Another weekend in the books. Let's see if I can recap this one.

Friday, I was determined not to drink so much, since I had a little trouble remembering most of the previous weekend. That lasted about an hour. Ok, ok, I actually did a fairly good job of it. Nevertheless, I still ended up at 3 am standing under the awning at Nacho Mama's with a pizza in my hand, watching the rain and talking to the hot neighbor on the phone (who was in Las Vegas at the time). No, I don't have any idea how I get myself into these situations, but I do. I'm not proud.

I eventually gave up and walked home in the rain by myself. It would've been really sad if I wasn't so happy. Why? I haven't the slightest idea. Life is good in general, peeps - how's that? I did get a wave on the way home from a hottie who was walking her dog, so I must not look that bad at 3 am ... in the rain ... with a pizza.

Saturday, went to the O's game and watched a circus break out. It would have been comical if it wasn't my favorite baseball team playing like a bunch of clowns. Fortunately, I only paid $10 for a fantastic seat 8 rows behind the plate. I had a great view ... of the player's wives/girlfriends. 'Twas a whole lot better than watching the game, that's for sure. I saw the largest pair of implants ever, too. It was almost frightening. This young lady weighed maybe 110, and then her boobs added another 30-40 pounds on her frame. Needless to say, she got a lot of attention.

From there, headed down to Powerplant to see the free Violent Femmes show. I arrived there at around 7. My friends arrived just before 9. Is there anything dumber then allowing me to sit in a bar and drink for two hours before you show up? Upon arrival, one of them noted that I had a Have A Nice Day sticker on the back of my shirt. I guess it's better than walking around with "Kick Me" sticker on my back, but not much. When I find out who did that ... ah, hell, I'm never going to find out. Whatevah.

So, the show started, as did the rain. It wasn't raining hard enough to stop the band or for us to go inside, and it wasn't not raining. So, it was just an annoying version of rain. I'd call it Andy Dick rain ... not enough to really piss you off, but enough to piss you off. In the middle, we watched two idiots get into a lovely fight ... they were so drunk it was basically in slow motion. Let's see ... reason #28 why I don't go to Powerplant. I think the list has about 117 items on it. As we were leaving, we watched a young woman try to stop her boyfriend from being arrested, and she in turn was taken down to the ground rather loudly and arrested herself. Well done!

From there, we went to Sly Fox (zzz), Captain Larry's (some pretty scary lookin' folk in there), then to Thirsty Dog. The Dawg is always a fine time - we know the bartenders, and there's always someone to f*** with in there. Being the charming dude I am, I noticed a couple of hippie looking chicks at the bar, so I immediately went over and asked them if it was 4:20. I don't think I've ever seen two people get that paranoid that fast. Quality stuff. I'm sure they still think I'm a cop.

Split out of that joint after a bit, and hit an extremely crowded Magerk's. Amazingly enough, I couldn't handle it. Yeah, I know, I'm slipping in my old age. So, I bounced around the corner to the karaoke place I've been frequenting.

Upon arrival, I noticed two things: (1) my ex-GF sitting by the window and (2) two hecka hot girls from my old football team. Needless to say, hecka hot trumps ex-GF, so I stayed. For some reason, one of the heckas decided it was a good night to spank me. I realize there's a market out there for spanking ... hell, my Mom spent a good part of my first 12-14 years on this earth spanking the beejesus outta me ... but I'm not really into it in a sexual sort of way.

I'm not sure hecka understood that and, well, let's face it - I'm not really dumb enough to stop a hecka hot from doing something somewhat sexual to me. As I like to say, I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid. Also, I think in the future, I may just refer to hecka hots as HHs, just to make things simpler. Yes, I'm a lazy SOB.

It's time for the text message scoreboard! Here's this week's sampling:

Sea monkey slot machine!
YES! I love when people communicate w/me while peeing
There's nothing yummy here right now
This isn't a contest ... I do have bigger boobs
I'm at Powerplant ... wake me when it's over
I'm barky!

That was pretty much the weekend in a nutshell. Sunday was spent sleeping and watching an entire afternoon of M*A*S*H. Yes, I'm a dorknerd.

A pet peeve at the grocery store. So, I'm checking out tonight, and I've got my stuff on the belt with the grocery spacer after it so's the next person can start to load the belt with their schlop. Now, there's about a foot of room there, and there's a bit of a delay at the cashier so some yahoo can write a check (who in their right mind writes checks anymore? WTF? Is it 1992?).

So, anyway, the tool behind me starts piling stuff on the belt. Now, he quickly fills up the space I've left him, so he starts piling the stuff up, like some sort of grocery house of cards. I mean, how idiotic can you be? Is it really going to be a major problem if the belt starts going again and you don't have every single item you are buying on the belt? I see this behavior often, and it's absolutely baffling to me. Friggin' people.

Oh, almost forgot - I did see one of the gym girls from the previous weekend's party (the party that I didn't remember, and was concerned that I did something stupid). So, I asked her point blank if I did anything dumb, and she proceeded to tell me that I've never been anything but completely respectful. I was so flabbergasted, I forgot to ask her to sleep with me. Damnit. So many missed opportunities.

Ok, I have to go get my Yahtzee fix now. I might need an intervention soon ...

A'ight, here's just a li'l taste of how big of a dorknerd I am. That's right, I just called myself a dorknerd. I don't think it needs an explanation. If you need it explained, well, you're a dorknerd. Got it? Good.

Now, some folks are hooked on a lot of different things online. Porn. Shopping. Boob implants. Wait, that's porn. Um, Paris Hilton. Wait, that's also porn. Damnit. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, why I'm a dorknerd.

I am hooked on online Yahtzee. Yup, I said Yahtzee. Five dice, a cup, scoresheet. The only thing that isn't there is being able to make that hecka obnoxious noise when you shake the dice in the cup, and never being able to find enough pencils that don't have the lead broken off (did anyone ever have a pencil sharpener in their house ... yeah, neither did we). I even get mad when I lose. I just lost to some person called lightfoot40. Nice. Hmm ... maybe I was playing Yahtzee against Gordon Lightfoot! Hey, it could happen!

I managed to corner one of the folks from the gym that I was hanging out with on Friday, and he assured me that I didn't do anything dumb. 'Course, he wasn't there until later, but as far as I'm concerned ... off the hook! Yahoo! Now, I can drink again. Well, responsibly this time. Hopefully. I just saw one of those Cap'n Morgan commercials where everyone puts their leg up like the good Cap'n. You know the ones I'm talking about. I cannot BELIEVE I haven't been using that move. That's good stuff!

You know what's really cool? When a totally obscure 80s song just pops right into my head. I mean, there's cool, and then there's another level of coolness when that happens. Here's what I just got:

Wave your hands in the air
Like you don’t care
Glide by the people as they start to look and stare.
Do you dance, do your dance, do your dance quick
Mama, come on baby, tell me what’s the word, word up

If I could just get my hair to look like Cameo's, I'd be a complete success in life.

Ok, so it's time for really pathetic stuff that you never wanted to know about me but were afraid to ask. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a rock star. I didn't necessarily want to be the lead singer, I just wanted to be in a band. Most young boys play with GI Joes, or their Big Wheels, or doctor with the neighbor girl, I was playing my personal favorite game - Rock Band. Basically, I'd play a tune, then take turns being each of the band members. Well, except the bass player. Who the hell wants to be a bass player? Bah.

Mmm, an aside. Man, I'm not sure I should even share this, but here goes. I have to temper this with the info that I did NOT know at the time that the Village People were gay. Ok. I used to pretend I was each member of the Village People. My favorite was the Indian ... um, Native American. Whatever. I had all the moves down and everything. If you get me drunk enough, I might even do YMCA ... not just the letters, but the whole friggin' thing. You have to get me REALLY drunk, though. At that point of drunkenness, most people either (1) take my wallet, (2) take advantage of me or (3) both, so they don't get to see the YMCA dance.

Speaking of YMCA, ever notice that the majority of people doing that dance do the C backwards? Idiots.

So, where does this fit into the rich, fulfilling life I have right now, you ask? Well, I still sorta play Rock Band in my head sometimes. I don't play the air guitar or pretend I have a mike in my hand like I used to as a kid, but I visualize it. I'll be on the elliptical thingy at the gym, and in my head, I'm singing "LA Woman" (the Billy Idol version, that is), or I'll be riding the bike, and I'm George Thurogood doing "Move It On Over" ... move over, cool dog, the hot dog is moving in. Yeah. I even have the parts where I break down the song and get the crowd into it.

Move it on over (your turn!)
(Crowd sings along)
Rock it on over (now you!)
(Crowd)

Yeah. Um. Remember the word.
Dorknerd.

Hmm. I think I just created my own personal poem. Maybe I should do it Cameo style.

C'mon, baby, tell me what's the word ... dorknerd!

I learned some interesting info recently. Actually, I learned it a long time ago, and I've probably talked about it in past blogs, but it's in my head now, and I want to talk about it. So deal. What's that? Oh, the info.

Well, sometimes boys, when they go whizz (and it's not going into some stupid medical cup for some nurse), they don't shake off so well and they get what I like to call The Spot. You know, the drop or two on the shorts/jeans that will just stay there without drying for the duration of time that you aren't aware of it.

I recently found out that girls can get The Spot, too, which is fantastic information. Now, I have an excuse to look directly at a woman's ... mmm ... area. I'm sure it won't seem creepy at all when I tell them I was checking for The Spot, eh? Maybe I can become an offical Spotchecker. Hang out just outside all of the bathrooms, and sorta frisk people as they exit.

Speaking of johns, what's more annoying that having to tip the dude/dudette in the bathroom with all that stuff on the counter. You know, the ones that give you the paper towels, like you're not smart enough to figure out how to do it. I swear, I spent at least $20 one night in DC on tips for the friggin' john dude.

I have a fairly standard line when most people ask what my middle name is. I tell them it's Richard ... as in DICK. It never fails to get a big laugh, and I'm not exactly sure why. I guess it could be the emphasis on the DICK part. I might have to patent it.

Ok, this blog is getting too long, and I have to go fold my laundry. What joy! Dorknerds.

Free me!

Naw, that ain't no silly cry for help, I've just got the Foo Fighters on my mind. See, here's the situation (I was gonna say here's the sitch, but that reads really dumb) - I've been listening to the new Foo CDs all morning, and I've got this little sorta jukebox going in my head with Foo songs. It works out well, because I'm a foo'.

Gear! I just found out that the Foo/Weezer tickets go on sale this Saturday. Fab! Sorry, had a Beatles moment there.

At the gym last night, I saw a couple of ladies from the late night gathering this past Friday, and they gave me some odd looks. I figure either (1) I really did pee in the closet, (2) I hit all over one of them or (3) I hit all over both of them at the same time. None of those seem too promising at this point, although if the third option goes well ...

Last night's sunset ... one of the more amazing ones I've seen in a long time. Hope ya caught it.

I watched Hide and Seek last night. If you don't know it, it's a movie with DeNiro and Dakota Fanning (the latest in a long line of creepy li'l child actors). For about 75 minutes, it was fantastic. Then, it just dropped off a cliff. Why is everyone trying to make the next Sixth Sense? Dorks. At least I got to watch Elisabeth Shue for part of it. Yowzah.

So, I had to go to this medical joint yesterday to get some stuff done for my new job. I'm in the waiting room, and this way cute li'l blonde is sitting next to me. They call my name, I stand up, and the lady informs me that they called my name earlier and I wasn't there. Fascinating news to me, since I haven't left the waiting room at all. Under my breath, I mutter "apparently, I've forgotten my own name" but it was loud enough for cutie pie to hear. She sorta snickered and continued filling out the forms.

So, later, I'm getting poked and prodded in this room, and I look up, and there she is out in the hall, and she smiles at me. And, as if that wasn't romantic enough, she had her urine specimen in her hand. I'm telling ya, it was true love. If you can't find love around urine, where can ya find it?

I also got to experience the joy of giving a urine sample. I think they purposely make those cups about 2 oz short of a normal whizz, because there always seems to be just a tad too much urine for the cup, eh? Never fails. I always like to splash a little warm water on the outside as well. Makes for an interesting reaction when you hand it over.

I also found out that when a nurse asks if you're afraid of needles, responding "nah, my dealer taught me all about them" probably isn't the best idea.

Woo! Now THAT was a Friday night. I s'pose ya'll are wondering what the hell happened. Well, frankly, I'm not really sure myself. The hot neighbor just clued me in to a couple of things that I was doing that I don't remember. Sweet!

Let's recap. The night began with a full blown rock concert, right here in front of my computer. I broke out my girlfriend ... um, ok, it's a guitar, but it is long and slender and has curves - same diff ... and had a full out jam session. The computer and I covered a lot of ground - Green Day, Elton John, Fuel, Puddle Of Mudd, friggin' Billy Idol ... did I say Billy Idol? Yes! I did! Learned how to play Sweet Sixteen last night. It's ridiculously easy. That's why Billy Idol rules the world. The entire world, people. Dig it.

Needless to say, in the midst of all this average guitar playing and poor sing-alonging (yup, just made that word up), there were beverages involved. Well, one beverage ... the fine Cap'n Morgan and his buddy diet coke. This begs the question - is it bad to drink alone if it's fun?

A quick aside ... one of the better things about having cats is there's always some weird noise happening somewhere in the house. There's nothing I like better than living on the edge, at all times. Either a raving psychopath is breaking into my house, or one of the furballs knocked something minor over. Figuring out which one is half the fun! Yahoo!

Where was I? Oh, yes, boozin'. I've got boozin' down to an exact science, people. I might even have to turn this into an entire study at the hospital. I can see it now ... my face in the papers for breaking new ground in the field of waffledness.

Sorry. The hot neighbor gave me a Migrane Excedrin for my headache, and I'm pretty sure I can see the future right now. Talk about hiiiiigh.

So, the science. First, the pre-game. Always pop a couple of pain killers before you start to imbibe. Yeah, it's bad for your stomach and all that, but the stomach is The Man. The stomach rules. Right now, the stomach is having a hamburger for breakfast, that's how friggin' tough the stomach is. High five, stomach!

Another aside .... don't take a Migrane Excedrin and try to type a blog. What the hell am I talking about?

Oh. So, step 2 in the ritual. Take your booze (my personal choice is Cap'n Morgan), your mixer (diet coke), and cut it with some water. Water, people, water. You bozos aren't drinking water, are ya? Ha! Two parts H, one part O, people. Know it. Learn it. Live it. That's right - I just quoted Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

Shoot. I forgot step -1 ... drink tons of water BEFORE boozing. You know, you should probably just tune me out for a couple of sentences until I start making sense again.

Ok, I've lost interest in that, so let's get on with the night. Headed to the square, stopped in to see my pal Lincoln at Claddaugh. Lincoln isn't really my pal, but we go to the same gym and nod hello to each other. In my world, with my lame-ass friends, that counts as pals. From there, I popped into a couple of places, then made my customary stop at Portside.

Highlight of the night ... there is this beeeeeeautiful young lass named Melissa that I've been admiring for years. Literally. We've been going to the same gym for a long time. Did I mention that she is beeeeeeautiful? Oh, I did already. Problem has always been that she's married.

Now, I don't wish divorce on anyone, but the lovely Miss Melissa is currently going through one. I often pride myself on not being a typical guy, but I could help but notice the neon lights flashing in my head when I was given this information. Soon to be single! Ding! 'Course, being the appropriate dumbass drunk that I am, I immediately informed her that when it's final, I'm interested. Let me tell you, peeps, I am smooth as gravel. Luckily, I caught her as she swooned.

After the joint closed, I got invited back to the cool people party at some cool person's house. I don't remember much from that situation ... there were some folks from the gym there, a dog, and possibly a couch. I don't think I broke anything, and I'm pretty sure I didn't pee in any closets. I figure I'm ahead of the game if I've got those two things covered. That's pretty much my mantra when I walk into a party. Inside my li'l head, two recurring thoughts ... don't break nuttin', pee in the appropriate receptacle. Is it any wonder I live alone?

From there, things get even fuzzier. According to the hot neighbor, when I got home I was shouting something outside in the street (probably something brilliant along the lines of "I can't stand it when people use quote marks in inappropriate ways"), tossing my cell phone around, and wandering around the back alley looking for stray cats. Heh. All of ya'll that are doing this "live vicariously through Jack" thing just got a lot happier that you aren't me, didn'tcha?

Oops, almost forgot the obligatory silly text messages from the night of yippee. Just a sampling for your perusal of the notes I sent to some lucky recipients last night:

I'm sompletely cober
Chaka Khan let me rock you ... I can't remember the rest of the lyrics
Looneys ... the bar of 5s
Help me ... I have a craving for a fried twinkee!

I'm pretty sure that's it. Time to go curl up with my best friend ... Gatorade.

Call me crazy, but it's never a good sign when it's Wednesday, and you still haven't fully recovered from the weekend. Jeez. The last two nights, I've had some really cool nightmares, too. It's the week from hell! Yahoo!

Let's see ... one of the funnier things from the weekend ... in the last blog, I mentioned that I had been given a phone number by someone, and I didn't know who it was. Well, after a couple of drinks on Friday, I decided to take a shot at finding out by sending a text message. Here's the convo:

Me: Hey, it's Jack ... what's up?

Now, I'm not really sure what I was expecting back. Well, actually, I wasn't expecting any answer at all. But, I was rewarded with this little gem:

She: Who the f-r u

Heh. I actually was doubled over for a bit in laughter when I read that. Guess my plan didn't work, eh? I sent one more text explaining that I had been given her number the previous weekend, and no response after that. Zippo. So, Stacey Treon, thank you for making my night ... and making the blog. Congrats!

In other news from the weekend, I was at Portside on Friday, and a buddy came in with his girlfriend. Now, his girlfriend is hecka hot, and I actually hung out with her one night before they started dating. She proceeded to tell me that they saw me on my way to work and that I looked hot. I sorta laughed this off, and then, a few minutes later, she told me again! More comforting, she told me both times right in front of her boyfriend. Needless to say, hearing that twice right in front of someone else's boyfriend gave me the heebie jeebies. So, I had a drink to calm myself down. No, wait, I had ten. Let's move forward, shall we?

My crowning glory from the weekend was managing to go to bed after 5 am on both nights. Just a ridiculous hour. I mean, there comes a point where staying up late just becomes stupid, unless you're making out with Sarah Jessica or you've found a way to turn ice cubes into gold or something. It's usually right around the time someone suggests going to a late-night sushi place, and everyone thinks it's a great idea. I don't like sushi, but I thought that was a brilliant suggestion. Pure genius! Anytime you hear birds chirping as you're going to bed, you've stayed out too late. Just a tip for ya there, no charge.

Along with those bad dreams, I've recently gotten to sample the joy of early morning television. I have DirecTV, so I have 800 some channels. Out of those 800, 89% of the shows at that hour are listed as Paid Programming - these are the infomercials ... things to make your waist small, your wallet fat (well, except you have to pay to get rich ... progressive concept!), and to slowly sap all living brain cells from your head.

One great thing I did get to see was an old episode of The Brady Bunch (hmm ... are there any new episodes?). It was the one where Bobby can't seem to win a trophy, no matter what he does. It includes one of the funniest lines in a BB episode ever. Forget that Marcia Marcia Marcia crap, or Marcia getting hit with a football - this is highest of high comedy. Ol' Bob is dreaming about winning a trophy, and in one dream, he's in a speedboat. The announcer:

Can Bobby Brady do it?! He's in last place, with a hole in his boat ... Bobby Brady did it!

Absolutely fabulous, that stuff. Plus, even though she's a teenager in the show, and it's incredibly creepy, I think I still have a major crush on Marcia, too. Almost disturbing in a way.

Is it just me, or are most of the Asian languages kinda scary to hear? I was waiting for some Chinese food the other day, and these two dudes were in the kitchen talking. I swear, I thought some sort of street rumble was going to break out any second. Five minutes later, the one guy's handing me my food and thanking me. Weird.

[Checks watch] ... yeah, I know I'm late. Let's see if I can recap the weekend. Notes:

- Ladies, when giving out your phone number, please be sure to (a) spell your name right and (b) put in all 10 numbers to the phone. 'Course, we all know no one would ever give li'l ol' me a fake number. Hmm ...

- Along those lines, if you have tips for what to do when you have a name and number in your phone that you don't recognize, I'm all ears. Apparently (there's that word again), I met a young lady sometime this weekend who put her number into my phone, and I haven't the slightest idea who she is. Lovely. I even googled the name. No dice. Maybe I'll put up some flyers.

- I get bonus wingman points for my work on Friday. I spent a good hour+ talking to a young lady, while my buddy hit on her friend. He did the follow-up call, and has a date next week. I, on the other hand, put in my time talking to her friend while the woman I was really interested in kept making eye contact from across the bar. First rule of Top Gun - never leave your wingman ...

- This same friend is sorta new at being single in a way. He recently lost a lot of weight, and looks quite a bit different, but he's still kinda nervous inside about women. So, I get a call every other day or so for advice. How's that for funny? My advice ... don't listen to anything I say. Heh. He seems to be doing ok so far ... he's got two dates with two different women the next two weeks.

- Have I mentioned how much I like Portside? Well, I do ... so there.

- So, what's the protocol when you're talking to someone on the phone and walking home, and you have to whizz? Do you call them back? Hold the phone away from the noise? Celebrate it? I think I just kept on talking, although that takes some real skill, especially if you're balancing a pizza or something silly like that.

Here's some math for you. How funny the show The King of Queens is all depends on how hot Leah Remini is at the time. Early in the show, she was a tad chubby, and the show was somewhat funny. Then, she got hecka hot, and it was hilarious. Now, she's doubled her weight, and the show kinda sucks. I guess it's possible that I wasn't watching the show for the humor, too. Me? Watch a show just for the hot woman on it? Never!

I just found out that The Jeffersons theme song had the line "Moving on up, to the East side". All this time, I thought they were moving on up to the SKY. Wow. I thought I was dumb now, but I used to be REALLY dumb before I acquired that info. Weezy.

Weird stuff. All through high school, I wanted to see Billy Idol live, and something always came up when he would come to my area. So, he's coming to Baltimore, and what am I doing? Going to my high school reunion in Indiana that weekend. Frick!

But, on the other hand ... Beck is coming! Yeeeeeeaah! I'm am there, and I am square, baby. Saw him for the Midnite Vultures tour, and he's good, quality stuff live. If you like Beck, check it.

I just finished watching Donnie Darko and ... well ... I didn't get it. Anyone have the Cliff Notes or something for that thing? Funny thing is, I kinda liked the movie for some odd reason.

All week I've been thinking this in my head when I see somebody: "Hey, homeboy, where ya been? Ain't seen ya around Burger World lately." If you don't already know, that's the opening line to Weird Al Yankovic's video "Fat", which is a parody of Michael Jackson's "Bad". Disturbing, eh? It's no wonder women give me fake numbers!

Oh, and I wish upon all wishes that I had written the article in the link below, because it's phenomenal:

I'm weird. The neighbor says I'm odd, but I think a better fit is weird. Well, who cares ... I'm probably both. Why, you ask? Example - this is from an email string I was sending to a friend. I'll let you guess which responses are mine.

I like everything.
Everything? You even like it when the dryer eats your socks? WTH?
LOL, Oh no, not that! And it's not the dryer, I swear there's a "sock monster" in there!
Sock monsters need love, too!
Yea? I catch that lil' sucker and I am suffocating him with lint! hehehe
To a sock monster, that's probably considered foreplay

See? Didn't I tell you? But, I'm going with the Forrest Gump defense - weird is as weird does. Or something like that. Never mind, let's just move on.

So, there's this Chinese buffet joint right by where I work. Good stuff, I love it, and every single time I go there, I get the takeout styrofoam container thingy and load up and ... important point ... I always get it to go (hence the takeout styrofoam container thingy). Now, I've been there maybe 25-30 times, I pretty much get the same exact thing every time in the same exact container, and I always get it to go. Why, then, does the lady ask me, EVERY SINGLE TIME, if I want it to go? Great googily moogily.

You know what's hard? Stifling yawns. I sit through some pretty dull meetings sometimes, and I'm constantly working on my yawn stifle technique. The key is to pretend you're either scratching something around your face, or that you're about to sneeze. I'm yawning right now just typing this. I'm sure you're yawning reading it.

Free Me and DOA by the Foo Fighters. Know it. Learn it. Live it.

There's this joint down in Alexandria called the Birkenstock ... mm, no, Birkenshire ... I think. Anyway, it's this casual sorta place where bands play, generally the wimpier sorta bands. I mean, it's not like it's stuff that I don't like, but you're not going to be doing any headbangin' there. It's restaurant seating with dinner and whatnot. Why do I bring this up? Because George Thurogood is playing there. George Thurogood!

I'm trying really hard to get a visual of George Thurogood playing a dinner seating sort of place, and it's just not working. I mean, can you imagine some yuppies sitting there with their wine and flank steak with sprouts or whatever it is that yuppies eat and listening to this:

"Now every morning just before breakfast
I don't need no coffee and tea
Just me and my good buddy 'weiser
That's all I'll ever need and I drink alone"

Dunno. I just can't see it, for whatever reason. Here are some song titles:

One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer
If You Don't Start Drinkin', I'm Gonna Leave
Bad To The Bone
You Talk Too Much

Get what I'm sayin'? Welp, I think I'm gonna have to check this out, just to see it, knowwhatimean?

Tonight I'm going to see a band named Love Seed Mama Jump. Yes, very bad name, but they're supposed to be pretty good, and I'm a LSMJ virgin. Pretty much anytime I can work the word virgin into a conversation, I'm doing it, in case you didn't know. Other things I'm virginal at:

- understanding anything Rosie Perez is saying
- seeing a good Freddie Prinze movie (that's a double bonus joke, as Levi was talking about him at lunch)
- mopping my kitchen floor without any cat tracks on it
- sleeping with Lauren Holly or Sarah Jessica Parker (damnit)
- driving anywhere without some other driver doing something stupid

There'll probably be others later ...

There's a new holder of the title Hottest Girl in the Gym. She appeared last night. She has officially replaced the Woman I Hit On In The Alley That One Night. I'm sure these people all have names, but it's much easier to remember them my way. I think I'm well on my way to my goal of becoming a dirty old man, too. And before you say anything, I'll give you a Kevin James. Shut off.

Saw that they're talking about making a remake of ... ah, hell, I can't even remember which movie, but it's another movie from the 70s. Do you think the movie producers in Hollywood are just flipping through their old VHS tapes for ideas these days? I can see them having these elaborate meetings at some executive's house and just running through the movies in the bookcase. Wonka! The Longest Yard! Great ideas! Um, here's a thought ... something new?

It's Friday, people. Drink on.

I have some big news. There has been a huge change in my life since my last blog. Things are going to be different now. The grass is greener. The air is clearer. Paris Hilton is dumber. Wait, no, that's not possible. Anyway, here it is ...

I watched the movie Napoleon Dynamite!

Ok, so that's not exactly amazing news, and the movie's not THAT funny (it has a tendency to grow on you, though), but I've heard so many people talk about this movie that it was almost a life's ambition (along with shaking the hand of the dude that invented Pez) to see it.

'Course, now that I've seen it, I catch myself doing lines from it all the time.

When I'm feeding the cats ... "Tina! Come get some ham!"
When I'm annoyed with someone ... "Frickin' idiots!"
When someone asks me any sort of question ... "A frickin' 12 gauge ... what do you think?!"

Yup. I'm an idiot.

More text message fun ... here's a beauty from my friend Janet that was sent this past weekend ...

"I'm at some bar and I've counted 11 mullets so far ... I'm pretty sure this is my version of hell."

Eleven mullets? The only places I know that can showcase that many mullets are a NASCAR race, a party at Billy Ray Cyrus' house, or any Walmart. 'Course, I offered to get her out of hell, but I got a raincheck instead. Friggin' rainchecks!

The funnest thing about text messaging for me is to go back and read what I've sent and received the next day, especially on the weekends. There's some hilarious stuff. Here's a beauty that I sent to a friend at 3:09 am on Saturday:

"Who doesn't love a random text message at a ridiculous hour?"

And, yes, if you're wondering, I'm the person that about two months ago thought text messaging was dumb. I have changed my stance on this, thank you very much.

So, read a review of the Aquabar in the City Paper. If you don't know what the Aquabar is, it's a bar at my gym. Yup, that's right, I go to a "health" club that serves booze. It's just a brilliant idea ... don't even get me started. So, anyway, the City Paper folks didn't like the Aquabar much. I'm not sure if it was the long lines, the people, or the $9 drinks ($9?! What the hell is this, New York City?!). Anyway, they pretty much spelled out everything that I figured the bar was about - guys in striped shirts, overpriced drinks, judgements at the door based on appearance. What fun! I'll stick with my usual haunts.

I saw a couple of ants in my kitchen this morning, hanging around the cat food. So, this means I'm actually going to have to clean the kitchen. Cripes! What's next, taking out the garbage? Doing my own laundry? Cleaning myself? This independent person stuff is for the birds.

Ok, here's a thought. If I'm talking to a hot bartender, and I mention that there are a lot of spiders around the bar, and I don't like spiders, and she says that they don't bother her, I pretty much have no chance, right? I mean, once you do the Nancy-like scared of arachnids thing, and the woman doesn't go along, you've de-masculined yourself too much. I think I'd have to go kill a bear with my bare hands to make up for that one. Plus, this gave me the opportunity to use bear and bare in the same sentence.

"Tina! Come get some ham!" ... couldn't help myself.