RAGBRAI

I leave tomorrow for RAGBRAI. 10,000 bicycle riders. One wide ass state (472 miles). 90+ degree temperatures. (Although the forecast, right this moment, is calling for thunderstorms the first two days of the ride. Since weather moves west to east -- the very same direction we'll be headed in -- it may be a very damp ride indeed.)

I've been training for the thing since April. The longest daily ride during the thing is a little more than 80 miles. I've ridden well more than that on a single day. I've made sure I could do three 85 mile days in a row without just falling apart.

I've created this blog to keep a journal of my ride. (You can click to it from the menu on the left.) I'm carrying my iPhone with me. I'll post pictures and comments as I can. Plus, I'll be using Jott to post notes when I don't feel like typing. (God only knows how those will turn out.)

Thanks for reading along!

You Might Be An Online Dater . . .

If you've ever seen a profile with a body type marked, "Average," but the picture looks as if the person may not fit through the St. Louis Arch, you might be an online dater.

If you've ever had a first date cancelled at the last moment because "Aunt Tillie has contracted Flesh Eating Bacterial Syndrome and I have scrape her boils," you might be an online dater.

If you've ever had a second date cancelled at the last minute because your date is getting married that Saturday you might be an online dater.

If you've ever had someone tell you they don't post their pictures because they're in the Witness Protection Program (Frequent Relocation Department) you might be an online dater.

If you've ever seen a profile picture of someone who has a current calendar in the background dated June 1985 you might be an online dater.

If you've ever seen the same profiles on Match, Yahoo Personals, eHarmony, Facebook, POF, and Desperate in Prison, you might be an online dater.

If you've ever stipulated that you're looking for someone who keeps in shape, and you hear constantly from people who say, "Well, ROUND is a shape!" you might be an online dater.

If you've ever gone out with someone who's just looking "to be friends" but they've sent 137 text messages wondering what you're doing, why haven't you called, and who are you with, you might be an online dater.

If you've ever read a profile that stated someone is "financially secure," but lists occupation as "Recycling Aluminum Containers Recovered From Municipal Street Receptacles," you might be an online dater.

If you've ever seen a marital status as "Never Married," but number of children "10+" you might be an online dater.

If you've ever witnessed someone spell "you're" as "your," or "they're" as "their" or "there," or "as butt ugly as a wart hog" as "very attractive" you might be an online dater.

If you've ever seen a profile with the headline, "FOUND THE LOVE OF MY LIFE!" and wondered, "Then why are you still here?" you might be an online dater.

If you've ever seen a profile with only pictures of the person's motorcycles, boats, earth moving equipment, or vibrators, you might be an online dater.

If you've ever found the person of your dreams, only to find out she's due to be released in 8 to 10 years -- with good behavior -- you might be an online dater.

If you've ever seen a profile which says, "I don't have any baggage, except for that lying cheating slut who bankrupted me and boiled my bunny rabbit," you might be an online dater.

If you've ever seen a profile state, "non-smoker," but their main picture features the person with a haiku pipe, you might be an online dater.

If you've ever Googled the name of the lady who winked at you and the first site that comes up is, "Playboy's Whores of the Big Ten," you might be an online dater.

If you've ever Googled the name of the gent who winked at you and the first site that comes up is, "FBI's Most Wanted List," you might be an online dater.

If you've ever looked at a profile and thought, "Good God, if that person can't find a date, what the hell am I gonna do?" you might be an online dater.

If you've ever been told by a date, "You're funny, you're sexy, you're great to be with, you're terrific in bed, you're the most absolutely perfect person I've ever met in my entire life, you're my soul mate, you're everything I could want -- let's just be friends," you might be an online dater.

If you've ever received an email from a contact which said, "Sorry I've not written in three months, but there were complications with the gender change operation," you might be an online dater.

If you can come up, without any effort, with five things on your own that talk about online dating, you might be an online dater.

Yeah, I wrote this. It's my original work. So there.

Business Owner Blues

An Internet business I've own and operated for 11 years hasn't any significant money in years. While it did make money, she and I were able to use some of that to help jump-start her company.

Now her company -- that I still own half and work for -- is also in serious trouble.

We're just not doing enough business to cover the fixed expenses and pay us a livable wage, too. Since opening the second store 17 months ago our expenses have dramatically increased while our income hasn't kept pace.

We're actually considering closing the second store. That'll screw several investors (who also happen to be our friends.) Not to mention throw about a dozen people out of work at the same time.

I think, more than anything, it's taxes. They're eating us alive. I read not long ago that Ohio was the 3rd worst state in the union for businesses primarily because of the ungodly taxation rates for business and personal.

It stays on my mind constantly. If the second store folds, that opens up such a set of unpleasant consequences that I don't even want to consider. For one, we'll have to see each other on a regular basis. I can't do that. Then there's the crushing amount of alimony that I'm still paying. There's the investors to have to deal with. Back taxes that are threatening to put us all in jail.

Though I haven't done it in nearly 15 years, maybe it's time to work for someone else again and let them worry about how to meet a payroll.

Well, duh . . .

I'm always making fun of people who don't read the instructions.

Yet, I am a People. I don't read 'em, either. Why? "'Cuz I know what I'm doin'."

Yeah, right.

I was on a tiny (15 mile) bike ride last night and getting totally frustrated at the ribs that won't heal. I'd looked it up on line and it appears folks who've had the same kind of crash I did testify that it takes between two and six weeks to get to feeling better. (One poor soul said five years after his crash and he can still feel the twinges. Ouch.)

It comes down to those damned "clipless pedals." Last night I couldn't enjoy a single inch of the bike ride because I was terrified that I'm going to fall again. (One fella wrote about his rib pain, "Next time, fall on the other side so you have balanced pain.")

The trouble is: I can't get out of the damned things. At least not in a timely manner. The right foot takes a full two seconds of struggling. The left foot, well, sometimes I'm 8 or 9 seconds into it.

Since people who step out in front of you aren't kind enough to give you 8 or 9 seconds warning, that's a problem.

I honestly had the thought of going back to the bike store and buying something else. Toe clips? From what I've read, they're as hard to get out of as the clipless ones.

Then I got to reading about adjusting the clipless locks. Adjusting? They can be adjusted?

Holy shit. No one told me that.

So I immediately grabbed the instruction guide that came with the pedals. Right there on the page after the nekkid picture of Heather Locklear (see why I didn't go any further in reading?) was the section, "Adjusting Retention Force."

A few turns of the knob to set it to the lowest setting, and, viola! I can get out of the damned things now! I went on a test run of a mile or so. I zipped along at a pretty good clip, picked a target spot, and attempted to get out of the clips.

It all worked.

So I then tried a little slower approach. I headed towards parked cars. I gave myself no more than six to ten feet to get out of the pedals.

It worked.

Good. Saves me a trip to the bike store.

Bike Riding Fool

I've started a half dozen blog entries in the six+ weeks since I last posted one. None of 'em "felt right." No, I don't know how to explain it any better than that.

So let me talk about bike riding.

RAGBRAI took my money and said, "Yes, Fat Boy, we will allow you to join the 9,999 other riders riding across the great state of Iowa." Kind of like the dog that finally catches the car it's been chasing. "Now what do I do?"

Well, what I've been doing is riding like a crazy man. RAGBRAI is a 7 day event. You start on the west side of Iowa and ride to the east side. 471 miles.

Last year I did one 80 mile trip. I can't say it killed me, but I can say that I didn't feel like hopping back on a bicycle the day after. (Or the day after that, either.)

Sunday, July 20, it's a 58 mile ride. Monday, it's 83. 56 on Tuesday. 75 and 82 the next two days. Then 62 on Friday and a relatively small 55 miles on Saturday, the last day.

I'd never done 83 miles. Much less 82. And I damned sure never followed up a 75 mile day with an 82 mile day the next day.

Oh yeah. It's a camping trip, too. Every night, when you're done riding, you get in your little tent, and you sleep on the ground.

I'm thinking, "Jeeezus. Can I even do this?"

The answer is: Yes.

I'm proud to announce that I can ride that far. There was a three day period that I rode 80 miles the first day, 70 the next, and 60 after that. I slept in my tent each night. I've ridden in the rain. I've ridden in the cold.

And last Monday, June 2, I rode 100 miles.

On a friggin' bicycle. Can you believe that? One. Hundred. Miles.

It took me over 7 hours. But when I was done, I was like, "Huh. That wasn't too bad." Got up the next day and did another 40 miles just for good measure.

I have to say, my legs are in great shape. My butt ain't too shabby, either. Don't understand how you can ride 250 miles in a week and still have a beer belly, though, ha ha ha.

Anyway, on the 100 mile day I actually crashed. It was a stupid crash, too. My pedals have these clips on them. You can buy special shoes that clip into the pedals. You get a little extra power when riding.

I've always avoided the damned things because I've been in too many situations where I need to get my feet off the pedals now. Not a second from now. Right now.

But I thought they'd sure help in tackling hills. If I can stand up on the pedals and not worry about slipping off (a big childhood fear of mine after nearly breaking my ankles on the old bikes I had as a kid) then I'll give 'em a try.

I'm coming up on a stop sign. Get my right foot off the pedal. Slow down to a stop.

The damned bike starts to lean to the left. I can't get my foot out of the clip. I crash to ground so hard I see stars. Jammed my left elbow into my ribs. Four days later and I'm still in a lot of pain.

The clips scare me. I'm not sure that it's worth the extra power getting up a hill if I ever have to experience pain like this again.

Anyway, I'm set for RAGBRAI. I'm pretty sure I can pull it off.

Max The Beagle is Better (VIDEO)

I think Gomer's dying

This is Gomer. Max the Beagle.

I think he's dying.

Max is an old dog. He's got abandonment issues. And he's pretty justified in having them, let me tell you. Hell, I only got left for another guy. I could still feed myself (well, some days) and get my own water. Max was abandoned. Truly.

Friends of ours had bought a house. They didn't get possession of the house for two weeks while the old lady who lived there got her stuff out.

When my friends got into the house, there was Max. The old lady had left the dog. She got everything else, but left the dog. There was a big ass bag of dog food nearby that was nearly gone. I suppose the beast drank from the toilet or something. I don't know. I don't even know how long he was alone.

George Carlin said once that the only time frame a dog understands is "forever." Else why would they leap all over you when you came back in the house after forgetting your car keys. "Oh my God! I didn't think you'd ever be back! I didn't know how to work the can opener!"

Can you imagine what thoughts would go through a dog's head when the big ball of fire in the sky goes down, comes back, goes down, comes back, over and over -- and there's no human in sight?

I inherited Gomer when she and I split. She got the four female Chihuahuas. I got Max the Beagle and the only male Chihuahua. The two dogs really don't like one another. They're kind of like the Felix and Oscar of the dog world. Or maybe more like "Grumpy Old Dogs." Same actors as Felix and Oscar, just 40 years later.

Max has to be 13 or 14 years old. So I don't expect him to leap like a puppy any more. (Though Dexter the Chihuahua always seems like he's late for a meeting. "Get out of my way. I've got shit to do -- and I'm doing it right here on the carpet." Dick The Dog -- that's Dexter -- isn't a puppy himself. He's got to be at least 11 or 12.) But in the last couple of weeks, Max has dragged his ass very slowly.

He sleeps north of 20 hours a day. I know, I know, all dogs sleep. (What do they do on their day off? Sleeping is their job.) But it's a hard sleep. So hard that he doesn't stir when there's noise. Granted, the thing may also be just about deaf, too, but, well, I don't know. Every morning I watch him for signs that he's breathing. A couple of times I've nudged him. He jolts awake and looks at me with those hound dog eyes as if to say, "Why the hell are you waking me up, you young whippersnapper! I'll bite you . . . ok, I'll gum you!"

It was overnight for Max. He was fine . . . and then, he wasn't fine. It was such a dramatic transformation that I thought it could have been something he ate that didn't agree with him. He seems to go through all of the normal elimination processes, except now he doesn't even bother with going outside. He actually pissed in his own bed the other day. That's worrisome.

He walks extremely slowly. He can't seem to lift his head very well. He goes through stages where he just stands there and pants like he's hyperventilating.

I don't know. I'm worried about the beast.

Billy Bob's Dating Profiles

"WELCOME TO BILLY BOB'S DATING PROFILES!"

"Uhh, hi."

"Hi there, young feller. You look like you need you a good ole datin' profile!"

"I guess so. The ones I've been writing myself don't seem to work very well."

"Awww, shoot, pardner, most people don't have a clue how to write one! C'mon over here and siddown. Can I get ya a cuppa mud?"

"No thank you. So, should I tell you what I'm looking for?"

"Why, naw son! You're looking for a filly, ain't ya?"

"Uhh, I guess so. I don't know that I would have put it that way . . . "

"C'mon, now, sport, we're all just looking for a cute little filly to throw a saddle on and ride ride ride! Am I right?"

"Uh. I don't know what to say to that . . . ? Look, I'm pretty good at writing, but I'm not saying anything that a zillion other guys are saying on their profiles. So, what do you have that will stand out?"

"Heck, pardner, if you ain't got something that'll 'stand out,' you ain't never gonna hang on a to a filly, know what I mean?"

"No, uh, that's not what I mean. I mean, in profiles, what can you show me?"

"Well, now, we've got this one big ass dump truck of a profile. It's got really low miles on it. Here, take a look at the noun count on this bad boy."

"There's only one noun. And it's a pro-noun at that."

"I know! Ain't that a beaut! The profile uses 'I' and then there's all them there action words! ''Hunt'! 'Fish'! 'Scratch'! 'Fart'! 'Fuck'! And the beautiful part of it is, it was all written right here in the good ole U S of A. Not one damn foreigner word in the whole profile!"

"I suppose I was looking for something a little more communicative. Something that would make a pretty girl want to date me."

"Shoot boy, have you looked in a mirror lately? It's gonna take a lot more than some fancy words to get a pretty girl to date you. Have you thought bout that there lipo-friction?"

"Friction?"

"Yeah, they just scrape the ugly off ya, boy! BWAH HAH HAH. Oh, that was a good un, son, that was a knee-slapper!"

"Yeah. Cute. Now, pretty girls. Dating me. Profile?"

"Oh, sure, well, now, jus how purty are you wanting a girl?"

"Slender. Cute. Big smile. Sense of humor. Intelligent."

"Damn, boy. All right, you know what we're gonna have to do with your ass?"

"I hope friction isn't involved."

"Naw son, what we're gonna have to do is fit you in one of our European profiles. Them Frenchies cain't fight a war worth shit, but they can get laid six ways to Sunday. Sometimes they can get laid six times on a Sunday!"

"But, I'm not French."

"Son, you haven't got the brains God gave a retarded politician. We just lie on your profile. Multiply your salary by ten. Throw a few more inches on ya vertically, take a few inches off the horizontal -- and we can add them to your dip stick for a nominal extra charge -- slip in some movie star photos. Or, were you ever good lookin'? Like ten or fifteen years ago? 'Cuz we can just purty them up and post 'em like you took 'em yesterday!"

"But then the profile will be just like everyone else's! They're lying! Just like the pretty girls say!"

"But them fillies won't know you're lyin', boy! They'll think, 'now here's an honest one,' you'll get your roll in the hay -- and ain't that what you're lookin' for?"

"No, not really. I'm looking for a relationship. Laughs. Smiles. Someone to hang out with. Watch a movie with."

"Yer queer, aintcha?"

Hot Chick Blues

"Did I tell you that I've found the love of my life?" the hot blonde babe emailed me.

"Oh? No, I don't think you did. Well, maybe I kind of read it in your blogs. I think you've written about 47 blog entries over the last couple of days about how happy you are."

"Yeah. I was beginning to think I was going to just die alone, y'know?"

"Umm. Yeah. I've been there."

"God, it was just so for-EVAH. That last guy really messed me up bad. I was sooooo broken-hearted."

"Yeah. Been there, too."

"Yeah, but you're always sooooo cool about it."

"Cool about my heart being broken?"

"Well, duh. Hello? McFly? You were like all broken up and shit. But you just kind of picked up and soldiered on, y'know?"

"Hm. Well, what are going to do, huh?"

"And, it's like, you're so funny! You're always laughing and joking and stuff -- women really go for that stuff, you know."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Well, duh again, McFly. If you make a woman laugh she'll be yours for-EVAH. You'll be getting all kinds of lucky."

"Hm. If you say so."

"But, you know, back to me: I was really freaking out. That last dude I was with, he was such a dick! I didn't even think I was ready to be back in a relationship with how bad he messed me up and stuff."

"Mm."

"I was soooooooo depressed. You know I could only work out twice a day after I dumped him!"

"Must have been rough."

"But this new guy, you know, he's really into working out -- but on our first date we kind of made up our own little exercise routine! He kind of gets behind me, and puts his arms around me, and pulls me towards him, and I'm supposed to pull away . . . I think he calls it resistance training."

"Imagine that."

" :: giggles :: but I don't really like resisting, you know?"

"So, just how long were you broken up? Wasn't it about five days?"

"Yeah, I know! It was five whole days! I was soooo depressed! Five whole days -- and now I've found the love of my life! And the really wild part about it was how I didn't join any of those dating sites and everything. 'Cuz I'm always hearing about how folks need to get online and find someone and how it takes forever and . . . I just didn't have that problem. Do you know anyone who's doing the online dating thing?"

"Maybe a couple of folks."

"Oh, serious looooosers they have to be, don't you think?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe a few folks don't have your luck in finding someone else that fast."

"Fast? Dude! It was five whole days! Can you imagine -- five whole days without someone who's in love with you?"

"Wow. Imagine. Five whole days. Wow."

"Ok, well, I gotta go! You hang in there -- you're still single, right? I mean, you're being really cool about it. You're just like, 'I don't need anyone, I'm ok eating by myself, I'm ok watching movies on the couch all by myself,' and shit. I just don't have your willpower. I like having someone around me and touching on me and holding me and snuggling with me and stuff. I don't know how you do it!"

"Me neither, hon. Me neither."

I Think I Want To Be The Next Pope

Back in 1978 I was 19 years old when the Pope Paul VI died. He was replaced by John Paul I. He didn't last long. He kicked the bucket a few months after Paul died. So the Cardinals (or Robins or Crimson Colored Nut Hatches) all got together and elected a relatively young Polish buck. He was John Paul II.

I wanted to run for Pope. I figured if they could elect a non-Italian Pope, maybe they'd elect a non-Catholic one, too.

I actually got to meet the John Paul II. I kissed his hand (he wiped away my slobber on the nightgown he always seems to wear. I swear I heard him say, "Shit, another drooler.") I said, "I have a joke for you, Pope."

He looked a little startled. But he recovered well. "Well, my son, go ahead."

"It's a Polish joke. You see, these two Polacks . . . "

He interrupted me. "Son, perhaps you don't know I'm Polish."

"Oh," I said. "Ok, thanks. I'll tell it slower."

I remember a boot in my ass or something. I think they tied me to the hood of Popemobile after that. It was all kind of a blur.

This new dude, Benedict XVI, he's just visiting the states for the first time since being promoted to Pope. I don't know if he chose that name 'cuz he liked Eggs Benedict for breakfast. "Pope. It's not just for breakfast any more."

Anyway, this new dude Pope Arnold, err, Benedict, is making the rounds. He apologized for the sex scandal. (But I understand he did ask for pictures.) There was this one guy I know who wanted to have a little time, one-on-one with him.

This guy has put on his best suit and he's sure the Pope will stop and talk to him. He is standing next to an exceptionally down-trodden looking bum who doesn't smell very good. As the Pope comes walking by he leans over and says something to the bum and then walks right by the local man.

He can't believe it, then it hits him. The pope won't talk to him, he's concerned for the unfortunate people the poor and and feeble ones. Thinking fast, he gives the bum $20 to trade clothes with him. He puts on the bums clothing and runs down the street to line up for another chance for the pope to stop and talk to him.

Sure enough, the Pope walks right up to him this time, leans over close and says "I thought I told you to get the hell out of here!"

Well, that's what this guy told me, at least.

Anyway, the Pope has been getting lots of air time on all of the networks. I think he should be using that free time to hawk stuff. A deck or two of prayer cards. A few gallons of holy water. Some of those communion wafers. "Buy a gross of wafers, get sacramental wine for 1/2 off!! Call 1 800 POPE NOW!" (If you try that number, you get a porn site, BTW. Who would have thought the Pope would be into porn? Maybe he's gonna be selling the sex-scandal pictures.)

Jokes April 14, 2008 (Video Blog)

I was bored. Needed to get a blog out there. Had nothing much to talk about, so, what the hell, let's tell some jokes, ok?

Would You Like A Gallon of "Fuck Off" With Those Fries?

Ok, remind me not to ever write stuff about my dates again. Karma has decided to take my few moments of joy away with a vengeance. Man, has it been the week from hell on the dating front. I didn't think it was possible to reach the human limit of being told to "fuck off" by the opposite sex, but I'm about there, I have to tell you.

So let me get through my normal disclaimers, ok? I'm not looking for pity or sympathy. Writing a blog is for me. I have to get this stuff out and "down on paper" to get through it. I'm having a pity party for myself, but no one -- and this means you -- is invited, ok?

Date #1 from last week hasn't returned a phone call or email. Ehh. That's ok. There wasn't a lot of sparks there.

Unfortunately, Date #2 has done the same. No returned phone calls or emails. This is the one that I so hoped would go somewhere. She'd contacted me first, flirted with me, liked reading my emails I'd sent to her. But now, complete silence after our first date.

Date #3, the best date of them all from last week, had gone back to work after spring break and her work kept her extremely busy all week. We'd made plans for a second date on Sunday, so I was ok with the two sentence emails once a day because I knew I was going to get to see her later in the week. Frankly, knowing I was going to get to see her again on Sunday is what kept me going all week. Saturday night around 10 she wrote and cancelled the date, saying she felt her son was feeling neglected. He's her top responsibility. How can anyone possibly argue with that? Hell, during our date last week I apologized a couple of times for taking her away from her son. But it was just the right Karma-topping for the week.

There was a lady I dated for a few weeks off of this one dating site. While we were dating she told me she had dated a guy for some time off of the same site. She hadn't heard from him for a few weeks. One day she looked as his profile and he'd changed the wording to say he wasn't looking to meet anyone else, he'd found the "love of his life." She learned the trick well because she did the same thing to me. While she wasn't the love of my life, I did enjoy hanging out with her, but, well, wouldn't a phone call have been nice?

In my "netflix helps" blog I wrote about this really drop dead gorgeous blonde. I made mention that I'll figure out some way to fuck that up. I obviously did. After fixing her computer over the phone for her I never heard from her again. No answered emails. No returned phone calls.

On another "social site" I'm on I wrote to this lady and suggested going out for a beer or three. She said she'd really enjoy doing that. That I should offer a couple of dates and times. I did. I offered a bunch of 'em. Cue Simon and Garfunkel's "Sound of Silence" once again.

I finally broke one of my own rules about asking out one of my customers. She's my age, really cute, and every time she's come in, we've flirted like crazy. Because obviously I hadn't had enough rejection this week, I asked her out. Turns out she doesn't date guys her own age. She likes the young ones.

And there were several other instances of flat out rejection. Some of it was unintentional. Some may have thought I was joking around. (That is my nature, after all.) But it didn't lessen how bad it all stung.

Plus, yesterday was her birthday. First birthday that I've not celebrated with her in a decade. You can be sure she wasn't alone yesterday.

I suppose I should cover the one bright spot that happened, huh? I did get a notice from a lady on a dating site who said she was just checking in, missed me, here's my new phone number, you should call me, so we can go out again. Except, we never did go out, I didn't like her to begin with, she was as close to a stalker as one could be, and to top it all off, I pretty much had made that clear to her that last time we talked. Great. The only woman in four states that wants me is a certified wacko.

I give up.

Wasted Time

My very sexy friend CB mused in one of her blogs recently about wasted time. She believes there is no such thing as wasted time. For example, when playing video games, some might consider that a waste of time. She counters with, "I'm improving my hand / eye coordination skills."

Smart girl, that CB.

Some folks commented on how time might be wasted. Spending it in prison, for one. Being in a business meeting where the outcome has already been decided, but the person in the meeting doesn't know it yet.

I posted this in response:

Maybe we're all looking at this the wrong way.

Instead of being something that can be spent or used, time is no more than a street. A thruway to get from point A to point B.

No part of Interstate 70 is a waste. Every single foot of it is necessary to get from Columbus to St. Louis, for example. Some of it is boring as hell, but none of it is a waste. And it's impossible to get from here to there without traveling every single inch of it.

Time is the same way. It starts upon birth and ends upon death. There's lots of boring parts in between. There's some scary ones, some really happy ones, five or ten minutes making love -- but wasted ones? Not really.

It's the reflection of how you went through those moments (99% of the time after the fact) that change your perception as to whether or not it was "wasted."

For example, while you're going through it with a new love, every single moment is exciting. But two years after she's run off with your best friend, you look back at the time and think, "What a waste."

When it wasn't. It's your after-the-fact perception of it that determines its status.

Maybe instead of individual moments being a waste, you have to look at the big picture. Was my entire WEEK a waste? What did I accomplish this MONTH? Did I have a good YEAR? Did I make a difference for someone in my whole LIFE?

Jott

There's a cool free service called Jott I ran across a couple of months ago. The concept's pretty easy. You call a phone number. You leave a message. The service transcribes the message. They deliver it via email (or text message, too, I assume -- but I don't use that part of it.)

You're thinking, why not just leave a voice mail for someone? Because if most people are like me, they may be checking voice mails without the ability to jot (get it? Jott) themselves a note. There's lots of times where I'll wait to check my voice mails until I'm in front of my computer. That way I can send myself an email to remind myself to do something. With Jott, it takes out the middle man and sends your note right to email to begin with. Most of the notes I Jott are to myself. I'll be driving along, think of something, and instead of texting myself while I'm driving (what? Me do that? Uhhh . . . ) I'll just call Jott, send myself a note, and I don't have to think about it. Even stuff as mundane as, "You need to pick up toilet paper and shredded cheese." (You don't want to know how those two are related.)

The transcription is pretty good. Way better than half of the profiles I see on dating sites and MySpace. Being a geek, I wanted to know how it all worked. What really powerful transcription software were they used that could take noisy cell phone messages and get 'em right better than 95% of the time. I'd sure like to buy that software.

Turns out, it's not software. The phone calls are routing to a call center in India. English speaking Indians transcribe the message and send it right back out.

Aww. That's no fun. Until.

Well, until I realized: "Hey. There's someone live listening to this message!

How can I fuck with them?

So I started sending messages in a panicked voice. "Oh my God! Whoever is getting this message, please call the police! He's breaking in through the door right now! He has a chain saw! Oh my God! HELLPPP!!!"

They just transcribed it without the exclamation points.

I tried insulting the people. "Gosh, did you hear about that new service, Jott? Pakistanis are way too proud to do menial labor. So Jott figured Indians would do it. Hell, Indians will do just about anything. They have no pride."

They even put the punctuation in the right places.

I tried saying disparaging remarks about anyone named Patel. I told politically incorrect jokes about Indians. (New instant lottery game in India. Scratch off the ticket and if the dot matches the one on your forehead, you win a convenience store in the United States! Or: How to you play Indian -- not Russian -- Roulette? You're given a flute and six large cobras, one of which is deaf.)

Not even a smiley face in the transcription.

I'd love to hear your stories and suggestion to piss off the transcriptionists over there on the sub-continent. If you don't want to sign up for Jott, give me a suggestion and I'll try it myself.

Odds and Ends

Some random observations. I swear, it's almost like April Fool's Day got extended.

• Had a customer call me just the other day to say, "I want to schedule two one hour massages for myself." "So, in other words, a two hour massage?" "No, that's not what I said. I said I want two one hour ones." There was no difference in pricing. No difference in the times. She wanted the same therapist for both sessions. I just let it go, thinking, you are the customer . . .

• That one above reminded me of the time my good friend Pat wanted to book two airline seats for himself. Pat was a big guy. Topped 400 pounds. But he was considerate enough not to try and cram himself all into one seat. He told the reservation agent that he was a big guy and he wanted to book two seats for himself. The agent on the phone had him in the same row (good thinking) but booked both window seats. (Uhhh, what?)
  

• I saw in the news where truck drivers were protesting high fuel prices over the weekend. Just to begin with, that's pretty stupid. Do you see butchers rioting in the streets over the cost of scales that over weigh? Do you see hookers complaining about how much Trojans are going for these days? Or a McDonald's owner bitching about how expensive it's now become to make hamburgers out of Soylent Green? Even stupider than protesting in the first place, it was the way they were protesting that wins the Bonehead Award. It seems they were planning on just simply driving sloooow and slowing down traffic. And where did they do these protests? Why, in the middle of New York City, for one. The New Jersey Turnpike, for another. Or, for those of you who've never had the pleasure: traffic isn't moving there anyway.

• I went to lunch today and passed by one of those check-cashing places. "Hablamos Espanol!" was shouted in big huge print on the windows while a sign on the front door said, "Spanish speaking employees needed!" What caught my eye, though, was the sign that said, "Open 24 Hours." Then, underneath that was another sign that said, "If This Store Is Not Open By The Posted Time Above, Please Call . . . " Umm. If they're open 24 hours . . .

• Edited to add one I just saw. I passed by a car that had this bumper sticker on it: "Meat Is Unhealthy." Driving it was a lady smoking a cigarette.

First Date Scorecard

I went on three "First Dates" this last weekend. I figured since I've been bitching and moaning about not being able to find someone to love, I'd let you know how it's going in the dating department.

Let me give you the dessert so those of you who care only about sex can go away now: No. I didn't put out. (I'm not the kind of guy. I have my standards.)

Date #1. She wasn't big on emailing people. She wanted to talk on the phone. I short circuited that and said, "Let's just go get a drink." Nice, intelligent lady. Had just quit her job three days before. Obviously didn't need to work because she wasn't stressing about getting another job any time soon.

Weird thing happened on this date. She and I were sitting at the bar. I was sitting in the chair on the very corner of the bar. She was next to me. There was a guy sitting next to me, around the corner of the bar and his date was sitting next to me. (My date, me, corner, him, his date. Ok?)

At one point the guy next to me disappeared somewhere. His date then touched the back of my neck and said, "I'm sorry, but this is driving me crazy." (I at first thought I had forgotten to take my leash off. You know how those S&M parties can get.) My shirt tag was up and she put it back down. "Well, uhh, thank you," I said. She talked to me and my date a little bit about nothing, then her date came back.

As I said, my date had lost her job a few days prior. And she was telling me the entire story about it. She'd gone out of her way to help a lady get a job where she worked, then the lady back stabbed her and pretty much got her fired.

The couple sitting next to us in the bar decided to leave. He went up to pay his tab or something. He wasn't there any more. But his date came over to me and my date and said, "Excuse me, this may be rude, but, are you two married?"

We exchanged glances. My date said, "No, actually, this is our first date."

The lady said, "Well, I thought so. So, I'm not trying to offend, but can I tell you something?"

Again, we exchanged glances. Didn't have a clue where this lady was going with this.

The lady continued. "You know, God gave us two ears but only one mouth." She paused as my date and I stole another look at each other out of the corner of our eyes. The lady pointed at my date. "You have been talking non-stop for about a half hour now," she jerked her thumb towards me, "and he hasn't gotten a word in edgewise. I just want you to think about that."

And with that, she was gone.

Oooooo-kay.

Anyway, we were supposed to have met at a mid-level expensive restaurant for a beer or two. We wound up eating dinner at one of the most expensive places in town. The date cost me about 150 bucks. Ouch. (My date had offered to pay -- she was very generous. But I'm pretty old fashioned about first dates. I pay. And I agreed to going over there in the first place. But, still, shit, ouch, 150 bucks. Ouch.)

Judges Rate This Date: 5.0 out of 10.

Date #2. This was the one I was most excited about because the lady seemed to be really into me. We'd flirted a lot on the phone and by email and she kept saying things like, "I hope you don't mind that I think you're REALLY cute." Uhh, no, I don't mind that at all.

Since I thought she was drop dead gorgeous. I'd only seen her pictures, but, woo hoo!

And her pictures didn't do her justice. Holy cow. She had exactly the perfect body type. Blonde. Blue eyed. 5'2" or 5'3". About 100 pounds. Killer body. Wow.

But painfully shy. Unfortunately, the place we met was incredibly busy and there were a lot of very noisy tables around us. We both had to talk louder than we wanted to. It should have been a quiet thing, but it wasn't.

And, dammit, she just didn't seem to be that "in" to me, either. (I blame it on my being uglier than a mud fence.) I was disappointed. I was hoping she'd like me more. (That sounds soooooo 9th grade, doesn't it?) I think she's a little concerned about the distance between us. It's right at 100 miles. Anyway, we made vague plans to "get together" again. Sigh.

Judges rate this date: 4.0 out of 10.

Date #3. This one was a spur of the moment date. One of those where in the middle of an email I said, "Hey, what are you doing today?"

On paper, we didn't have a lot in common. She was way to the left of my political thinking. She didn't like people who had my political views. (Said so right in her profile.)

But we'd talked on the phone and she was very nice. Very witty. Very intelligent.

Intelligence is a big turn-on.

We met in a very quiet place where I committed the sin that lady on Date #1 accused my date of: I did too much talking. It just rambled out of my mouth.

I guess because I felt comfortable with her.

We took off to BW3. She'd asked, "Do you like basketball?"

"Umm, to play or watch?" I said.

"Watch."

"Sure! Let's go!"

I think I bluffed it well that I actually had been following the March Madness. I knew Memphis has made it to the final 4, but that was about the extent of what I knew.

We went to the BW3, drank beers (she paid for 'em -- awww!) and we watched the game and played some pool and shot some baskets ourselves and played the electronic trivia game and talked and told each other about our kids and talked about our past relationships and bitched about how bad we both are at pool and . . .

Wow. It was a very nice time.

And she kissed like a dream. Without a doubt, the softest kisses I've had in a long long time. On the way back to our cars we stopped on the street corner and kissed for the duration of the light. Some college kids came by and gave us hell. "Get some, boy!" "Get a room!" "Woo hoo!"

Just like 9th grade. But in a good way.

Judges rate this date: 9.9 out of 10.

The Power of Touch (VIDEO)

I'm believe I"m beyond the depths of despair where I dwelled for a long time. I'm not Mr. Light and Sunshine by any stretch of the imagination, but I also don't have the Suicide Hotline on speed dial any more, either.

I'm alone but, for the most part, I'm not lonely. Except for some times. And the other day I got hit square in the face with it.

I decided to try out this Chinese buffet near the house. (It was dreadful. Thanks for asking.) As I was sitting there, eating something that could have been chicken, could have been kitten, the hostess seated a couple a few tables over. She secured their drink orders. They took off their coats and headed for the nearest steam table. He led them.

I watched as she reached out her hand. Put it on his back. And rubbed it.

Oh God.

It was a movement without thought. Yet it spoke volumes of meanings. It said, "I love you." "Let me touch you." "You mean so much to me I don't want to be away from you even for a second."

Sidebar: Sex is great. I love sex. I divorced a woman because she went from two times a day when we were dating to two times a year after the vows were exchanged. No, there really wasn't a lot else wrong with that marriage. There just wasn't any sex. You know it's bad when what she wants for her birthday is for me not to even suggest having sex. This is a topic for another day. The bottom line is: I love sex. Are we clear on that?

But for all of my love of sex, the one thing I miss the most about being in a relationship is touching someone.

I'm a very touchy person. I love holding hands. Rubbing her back. Caressing her neck. Touching her arm. Running my hands along her leg.

There's nothing more powerful than a touch from someone that you care for.

Want to turn a kiss into a explosion? Hold her face in your hands while you kiss her. Want to feel pure electricity run through your veins? Have your knees touching under the table. Want to make someone shiver with possibilities? Lightly rake your fingernails on the inside of their thighs.

I miss all of that. Giving and receiving.

Goddamned dog

3:00 am. Go to bed.

3:05 am. Fall asleep.

4:15 am. Dumbass dog has to go outside.

4:17 am. Get up. Not dressed. Take dumbass dog outside.

4:25 am. Where the hell is that stupid dog?

4:27 am. I'll just lay here on the couch. He'll bark at the door. Stupid dog.

4:30 am. Go to door. Where the hell is that stupid dog? Open door. Still not dressed. Freezing outside. Don't see stupid dog.

4:31 am. Go put on pants. Go outside. Stupid dog not in sight.

4:33 am. Go put on shirt. Shoes. Go back outside. Go look in back yard. No stupid dog.

4:35 am. Goddammit. Stupid dog not in front yard, either.

4:37 am. Get keys. Get in car. Start driving around neighborhood. Stupid dog is 13 years old. Couldn't have gotten too far.

4:37:30 am. Contemplate waking up daughter and making her go look for stupid dog with me.

4:37:31 am. Contemplate calling dumbass ex and making her go look for stupid dog.

4:37:32 am. Contemplate honking my horn continuously, waking up entire neighborhood so maybe someone will find this stupid dog.

4:40 am Have reached end of road. No stupid dog in sight. Turn around and go back the way I came.

4:45 am Reached other end of the road. Stupid dog still hasn't been found.

4:45:01 am Screw the dog. He's got a coat on. He's got a dog tag with my phone number on it. He'll figure out how to get back on his own. Stupid dog.

4:45:02 am Contemplate stupid dog freezing to death outside. Goddammit.

4:50 am While passing house for third time, notice stupid dog is on the porch where he should have been 25 minutes ago. Just standing there, barking his fool head off to have someone let him back in the house. Park the car in the garage. Stupid dog gives me a look as if to say, "What the hell are you doing outside? Why haven't you let me back in the house, stupid man?"

4:50:01 am Contemplate killing stupid dog. Instead, open the door. Stupid dog tosses a wave to the brain-dead chihuahua and heads back to bed. Chihuahua looks at me like, "Why did you wake us up so early?" and goes off to bed itself. Goddamned dogs.

Look, up in the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane!

Nope, it's a plain bird.

A very sexy blogger friend of mine wrote a blog wondering where her friend had gone. She still thinks of him.

Isn't that always the nicest thought? That even if you've not connected with someone somewhere, they may still think of you. (Hopefully with good thoughts and not, "That dickhead!")

I have a partner in making folks think about me, long after we may have last talked to each other.

It's Superman.

(This is the second blog in as many days where I have to tell people to quit reading from a certain point. Yesterday, it was my daughters. Today, it's any women who think they MIGHT just possibly want to ever be romantically interested in me, stop reading. This is geek stuff and you'll run screaming from the room.)

When I was six years old my mother told me I would out grow Superman. 44 years later, it's the only thing she's been wrong about.



I remember the very first comic book I ever read. I still have a copy of it. (Not the same physical one, mind you.) Superman was on a world with a red sun and he was trying to convince some folks he really could knock over a mountain just by farting real hard.

I always made a request of whatever woman I happened to be with at the time. "If I die, bury me in my Superman costume." (Yes, I have one.) "I don't care if you put a suit over top of the thing and hide the cape, that's fine. But you put me in that costume."

Then when I turned 40 I got Superman's emblem tattooed on my left tit. (Damned tattoo artist used Kryptonite to do it, too, 'cuz it hurt like a sumbitch.)



Now I don't worry about going into the ground wearing red and blue tights. I'm carrying the "S" to the grave with me. Unless I get my tit ripped off.



I have a jacket that has Superman's emblem on it. It's a black jacket. The emblem is stitched into the fabric. From a distance, it just looks like a black coat. I remember one time going out on a date with this one nice lady. She noticed the coat. That was pretty much the end of the date. You could see it in her eyes. "You're 50 years old and you wear a fictional character's emblem on your back? You're not getting in my pants, little boy." Since then, I refer to that jacket as the "woman repellent."



Now, let's get one thing straight. I've seen bigger Superman freaks than myself. I don't obsess and wear the costume to bed or anything like that. I never thought of legally changing my name to "Clark Kent." I never called any of my kids "Kal El," (Superman's Kryptonian name.)

I know people who've done every one of those things. That's a little over the line for me.

No, I'm more in the camp of admiring what the character stands for. Truth. Justice. The American Way. That and the fact that he can kick any other superhero's ass at the drop of a hat. Without even breaking a sweat.



It doesn't take folks long before they know I'm a Superman freak. And that's where it comes in handy for remembering me. Folks who've not seen me in years will run across something featuring Superman and they'll think of me.

Back when "Superman Returns" came out, I had people from all over write me and ask me (1) if I was going to see it (well, duh), and (2) what did I think of the guy playing Supes (he's too young. Or I'm too old. One or the other.)

I've had folks send me all kinds of stuff with Superman emblazoned on it. And the notes that accompany the gifts are always the same: "I saw this at Billy Bob's Rip Off Shack and I thought of you."



Yeah, it's cheating, using the orphaned child of an exploded world for my own selfish gains. But it works.

99% masturbate in the shower . . . (VIDEO)

There was a guy who I worked with in the Navy once. He and I didn't care for each other a lot. I was way smarter than he was, but he was militarily senior to me, so, he could tell me what to do.

I took great delight in pissing him off any chance I could.

One time he came down to our little section to check on something. There was about a dozen of us there. I walked over to him and said, in a loud enough voice for everyone to hear, "Hey, Mel, 99% of all Jewish people jerk off in the shower. The other 1% sing. Do you know what they sing?"

Mel the Jew thought about it for a second and said, "No, I don't."

I shrugged and said, "I didn't think so."

It took him a few minutes.

All right. Daughters of mine, leave the room. You're done reading this blog.

Jerkin' the Gherkin. Bleed the Weed. Answering the Bone Phone. Scrapin' the Carrot. Jigglin' the Jewelry. Painting the Pickle. Tapping the Turkey.

Honest, ma, I was just cleaning it and it went off.

Checking for Squirrels. Nulling the Void. Rubbin' the Nubbin'. Teasing the Tuna Taco. Dousin' the Digits. Clam Bake for One. Two Finger Taco Tango.

You ladies don't know what the song is, either.

It was "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" where Phoebe Cates catches Judge Reinhold tickling his pickle. Why is it when guys do it, it's gross? Why is it when women do it, you have to buy a monthly subscription to watch?

Just a little while ago, a sexy lady friend of mine said, "If I told you what I'd been doing to myself for the last 24 hours, it'd make a sailor blush."

Ooooo.

Now imagine if I'd said those very same words right back to her.

Ewwwww.

In an episode of "Friends," Joey talks about "going commando." Everyone goes, "Ewwwww!" But at the end of the scene, when Rachel admits to "going commando," every man watching pitched a tent the size of the Superdome.

Jackie the Joke Man Martling said once, "I've been jerking off since I was about 12. Now I'm 52. Sometimes three and four times a day. That's over 40,000 times that I've jerked off. What I want to know is: how come it still feels so good each and every time?"

George Carlin once said, "If God didn't want you to masturbate, he would have made your arms shorter."

Notice I'm quoting all of these folks because I naturally have no idea what they're talking about.

Pope Benedict XVI Calls For Ass Kicking

Pope Benedict XVI today called for a world wide ass-kicking on just about everyone.

"It's fucked up," Benedict said, as he lit his third cigarette of the morning. "Every year, after hiding all the eggs for the Vatican Cardinals, I trot my ass out there and say, 'How about a little 'world peace,' boys and girls? How tough could it be to just not blow anyone up today?' And every year everyone ignores me and this year I've had it. It's bullshit."

The Pope unveiled the Church's newest acquisition at his annual Easter Mass. "I'm not doing this in Latin this year because there's no word for our new toys in that dead-ass tongue. So let's just do it in Pig Latin instead: uclearnay eaponsway. There. Did everyone get that? Go ahead. Do another bombing in Israel. Knock your socks off in Iraq. Blow up just one more train in Spain. Then you might as well grab your socks, drop your cocks, and kiss your ass good-bye. I'm not fucking around any more."

Anonymous Vatican sources say the Pope had deep ties to Abdul Qadeer Khan, India's "father" of the atomic bomb. "His Holiness and Khan were always on a bender. Khan wanted to always top off a night of carousing with some sheep and Vaseline, but his Holiness only wanted more Beaujolais and Chocolate Chex Mix. One thing led to another and, well, the Vatican is now the 3rd most powerful nuclear force in the world -- behind only the United States and Andorra."

Pope Benedict rejected accusations he wanted to take over the world. "I'm already in charge and it's a sucky job," he said. "No, I just want people to quit killing people in the name of religion. Look, I don't recall ever seeing a picture of Jesus or Mohammad or Buddha dressed up like Rambo. If it takes me kicking some ass to get my point across, so be it."

Democrats in the US Congress immediately passed a resolution to surrender to the Vatican.

President Bush vows to veto the bill unless it contains a $57 billion stimulus package for the residents of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Today is my last day on earth . . .

Well, not really.

But in talking with another blogger, she'd suggested her readers challenge her to write about something other than her normal old stuff. I came up with this challenge:

Today is your last day. You'll be gone tomorrow. What are you going to do? Who are you going to spend time with? Who are you going to tell "I love you" to? Who are you going to make amends with. Who are you going to apologize to? Who are you finally going to get the last word in with?

I told her I'd write my own version, too.

When I was a kid, I couldn't stand the thought that I'd die without being "famous." I saw buildings and monuments and things named after people. I'd think, "Man, that's what I want. I don't want to be forgotten." Pretty egotistical thinking for a ten-year old, huh?

There's really only two people in the entire world that'll never forget me long after I'm dead and gone. It's my daughters, Peanut and Spud. For better or worse, they'll be telling their kids about their dad forever. Of all of the people in the world, since it is my last day, I'm going to spend a good chunk of the day with them.

I'll probably just call my brother and my two sisters. That's the kind of family we are. We're not The Brady Bunch . . . but we're not exactly estranged from each other. Are we? I don't know. The last time all of us were together was a couple of Thanksgivings ago. Before that it was my dad's funeral in 1995. Two times in 13 years getting together?

We all care about each other, but we all went our own separate ways. We all lead our own separate lives. If something came up that one of the other three could help with, we would. We just don't spend a lot of time talking to each other. So, I'd give 'em a call. Tell 'em all I love them. And that I'll try and put a good word in for them with God 'cuz I know I'm the only one of the bunch who gets to ride the "Up" elevator at the end.

I talked about my dad a few weeks ago on the anniversary of his funeral. My mom is 72 years old and I love her to death. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her and, since today’s the deadline, I’m not going to make it down to Memphis today, I’m afraid. (My excuse always has been because it cost too much to fly from Columbus to Memphis. But I’m gone after today, so I should just say, "Fuck the budget! I’ve got MasterCard!") My brother was closer to my dad and more like him than I was. I was my mom’s kid. I took after her in a lot of ways. She’s the one whom I learned how to be a gentleman from. She insisted on "Ma’am," and "Sir," because we were Southern. I remember one time reading a story in the newspaper. I was all of 13 or so. In the story it referred to a man as a "virgin." Blew my mind. How could a guy be a virgin? I got the whole concept of how a girl wasn’t one after . . . you know. But how could a guy . . . heh. I wouldn’t have asked my dad that question. Mama lost a daughter when my youngest sister’s twin died at six weeks. She lost the love of her life when my dad took up with a woman half her age. She knew first hand the loneliness I felt with every failed relationship I had. Maybe I will have to jump on that plane to Memphis.

What am I going to do with the rest of the day, though? It's my last day on earth. With the clock ticking down, spending a single minute thinking about how to spend the last 1440 of 'em is an expensive minute. Being your last day, does it free you to really be yourself? Knowing there's no consequences to your actions? Would I kill someone that pissed me off?

I think I might just have to. At least, I think I would if I knew I'd get away with it until after I was gone. I'd kill that motherfucker that she had an affair with. Wow. What a thought, huh? Well, hell, this is real. It's my last day. Why not? I think the only thing that stopped me four years ago was a fear of getting caught. What difference does it make today, though?

It's my last day? Do I forgive her for the affair? Finally? Let it go? What the hell good is it taking it to the beyond?

I can't. Sorry. Not happening. I carried the hard heart this far. Might as well take it on to the other side. You shouldn't have cheated on me. It was the one and only request I made of you.

What do you eat on your last day? Hah -- any damned thing you want! Hey, I don't have to get up and exercise! Plus, food is the celebration of life! Maybe I will say, "Fuck the budget," and spend every dime I have (and some I don't) bringing my entire family here. Then it's off to J. Alexander's for the Rattlesnake Pasta. (Extra portion of chicken on the side, if you please.) We'll just stay here, and laugh, and joke, and sing, and tell stories, and goof on each other, and rib each other, and make fun of each other, and love each other. Until 11:30PM.

I have hundreds of people that I've grown to love and whom I honestly believe love me. I've always done my best not to burden anyone with my troubles. (Hey, the blog writing is for me. You guys just get to look over my shoulder.) In keeping with that "not burdening" people, I wouldn't tell anyone that today's my last day. (Ok, if telling someone gets Heather Locklear in my bed for an hour or so, then, yeah, just tell me whom to tell my tale of woe.)

Half hour to go to midnight. How about if I sit down and videotape all of my favorite jokes. Or, as many of them as I could get done in a thirty minutes. Then, anyone who misses me only has to look at the video to see me at my best: trying to make someone smile.

Oh, and at the end of the video I would say, "By the way, I do know the cure for Cancer. And AIDS. And I know how to convert solar energy so that it can be used to run everything -- for free. Plus I know how to end the endless war in the Middle East. I have a formula for increasing crop yields by a factor of ten -- that should end world hunger pretty much. I also know how to de-salinate ocean water so that everyone will have an endless supply for generations to come. All you had to do was ask . . . "

You are now leaving the United States . . .

I stopped into Wal-Mart's last night. Had to buy some cookies. (How is Chinese food like sex? You're not done until you both get your cookies! Nyuk nyuk!)

It was like walking into a Third World Bazaar. (Why don't they just spell it "Bizarre"? It's the exact same thing.) I half expected to be asked for my passport.

There wasn't a lot of English being spoken. There were a lot of women who had those burka things going on. There were probably a few guys who had those burka things going on.

There was a camel and three sheep in Aisle 7.

There was someone bartering for 'em on Aisle 8. I think he was trying to trade his sister for the camel. I'm not sure. Like I said, there wasn't a lot of English going on.

And a lot of cell phone activity. You know, if you're a guy, you carry your cell phone so you call the little lady and ask her exactly what type of laundry detergent she wants. 'Cuz all she said was "Tide." But there's Lemon Fresh Tide. Creamsickle Tide with Phosphates. Chocolate Tide with Sprinkles. Gay Tide with Pink Bleach. Obama Tide with Hillary Blocker. Shit Kicking Tide For Those Nights At The Country Bar.

(I may have to do a whole blog on Tide, huh?)

But the cell phone activity going on in the Nation of Wal-Mart was usually by women. And they weren't checking on what flavor of Tide to buy. No, they wanted to tell their BFFs about that cheatin', slimin' two-timin' asshole they left at home while they were at "da sto'." Why didn't you just bring her -- your BFF -- to the store with you?

Probably because Sunday doesn't eat up the minutes.

In a way, it was kind of nice for my ego there. By comparison, I was the skinniest man in the joint. I honestly heard one guy ask his wife if he was a 60 or 62 inch waist. "Can't find shit to fit me at Wal-Mart. All if it's too big! Just hangs there! Makes me look bad."

Maybe he said, "Makes me look 'fat'."

I got the cookies I came for. There was a sign that said they accepted dollars, rubles, dinars, and rupees. If I wanted to buy a camel, I'd need a sister. In a burka.

'Fraid of the Geek

I promised her that this entire blog would be about her.

She freaked, of course. "You're vengeful. I've seen what you've written about your ex's. I don't want to show up on a blog somewhere."

I had to think about that. Vengeful? I didn't see it that way. I always took great pains not to identify my cheating ex's. If you're not a personal friend of mine, you have no idea who I'm talking about. Hell, if you're not a personal friend of mine, it's doubtful that you even know my name is not Joe.

"Well that's just it. There's lots of people who do know who you're talking about."

"Yes," I said, "but they already know what happened. I'm not breaking new ground in writing about the situations now."

She didn't agree. "I just don't think it's right -- from their point of view -- for you to write about them in front of thousands of people. Your ex's don't have any chance to defend themselves."

First of all, that'd be nice for my ego if thousands of people read what I wrote. Usually it's one or two people a day. Maybe. On MySpace I have 60 people who "subscribe" to my blog. I think I bore them. I'm not surprised. I bore myself sometimes.

Secondly, if my ex's want to defend their infidelity, I'm all ears. The floor is theirs. Hell, I'll post their defense right here in my blog. Maybe, for the first time, I can find out why they did what they did.

She and I saw each other for a few weeks. We met on one of the dating sites. She wrote me to say that she thought I had a great ass. (Not really, but it makes for a good story.)

In an amazing coincidence, on our second date, it turns out we'd already met before she contacted me via the dating site. She had been one of my business's customers a few weeks before.

I asked her, "Why didn't you hit on me?"

She said, "I don't need to hit on anyone."

Well, it's true. She is a hottie.

I got her hooked on my blogs. She refuses to admit that she was reading them just to make sure I didn't put her in here. I promised her I wouldn't.

Over a month ago she stopped seeing me because she said I wasn't over my ex.

Hm. I am . . . and I'm not. Rather, I'm over her. I'm not over losing a long-term relationship. Yet. I'm not over losing a good friend. Yet. I'm for god damned sure not ready to see her fall in love with another man. (Which she's done.) So I am still mourning the loss of the relationship. But trust me when I say I am over her.

"Obviously you're not over her," she said, "because you find some way to mention her in every single blog entry."

Yeah, I will agree that it seems that way. And there's nights that I go crazy thinking about what might have been. See my "netflix helps" blog. "Shit fire and save matches," as my dad would have said, but that was a rough fucking night. And those nights will occur again. Of that I'm sure.

She and I met again yesterday. Like I said, she had let me know a month ago that she felt we were in different places and since I wasn't over her, she didn't want to play second fiddle to a memory. How can you argue with someone's perception? It's reality to them.

I asked her, "If you weren't interested any more, why'd you keep reading my blogs?"

"Because I care about you and I hope you're happy."

Could you ask for more than that from a friend?

So I told her that my next blog would be all about her.

"Uhhh. What's it about?"

"You."

"Uhhh. That scares me."

"Why?"

"I don't know. When is it coming out?"

"When I write it. And not one second before."

I actually toyed with the idea of having the entire blog entry be this:

"Happy Birthday."

That would have been completely true. A whole blog entry devoted to her. But I got bit with Steven King's "literary elephantitis" and decided to make it a feature-length blog instead of just a matinee cartoon.

Do Overs

In the 2000 presidential election Al Gore kept doing recount after recount after recount in Florida, in the hopes that at least one time it'd come out in his favor. It didn't. He got fat. Grew a beard. And now is spreading bullshit about global warming. You probably heard something about it.

The thing that galled most politically right-leaning individuals was that the votes had been counted. And recounted. And certified. And on and on. Basically, the rules had been followed.

He kept looking for a way to break the rules. The rules that everyone had agreed to beforehand.

Now we've got Florida and Michigan gearing up to vote again. The Democratic National Committee told those two states, "Hey, look, if you move up your primaries, then we're not going to seat your delegates. Basically, if you move your elections, then we're not going to count your votes." The states said "Fuck ya," and moved up the elections anyway.

It's rare to see a Democrat do what they said they were going to do. But in this case, the DNC did. They told FL and MI, "Fine. Go ahead and vote. But the votes will not count in picking a presidential candidate. Fuck ya right back."

Well, now, of course, Hillary is getting her ass kicked by Obama. She "won" both of those states but doesn't get to claim the delegates because of the DNC rules. Obama played by the rules in those states and didn't even get him name on the ballot in Michigan. Yeah, Hillary won, but she was the only one running. It was vote for her or don't vote. (Isn't that the same way Saddam Hussein used to win 100% of the vote in Iraq?)

So now the Hillary camp (primarily) wants to have a "do over." "Those mean old men in Washington -- why should they get to say whose votes counts and whose don't," the Hillary campaign is saying. "Let's vote again."

Because, Hill', those are the rules, hon. It'd be like you being in a basketball game, and, with one second left on the clock, you miss the half-court hail-Mary shot. You don't get to do it over if you miss. 'Cuz, that would be against the rules.

What if those two states agree to vote again (Michigan's currently leaning that way, Florida isn't) and this time Hillary doesn't win 'em? Will she want another "do over"?

I wanted to make this blog entry something along the lines of, "Why don't Democrats think they have to obey the rules?" Because there's plenty of Republicans who think they're above the law, too. I just don't get it. Perhaps I'm a stick in the mud. But when two sides agree to something in advance, it's not fair to change that agreement once you're in the middle of the game.

Maybe there is something to Democrats not obeying the rules. Look at some of the big constituencies of that party. Lawyers. (Geez. Don't get me started. Let's twist around the law so that murderers, rapists, and child molesters go free, eh?) Entertainers / Hollywood. (On the single subject of illegal drugs alone, they don't obey the rules.) Labor. (Gotta be some honest labor union management somewhere, wouldn't you think? Naw. Me neither.)

There's plenty of corruption and corrupt individuals on the right, too. And I'm all for driving way beyond the speed limit. It's fun to break some rules every now and again.

Without rules, though, society is screwed. When segments of the population get to break those rules, everyone pays.