if I don't do it, who will?

Dad told one story Sunday that I'd never heard before, although not family related. We passed a house where a classmate of his had lived many moons ago. Dad said he drew the boy's name for the Christmas party in sixth grade, so one day he asked him what he wanted. The boy's response? "You can just get me some cigarettes."

"If heaven was a town, it would be my town, on a summer day in 1985. And everything I wanted was out there waiting, and everyone I loved was still alive..."

Go Go Gadget Charger?

It's time for another installment of Sunday Show & Tell. OK, there's not really a Sunday Show & Tell as far as I know, but there could be. For your enjoyment today, I present my car charger:


(Please note that I'm not a professional photographer. I consider myself more of a scene capturer.)

Car charger is a bit of a misnomer. It doesn't actually charge your car. Though it would be really cool if it did. It would also be kinda cool if it played mp3's, or if it at least had a laser pointer on it. But that's neither here nor there.

What I would like to point out today is the relative shortness of my car charger. (Photo is approximately 1/2 actual size.) This has proved quite impractical as far as talking on the phone while it is charging. I either have to end a call to charge my phone for awhile, or I have to put my ear really close to the cigarette lighter, which is located somewhere between the radio and my knee.

Last night, I went to a minor league baseball game with Kywana and some children. (What? I can't be flipping jet skis every single weekend.) We did the usual ballgame stuff. The kids got a hug from some guy dressed in a polecat outfit (who I hope was the mascot). We sang "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" during the seventh inning stretch. And we discussed the correct lyrics to a Britney Spears song. (Which I thought said, "Oops, I did it again. I played with my heart." It really takes on a much deeper meaning that way if you think about it.)

When we got in the car after the game, I asked the female portion of Kywana to plug my phone in to charge. Upon arriving back at Kywana's house, I retrieved my car charger, and it looked like this:



It appeared that the wire had been violently ripped out of the unit! (Notice the flagellum-like extension protruding from the right side. And also the two golf tees near the top of the photo. They're all over the place around here.) What had happened? I wondered if my car charger would ever work again.

Then a few seconds later... Oh! It's like a tape measure or something. The cord is retractable. Oh! I see now. I've only had this phone for nine months. I would have figured that out eventually.

Hey, cut me some slack. I was in a horrific, low speed jet ski accident last weekend.

"I feel stupid, but I know it won't last for long. I've been guessin', and I could've been guessin' wrong..."