Ok, so every now and then, I'll send myself a text message when I'm out to remind myself of something I find funny that I should put in the blog. I'm so incredibly brilliant that a lot of times, I can't even remember the next day what the text means. This is one of those cases, but I laughed out loud when I read the text, so I'm going to share. As I was going through the weekend's texts, here's what I read:

Girl who smells like fajitas

Boy, if only I could remember what THAT was about!

Ok, let's talk about Saturday. I started out at the gym ... of course, I have to crown someone Gym Idiot Of The Day, since there seems to be a daily dope. Saturday's was this dude who decided he had to jump rope right in the middle of the weight room. I mean, I jump rope 2-3 times a week in there, and there are tons of li'l nooks and crannies to hide yourself in. Not for this dude. I was waiting for someone to walk into the rope. That would've been good times.

Headed to Ropewalk around 5ish to meet some friends from a message board where I post. On the way over, saw one of the better sunsets of the year. I almost drove off the road and spilled my drink, it was so good.

Arrived, and within seconds, I knew the setup was on. Luckily, the other setee was aware, so it was cool, but it's always fascinating to watch a pack of women scheming. This same young lady also picked up on a Rick Santorum reference, so she scored bonus points for that one. If you don't know ... mmm, you'll have to read the Savage Love column a bit more. Actually, you may not want to know.

So, from there, I headed home for a bit to get myself even more drunk/lathered, play a little guitar, and prep for Portside. On the way there, I stopped in at Claddaugh, and neither of the bartenders I know were working. Lemme tell ya ... paying regular price for drinks is nonsense. Do people actually do that on a regular basis? Hmm ...

Now, Portside was especially good this particular evening. If I could bottle a night like that, I would. Lots of drama, plenty of estrogen, my favorite bartenders working ... what's not to like?

First, the drama. Apparently, someone dubbed it "Women Who've Rejected Jack in Recent Memory" night at Portside. Let's count 'em:

Kathy ... Kathy is a hecka hot blonde that I met through my friend Debbie. We were supposed to go to dinner one night, and Kathy blew me off about an hour before the date, then never called again. I'm sure I'm better off anyway.

Lindsey ... or maybe it's Lindsay. I never got far enough along on that one to find out. Anyway. Lindsey is the woman I fell head over heels for at a gym a number of years ago, saw again recently at Portside, and went on a date with a couple of weeks back. You know, the date I totally screwed up? Lindsey was with some dude who seemed very angry with her. I'm sure I'm better off anyway.

Katie ... Katie was my last ditch effort on Strikeout Night, which was a week ago. Ok, it wasn't much of an effort, but it still counts for this topic. Katie was wearing a choker, and chokers drive me wild. I mean absolutey mad. Janet Reno could wear a choker, and I'd probably think she looked hot. Oh yeah ... as for Katie ... I'm sure I'm better off anyway.

Leah! Leah is also known as Leah Hot ... friends with Chrissy Hot. Leah's the one who changed the subject when I asked for her phone number. Leah seemed very excited to see me, but I was already in pretty deep with someone else (we'll get to her in a bit). I'm sure I'm better off anyway.

Janet ... ok, Janet technically never rejected me, and we once had lunch and there seemed to be a lot of sparks, but I had a girlfriend at the time, so nuttin' happened. I think it technically counts, though. I'm not sure if I'm better off or not on that one, but it's fun to say that I am.

Janet 2 ... actually, I rejected Janet 2. She scares the urine out of me. I ended up in the middle of nowhere in Catonsville at 3 in the morning in the cold without a coat waiting for a cab to take me home one weekend night because Janet 2 scared the urine outta me. I'm CERTAIN I'm better off on that one.

I did say hello to all of these lovely women, so I'm not bitter. I'm sure I'm just better off. Ha!

So, on to the fun. At one point early on, I'm standing at the bar waiting for a drink. I look over and see this very attractive woman sitting a few seats down. She's also looking at me. The eye contact breaks, I get my drink, and note it for later. Well, later comes, she's walking by, and she stops and tells me that she's on a very bad date. I sympathize quickly, she asks if I'll call her and gives me her card. Jeez. I guess I must have easy written on my forehead. Ok, I am easy. Shaddap.

Then, the real fun starts. Chrissy Hot shows up, and she has an equally hot friend named ... Chrissy! Frankly, I think it'd be a good thing if all women had the same name. I mean, I love women's names, but I have a tendency to forget them, which never seems to go over well. Imagine that.

So, I'm very much into talking to CH's friend. We do some dancing, everything's going well, so the three of us head back to CH's boyfriend's place, CH goes upstairs, and things get a bit warmer between Chrissy and I. Then, CH's boyfriend comes home, and things get a bit stranger.

I know CH's boyfriend from the gym. He's a pretty good guy from what I know of him. He comes in, goes upstairs to talk to CH for a bit, then comes down and notes that it's time for me to go. I find this a little odd, but since I was planning on going home anyway, I split. The next day, I find it extremely odd ... I mean, one of those dumb guy rules that's never talked about is that if you're having fun with a woman, other dudes shouldn't interfere. Mmm, or something like that ... I can't really remember, I seem to have misplaced my Men's Handbook when I read "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus".

So, I give Chrissy a call and leave her a message. The whole thing seems a little Crispin Glover (translation: weird), but I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Today, at work, I get this text ...

I had a great time on sat. Its always an adventure. Sadly, i can't do any more making out :( I m way involved with someone & i m sorry i miss lead u.

I typed that baby pretty much verbatim, with the spacin' and all. I certainly hope the woman with the business card isn't married. Cripes. It also explains why CH's boyfriend was acting so odd, because I'm sure he knows the dude.

So, just a tip ... if ya got a boyfriend, I have no problem being told that at any time! Especially early on! You know, you could even start off the conversation that way.

Hi, I'm Jack. What's your name?
I'm boyfriend.
Ok, nice meeting you. Take care.

Done and done.

Eep.

Woo! I just kicked ass on a cold, thanks to my favorite Lauren (after Lauren Holly, of course) giving me advice to get this Airborne stuff. I'm chugging this junk like it's chocolate milk. Bam! I even got this lemon lime flavor, and it actually doesn't taste like lemon lime chalk. So, get ready, Charm City, cuz I think I'm going to be healthy for the weekend. Be sure to check the gutters as you walk by, and say hello if I'm there.

I have big news from the gym. The Three Stooges are back! They were in top form, too. Picture this ... three chicks, doing walking lunges with a sort of ballet twist at the end of each, walking in unison right down the middle of the gym. It was hilarious. When they got to a point where they couldn't walk straight anymore, they'd sorta veer off to the sides. People would then have to scramble around them to get to other machines or the drinking fountain. Some poor schlub walked into the gym right as they got by the stairs, when they did their little veer move, and he had to stand there and wait until they had cleared the entrance. I really wish I could get a video of this.

I also got a very interesting look from the incredibly hot chick that annoys the hell out of me by singing out loud. Maybe she reads the blog. Hmm. I may be onto something here.

I sewed up some jeans the other night. Now, in a blog long ago, I had a discussion about The Spot, which I have a tendency to get. To quickly recap, The Spot happens when you don't shake well enough after whizzing. Apparently, women get it also, but I was unaware that women do the shake. I'd think their legs would be too tired from all that hovering ... but I digress.

So, I always seem to get these holes in my jeans right in the crotch, and could never figure out why. I finally solved the case, Watson. At times, when I've caused The Spot, I will then rub the spot area briskly with whatever paper is in the bathroom. After enough friction, The Spot goes away. Hmm. I could turn that into a sexual reference, but I'm being lazy tonight. It's also great fun when someone walks into the bathroom while I'm doing this.

So, multiple spot removals has caused the jeans to wear away in that area. I actually don't mind it that much. I mean, what's more fashionable that having a hole where women can see what color boxer briefs you're wearing? But, last week in DC, I managed to rip the hole open to an unreasonable amount. I mean, it's one thing to have a small hole ... it's entirely another to have a hole big enough for Winkalicious to make an appearance.

So, I sewed. It actually looks pretty good. I did it old school, too - needle and thread. I was also smart enough to take the jeans off before sewing, so I didn't poke anything important. What's going to be cool is when it breaks back open this weekend, and I don't notice. At least I'll have a reason for striking out.

We hit Red Maple last night for happy hour. They must know I have a background and bachelor's degree in white trash, cuz they hate me there. I tried to order a Captain, and was told that "it hasn't been brought down from upstairs yet". So, I waited. And waited. And waited. Apparently, by "upstairs", they meant somewhere in the upper New York area or Michael Jackson's house, because by the time we sat down, they still didn't have it.

Now, ya'll know I love my Captain, so I might be a tad biased, but this isn't like I ordered Martian Juice or a Matza Ball martini or something. My boy JB finished his first drink, so the waitress (who was the worst waitress in the history of the world), decided to pay us her hourly visit. My quote: "Uh, he'd like his second drink, and I'd like my first". She dawdles around for another 15 minutes, then comes back to tell me that they don't have any Captain at all. Zip. Zero. Bupkis. Apparently, I've walked into another country when I came through the doors to this joint. So, I'm informed that I get my drink on the house. Sweet!

Naturally, I start scanning the menu for the most expensive drink. Lotsa martinis, all heavily priced, so I choose one. Nope, they don't have that. I try another. Nope. The following exchange actually happens:

She: We have everything else.
Me: How about a Red Mojito?
She: Um, no ... we don't have that.
Me: [incredulous stare]

I finally find something they have, a thing called a Green Plum, and it's eventually brought to me. Now, I've had some bad drinks. I've had something called a Prairie Fire, which was tequila and tabasco and caused me to immediately get sick. I once drank Tab, which you youngsters probably don't even remember. This drink, however, topped them all easily. I mentioned Martian Juice before ... this was more like Martian Piss ... and it was an appropriate color for Martian urine.

The kicker? When we get the bill, she charged me for the Captain! NICE!

Red Maple ... I loathe you!

After that, we stopped at the 13th Floor for a quick drink. No matter what time you show up at this joint, you are going to see the strangest collection of people known to man. My boy Ricky has a term for this - he calls it a Star Wars bar. Think of the bar in Return of the Jedi, with all the weird ass creatures, and you'll get the gist.

So, after all that nonsense, guess where I'm going tonight? That's right, mofos ... starts with a P, ends with a side! Woot!

A'ight! Got lots of dumb idiotic things in this one. I'm sure that's a big surprise.

Let's talk credit cards. Now, my mantra is if you put something on a credit card, it's free! The issue comes when you try to charge something on someone else's credit card. Of course I'm not making any sense. I haven't told you the story yet. We'll come back to that later.

So, Friday. I start out the night with my work amigos at Red Maple. Now, I'm expecting overly dressed people, martinis, and expensive stuff all the way around. Instead, we're basically the only people in the place, the food was actually reasonably priced and ... well, we had martinis, so at least I got something right. I guess happy hour isn't a big event at Red Maple. Just a tip.

From there, I headed home to play rock star and drink myself into a lather. Eh, you know what - let's just get to the striking out part. That's more fun anyway.

So, I'm at Portside (shocking!), and Chrissy Hot comes in with an equally hot friend named Leah. Now, Chrissy Hot dates a friend of mine, so we're yapping about all kinds of silliness. Well, actually, we usually yap about how hot she is. Don't ask me, I just kinda go with it. Anyway, so I'm very much into her friend, who I dub Leah Hot (I'm a lazy bastard, so going forward, we'll call these two CH and LH). When we're introduced, LH notes that she knows me already. From where? Portside! Hmm ... that's probably not the best sign, but I've never been know to see signs.

One thing I've learned about CH ... she's not the best wingperson. But, she's hot, so she can get away with that. I mention to her that I'm into LH, that she's giving me good signals, and CH says I should get her number RIGHT NOW. CH has a tendency to get very excited about things, and sometimes spill drinks on my shoes. I turn to LH, ask for her number, and she changes the subject to something else. I try again, same result. Striking out is always fun, but doing it after getting bad advice is fab-u-lous!

What's that? Ah, yes, the credit card thing. Forgot about that. So, I'm at Portside, and the bartender calls me over and notes that my card has been declined. She also notes that it's not my card. At this point, I'm having a little trouble reading anything, but I am able to discern that there are more letters in the name than I have in mine. A bit later, the other bartender comes up and notes that they have my card. Turns out, they gave me the wrong credit card back last week when I was in there. Sweet! Not only that, but apparently, dude is in some financial heat. I mean, if you're going to give me the wrong card, at least make it someone with some dough, eh? Eh?! C'mon now, sharpen up!

The real beauty ... I realized the next day that I charged something on that credit card online. Wonderful. I should be picked up any day now by the heat for credit card fraud or ... well, I don't think they can charge you with being completely clueless, so let's go with fraud. Luckily, it was declined as well, so they called me to get a new card number. Yeesh.

Anyway, so it's the end of the night at Portside, and everyone I know has left. This includes my friend Cherie.

- A quick aside, just because I know she'll punch me for this the next time she sees me. Cherie got hecka drunk on Friday and ended up getting sick in the street. The beauty is, one of the reasons she doesn't go to Fell's Point anymore is because there are always young people around ... you guessed it ... getting sick in the streets. Ha! Good comedy, that. -

So, I'm at Portside, they're closing, I'm wide awake and bored. I see Katie at the bar ... Katie is probably more of a regular than I am at Portside, which is a little disturbing in a sense. I give her the head nod and she comes over, and we chat for a bit. Katie's quite attractive, and I've never really been sure if she's interested in me or not. Sometimes she seems to be, sometimes she doesn't. So, I ask if she has an escort home. I have my answer now as to whether Katie is into me or not. Strike three! I haven't witnessed that many strikeouts since the last O's game. Eep.

Saturday was much better because I spent it in DC, where it's impossible to meet women. So, very little striking out there. It's like going to a foreign country in a way, especially when it comes to talking to women. I haven't figured out why, it just is. I also have good friends there who make tons more money than me, so we cruise around in limos and drink tons. No complaints there. I'm probably the only guy in America that gets a limo ride to and from the bar, but can't pick up. Fascinating. Maybe a local university will do a study on it.

One of our friends, Ben, was wearing this ski cap sorta thing. Now, Ben's African American, so I noted that he could get away with wearing that cap, because it wouldn't mess his hair up. My friend Ricky agreed with me, and we had a big ol' hoot over it. Ben proceeded to call us "culturally ignorant". Now, just between ya'll and me, that's pretty much true - I'm not the sharpest knife in the ... uh ... knife drawer - but we decided to test out our theory on our friend Taft, who is also AA. Taft's response ... "they're right, dude - you can't mess up your hair with that hat."

So, naturally, we used the "culturally ignorant" line all night. Classic. I may or may not have called a woman "culturally ignorant" and she may or may not have gotten the joke. Hmm.

Sunday I spent on the couch watching my boys kick ass on the Indy Colts. The funniest part ... I called Ricky to celebrate when the Steelers had the ball on the 2 at the end of the game. Game over, right? Then, The Bus fumbles, which happens about as often as Brad Pitt not getting laid. This is pretty much a direct quote from my side of the conversation:

"Holy S***! Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod! S***! F***! I'll call you back!"

I'm so uncouth sometimes.

I'm currently fighting this mofo sinus infection ... again. I had this noise for a good portion of the summer, and now it's back. I'm on Claritin D and I just took some NyQuil, so if I pass out at some point in this blog, you'll know why.

Now, wher...

Yeah, it's been a bit since my last blog. I had a couple of things combined that happened that sent me to Funkytown. Funkytown might've been fun in the 70s or whenever, but it's not that fun of a place for me. So, there's my excuse. Run with it as you wish.

Ok, we have a new candidate for the title of Most Inconsiderate Person at the gym! Isn't this exciting?! Now, this time of the year, gyms are packed with the New Years resolution fools. They come in, work out for a couple of weeks because this is the year they're going to get in shape, then realize they don't like working out and quit. Happens every single year. So, the month of January is a nightmare - the gym's generally packed to the rafters, and it's with dopes who generally don't know what they're doing.

Where was I? Oh, yes ... sorry, got off on a tangent rant. Stupid resolution yahoos. So, anyway, pretty much every gym worth it's salt has an unwritten, and a lot of times written, policy of a max of 30 minutes on the cardio machines during peak hours. That's during normal times. So, here it is, New Years resolution idiot time, plus it's peak time at the gym - 6:00p on a Tuesday - and this chick decides to run for an hour on the treadmill. Meantime, people are standing around waiting for machines. That's kwality!

So, I've had to edit my list of Most Annoying People at the gym. Here's the new list:

1) 60 Minutes At Peak Hour It's All About Me Broad
2) I'm Going To Sing On The Elliptical Machine So Loud Others Can Hear Me Even Though I'm A Terrible Singer Broad
3) The Three Stooges

I'm sure that list will grow. Stay tuned.

Cat talk! Those that aren't interested in cat talk can go read a magazine or think up new names for their private parts or something. I'm partial to Winkalicious myself. So, I hit Petsmart the other day, and I picked up one of those laser thingamajigys. I was pretty fired up. I've seen cats go Tom Cruise over these things (that's crazy in case you're wondering), and as an added bonus, my lazy mofo ass can sit right on the couch and work it. I had visions of running the furballs all over the place. I also have visions of Vida Guerra running all over the place, but that's a completely different story.

If I haven't mentioned it already, I have the world's coolest cat ... who is also the world's pansiest cat. He has what I like to call BPD ... Big Pansy Disease. He's afraid of EVERYTHING. So, I broke out the laser pointer and ... you guess it ... he's afraid of a red dot. He'll bolt upstairs if I so much as touch it now. Unbelievable. On the plus side, if he's annoying the hell out of me, I just pick it up and problem solved.

I also managed to scare the hell out of both of them last night. How'd I do that, you ask? Well, I'll tell you ... I walked upstairs. It was unbelievable. I'm not sure if they were secretly watching Friday The 13th upstairs or something, but I walked up, and they both Marilyn Mansoned (um, that's freaked).

The best part of getting a good scare on a cat is the puffy tail. The puffy tail RULES! Basically, when a cat is really spooked, it tries to make itself look bigger, so it'll turn sideways, raise up some, and puff up the tail. We had a cat in college that would do this move every time we walked in the door. Never failed to crack me up, and it still works today. Ol' Batman came tiptoeing out from under the futon after The Big Scare, and the ol' tail was still fluffed. Good humor, that.

Large weekend coming up. Got all kindsa stuff going on, including trips to two of the most pretentious joints in Baltimore - Red Maple and Pazo's. I might even have to break out the striped shirt for this noise. Tomorrow, to DC, and Sunday is the big game. No one's expecting the Steelers to win, so I say they're gonna win. Ha! So there. I might be a tad blinded by homerism, though. I have Monday off, so BOO YAH to all youse that don't. Enjoy workin', suckas!

I watched Ray this week ... 'twas my second viewing. That's some good stuff. I managed not to tear up and man-cry this time, though. Hit the road, Jack ... what you say?! If it wasn't for Phillip Seymour Hoffman kicking ass in Capote, I'd say give Jamie Foxx the Oscar.

Got in a tad bit of trouble last weekend. Met a young lady on Friday and we came back to my house and had a bit of a rock concert singalong drunken idiot thing at the wee hours of the morning. Next day, got a bit of an ugly look from the hot neighbor. Maybe the guitar wasn't tuned or something. I'm sure we both sounded stellar at that hour.