Tragedy, technology, & tying knots

The dull edge became a little sharper last Thursday as I received my Blackberry Curve. It immediately becomes the most cutting edge piece of technology I own, followed by my iPod, and then next would be my… um… Remington PG-250 electric shaver, I guess.

Those in the know tell me that I should refer to it as a Crackberry. I can’t wait to find out what that’s all about. And the girls at the cell phone place had a nice laugh over my old phone, the discontinued Samsung P107 with the 0.1 megapixel camera, which left all my camera phone pictures looking like abstract impressionist paintings.

My excitement was short-lived, however, as tragedy struck my world Friday afternoon. Shortly before 3 PM, someone I have known for roughly twenty-five years suffered a massive heart attack.

That someone is Luke Spencer.

He was found on the floor of Windermere by Scott Baldwin’s long lost son, Logan Hayes. As of today, Luke is still alive, but it is unlikely they’ll be able to get him to a hospital because of the storm, so please keep him in your thoughts. More importantly, please keep me in your thoughts, because if Luke goes, I… well, I’d rather not think about it.

Remarkably, I was able to press on despite that weighing heavily on my heart. As a few of you may know, I was in a wedding Saturday. My longtime friend Kyle said goodbye to the ranks of singledom and hello to a brave new world. (I was going to say “My BFF Kyle” but guys don’t really have BFF’s. We just have buddies, or homeboys, or longtime confidants. Wonder why that is?)

During rehearsal, the wedding director repeatedly called me and the girl I escorted “professionals.” I’m not sure I want to be known as a professional groomsman. Then again, why the heck not? Maybe I could make some extra cash on weekends, legally for a change.

It was great to see several friends that I had not seen in quite awhile. And hopefully, no footage of me “dancing” will turn up on YouTube. No, trust me, you think you want it, but you don’t.

As the weekend was quite busy, I haven’t had a lot of time to play with my Crackberry yet. Though I did finally figure out last night how to change the ring tone. That only took four days.

Technology rulz!

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get thru this thing called life. Electric word life. It means forever and that’s a mighty long time. But I’m here to tell you, there’s something else…”

Won’t you be my neighbor?

I’m thinking about doing the Second Annual 80’s Week here on IYROOBTY. I was looking back to last year, and 80’s Week was the second week of November. We had an 80’s themed 3WW, The Time I Almost Met John Stamos, and Where Are They Now: New Kids On The Block. Please let me know if there are any 80’s topics you would like to see covered.

Hemingway had a Three Day Blow. I have a six day hiatus. I think this may officially be the longest period of time I have ever gone without blogging. Perhaps one of you who have my blog committed to memory can either confirm or deny that.

It just seems like the same old, same old here. Football and golf, football and golf. Sometimes I feel like my life is a Kibbles ‘N Bits commercial, without the cute puppies.

I took a day off work Friday and played golf. (See? There’s just no shock value there.) Little Joe and I teed off–that’s golf lingo for “began a round”–shortly after Noon. My goal for the day was to play with no mulligans, which I accomplished. I also only lost one ball. But perhaps the outing can best be summed up by the following quote:

“I think I left my pitching wedge beside the sixth green.”

Friday night was the bachelor party of the century, which I somehow managed to miss. It was held at Red Lobster.

Yes, that Red Lobster.

Because what better way to say adios to your single days than with a plateful of endless shrimp and a couple of cheesy biscuits. From their slogan, “Share The Love,” to the tankful of naked lobsters located inside the restaurant, this place just screams party.

Unfortunately, by the time I got back in town, the screams had died down and the party had broken up. You know, because it was already 10:00 PM.

Saturday was a neighborly day in this beauty wood. I awakened to the sweet sounds of footsteps on stairs and objects banging into walls. Ah, yes. The new neighbors were moving in… at 6:30 in the morning!

The banging finally subsided a little after 8:00, but I never managed to get back to sleep. At some point during the weekend, the guy stopped by to introduce himself. His name is Rocky. I’m not joking.

On the bright side–and keep in mind this is all relative–they did put out a little decorative porch ornament thingy: a white plastic dog with a small lantern hanging from its mouth.

It really adds a touch of something to the entire complex. It’s sort of that whole plastic flamingo vibe that has been missing here for so long. I just hope I don’t accidentally step on it, or set it ablaze.

Finally, as I was leaving Saturday to go to the Bama game, I noticed an Auburn tag on the back of Rocky’s car.

Sigh. There goes the neighborhood.

“I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you. I’ve always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you…”

The ratio of people to cake is too big!

And now for your enjoyment, Bone channels Milton Waddams from Office Space:

Well I was, I was under the impression that I would, I would be getting Sundays off, and that, that I would only have to work occasionally on Saturdays. And now I’m working almost every Saturday and I told, I told Bill that if this continues, then I’m quitting. And I told Jan, too, because, because they’ve changed my hours. I used to get off in time to see General Hospital, but now I get off later, and I don’t have a TiVo. And I still, I still have five vacation days to take this year. But I haven’t, I haven’t been able to take my days because they keep increasing my daily tasks, but they haven’t increased my pay any. But those are my days, and they better, they better not try to tell me when I can take them, because that’s not OK. And if they try to, then I’ll set the building on fire.

Thank you.

Just know that I was doing my own Milton impersonation out loud as I typed that, and be thankful this is not an audio post.

Yes, I had to work both Saturday and Sunday this weekend. I used to work seven nights a week all the time when I was at the factory. But having at least one day a week off is like urinating with no burning sensation. After awhile you kinda get used to it.

To me, the forty hour work week was instituted as the absolute maximum number of hours that a human being should ever be required to work. I really have no historical documentation to back this up, but I’ve always believed that is what the framers of the law had in mind. I think they figured most of us would only be working twenty or thirty hours, three or four days a week. Because (I’m sure) studies (somewhere) have shown that a happy, well-rested employee is a productive employee. Or at least a happy employee.

Of course, things could always be worse. I could not have internet at work. Or my parents could cut off my weekly supplement. Or there could be no term limits for the President.

Despite the heavily oppressed weekend, I did make it over to Axl’s after work Saturday to watch some football. Highlights included going over to his on-again, off-again girlfriend’s house and letting her dog out for a few minutes. Why he wanted me to come along, I’m not sure.

So there we were, just before sunset in the middle of the neighborhood. Axl was bent over baby-talking the dog trying to get him to “go” in this little ravine. Meanwhile, I was standing about fifty feet away, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible.

About that time, I noticed a lone female jogger coming down the sidewalk. As she passed, I smiled, while behind me in a high-pitched voice, Axl was encouraging the dog to “Go poo poo. Go poo poo.”

There’s really just no way to make that look cool.

“Work, work, work, day after day. Fifty hour week, forty hour pay. No time to get over all this overtime. Yeah, I’m always runnin’, but I’m always runnin’ behind..”

California

One of my blogging friends, Gay, was forced to evacuate her home due to the wildfires in California. She has been posting updates from her cell phone. I would ask that you keep her and others affected by this disaster in your thoughts and prayers.

Someone I hold in very high regard has frequently referred to “blogging communities.” And it’s true. As we read about each other’s lives, we become like neighbors. We laugh when they laugh. When they’re happy, we’re happy for them. And when they’re sad or struggling, we’re concerned.

By the same token, I’ve always thought of America as one big community. When times are toughest, that’s when it seems we are at our best. Whether it’s thirteen miners in a coal mine or thousands devastated by a hurricane, we hurt, we cry, we pray, we look for ways to help.

We are them. They are us.

It’s both frightening and sad seeing the devastation caused by these wildfires and that eerie red glow in the sky. And that’s just from watching on TV. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be there.

The following is something I wrote about California, a place I’ve visited exactly once. I wrote it over a year ago and it’s been stuck in draft ever since. Today felt like a good time to post it.

California is just another place. Until you’ve been there.

It’s just a name. An idea. A shape on a map. The setting for a million stories. It’s Hollywood and LA and movie stars and the ocean. Late nights and late mornings.

It can be a lifelong curiosity, or a dream. But one thing is for certain. Once you’ve been, it’s none of those things, and at the same time, it’s all of them and more. It’s a feeling of free you had forgotten you could feel, or maybe never knew at all.

California stays with you. Maybe not always in the front of your mind. But it’s always there, somewhere. It gnaws at you, some days more than others. And you long to return, again and again.

“And it’s one more day up in the canyons, and it’s one more night in Hollywood. If you think you might come to California, think you should…”

Archie, blow your horn

What do you do when your friend, one of your best friends, tells you a secret so deep and disturbing that even his parents don’t know?

It happened when I was in 10th grade. I had gone to the high school football game one Friday night, with plans to go home and spend the night with my friend Archie afterward.

At halftime, I watched Archie march in the band. In his flamboyant bright red uniform and hat complete with festive plume, he seemed to almost be smiling at me. Maybe that should have been my first clue.

After the game, we were on our way over to the band room so that Archie could change. That’s when it happened. Archie pulled me aside in the rahter dimly lit parking lot and said he had to tell me something. And he made me vow that I would never tell anyone, emphasizing it with the fact that even his parents didn’t know.

My mind began to race. What could it be? How well did I know this guy? We’d really only been friends for a year or two. Not to mention, this was the same guy who had been involved in the John Stamos autograph incident.

I wasn’t sure I felt comfortable with any soul-baring confessions at this stage of my life. But what could I do? He was standing there, his band hat under one arm and his heart on his sleeve.

So I promised not to tell, knowing whatever he was about to reveal could very well change our entire relationship forever.

And it did.

To this day, everytime I think of Archie, my mind immediately goes to what he told me that fateful October night:

He wasn’t really playing his trombone.

The band director let him march because he had learned the steps so well, but made him promise he’d only pretend to play. Because as it turns out, after two years in band, Archie couldn’t play a lick.

I wish I could say Archie’s story had a happy ending. But it doesn’t. He quit band the next year. I always wondered if the burden of carrying around his secret eventually became too much. Or perhaps someone outed him and he was ostracized by the brass and woodwind sections.

“That’s not the beginning of the end. That’s the return to yourself. The return to innocence…”

A man’s couch is his castle

The first year and a half I lived away from home I had a roommate. It was the first time for both of us to be on our own. Each of us had a bed, a small TV, a chest of drawers, and that was pretty much it. We basically had nothing.

People don’t really throw formal housewarmings where they shower you with gifts from the Martha Stewart home collection for single heterosexual guys. At least no one did for us. Then again, we didn’t register anywhere, so maybe it was our fault.

My parents gave me their kitchen table and bought me a small microwave. I also received a plaque from my girlfriend’s sister which read: “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.” I proudly hung it over the toilet, though I still sprinkled occasionally. I think it was the only thing hanging on the walls in the apartment for, um, a lengthy and indefinite period of time.

Since we now had at least one piece of furniture in the kitchen and both bedrooms, that left only the living room remaining to be furnished. I put my 13-inch-TV and small TV stand in there. But still, the room seemed empty somehow, like something was missing.

Ah, yes. A place to sit. A couch, love seat, lawn chair, milk crate, something in that vein.

My favorite aunt happened to have an old couch in her basement which she gave to us. The edges of the cushions had begun to tear, but we didn’t really care. Oh, and did I mention it was not exactly the manliest of colors?

The fabric consisted of a floral pattern largely made up of pastel pinks and greens. So there we were, two young, strapping, virile, well-dressed bachelors, welcoming guests into our home to sit on our pink and green couch. Look out, ladies.

Still, we were in no position to be picky. It was something to sit on, and we were thankful to have it. Thrilled, actually. At that time in my life, free used furniture seemed like about the best thing in the world.

I happened to have an old red bean bag which had seen it’s better days that I placed in the living room as well. Now you might think that a bright red bean bag would clash with the soft pastels of the couch. And you would not be incorrect. But when you’re first moving out, things like that really do not matter so much.

That feeling of being on your own, learning to make ends meet, discovering the culinary and financial advantages of Chef Boyardee and Ramen, running out of clean underwear for the first time in your life, those are priceless life lessons.

Priceless, not unlike a free pink and green couch.

“I hate coming home to this old broken down apartment. I wish I had a dime for every hole that’s in the carpet…”

The Boost Up

Please stop over and wish Pia a happy bloggiversary. I’m checking with Miss Manners right now to see what the appropriate gift is for the 3rd bloggiversary.

Summer has been forcing my hand lately, off the track and into the water. I only went running two nights last week, and spent most of the weekend not very far from the cool relief of H2O. I never remember us having this many 100+ degree days in one year.

I went swimming at my sister’s this afternoon. While that was mostly uneventful, there was one noteworthy event. We were floating around and out of the blue she asked, “Do you ever watch Scott Baio Is 45 & Single?”

Sigh. What a proud moment in the life of a big brother. I’m not ashamed to admit I nearly became emotional. Just thinking for all the mistakes I’ve made, I must have done something right, you know? *sniff*

Saturday, Little Joe and I spent all day at my friend Jamie’s house on the lake. Ten hours of swimming, boating, eating, reapplying sunscreen, repeat.

Also, I encountered a girl there who said she’d met me previously, though I have no recollection of such a meeting. And I mean, really, what are the chances I wouldn’t remember meeting a girl?

Several of us went out to eat that evening at Mister Bean’s Barbecue, owned by professional boxer Butterbean. He was there so we got to meet him. Normally I’m not a fan of people named after vegetables, i.e. Carrot Top, but Mister Bean seemed like a really nice guy.

Coincidentally, we’d been talking earlier in the day about the most famous person we’d ever met. Jamie’s was Jimmy Carter, LJ settled on Jose Canseco, and mine was Faith Hill. I feel safe in saying none of those rankings changed after our visit to Mister Bean’s.

After supper, we came back and swam a bit more. That’s when the idea of jumping off the roof of Jamie’s dock crossed my mind. I asked her if anyone had ever done that. She said a couple of people had, but that it was a bit tricky getting up there. You either had to stand on the railing of the pier and pull yourself up, or climb up the ladder of the slide and step across about a four-foot gap to the roof. I opted for the latter, or ladder.

It was a bit tenuous getting from the slide to the roof, but jumping off was worth the risk. You know, because I’m 34 and apparently still amused by the same things as a 16 year old.

I kept trying to get LJ to jump, but he was quite hesitant, claiming since he was shorter than me, it would be harder for him to get on the roof. Jamie urged him on saying, “Oh come on, Bone will give you a boost up.”

Ah, yes, the boost up. That most ancient and reliable of methods for hoisting a human being skyward. The boost up is performed by clasping one’s hands together in a virtually unbreakable grip, then turning them upside down like a stirrup. The climber puts his/her foot into the hands of the booster-upper and is lifted to higher ground.

It is unclear who invented the boost up. Some think Noah gave his wife a boost up into the ark. Others say no, that the ark had that big handicapped-accessible ramp. They surmise that perhaps Aaron gave the first boost up when Moses planted a dusty sandal in his brother’s hands to get started up Sinai.

However it began, the boost up has endured for ages. I don’t remember anyone ever teaching me how to do the boost up, it just seems I’ve always known. Maybe it’s as instinctive as survival, blinking, or turning the channel whenever a Pauly Shore movie comes on. Someone needs to get somewhere vertically, there are no ladders or footholds around, your hands automatically go into position.

With the knuckles acting as a locking mechanism, not allowing the hands to slip apart, the boost up is virtually foolproof. I’ve never seen one fail.

I mean, think about it. Have you ever heard of someone getting injured and when you ask what happened they say, “Well, Bill was trying to give me a boost up, but it just didn’t work?”

I didn’t think so.

Anyway, after I had jumped about four or five times Saturday, LJ finally decided to give it a go. He stood on the rail of the pier while I proffered a trusty stirrup. And while the story would probably be a bit more entertaining if there had been a mishap, that did not happen. My friend clambered onto the roof, the beneficiary of another successful boost up.

Accidents happen. Ladders fall, feet slip, people go hunting with Dick Cheney. But the boost up never fails.

That’s pretty much it for my weekend. I’m not sure what’s on tap for next weekend, but after watching Scott Baio tonight, there may be a cuddle party in my near future.

“Man, it’s a hot one, like seven inches from the mid-day sun…”

Friends don’t let friends…

Several months ago I was at dinner with some friends when one asked if I was still talking to a particular ex-girlfriend. I informed her that I was not, and she replied with “That’s probably a good thing.”

I was aghast. How could everyone not be completely enamored with any female I might choose to date?

Hard as it was to believe, apparently it was true. Further conversation revealed a couple of other friends held a not-so-favorable opinion of this girl, as well. It was a real eye-opener for me. Like a cool, fresh bar of Coast in a morning shower.

I asked my friend why she had never said anything about this before. She responded that I never seemed all that serious about the relationship and she figured it would pass. It did.

But what if it hadn’t? Would she have said anything? Would I have listened?

This is a not uncommon predicament in life. As long as we are single or have friends who are single, there will be situations like this. More times than not, I’ve found myself on the opposite side of the fence, wondering if I should say something to a friend whose significant other, well, had significant issues.

Inevitably, I wind up asking myself the same questions. What do I say? Do I say anything? How long should I wait before saying it? Is it really any of my business? Should I keep my mouth shut and just hope for the best? And even if I do say something, will it do any good?

Well, my friends, allow me to answer all of the above questions for you with one simple sentence: I have no idea.

At this point in my life, I tend to stay out of other people’s business. I figure relationships are difficult enough without outside interference. And undoubtedly friendships have been damaged, some completely destroyed, because one friend decided to say something.

On the other hand, love is blind. And I would venture to say that lust is, too. As in my situation, the person in the relationship is usually the last one to see the signs that are so obvious to everyone else.

Do we not owe it to our friends to warn them if we think they are heading down a road strewn with certain pitfalls and probable STD’s? After all, certainly there have been times in our dating history when most of us could have used a stiff smack to the forehead and someone questioning, “What are you thinking?!”

Good friends know us better than most anyone. They don’t usually have ulterior motives. So if a good friend does voice an opinion, listen. Or don’t. But don’t let it ruin the friendship. More times than not, friends will be around long after the non-platonic relationship is gone.

And if several friends you’ve known for five, ten years or longer have a problem with someone you’re dating, that should probably send up a few red flags. Then again, looking thru rose-colored glasses, red flags appear to be white.

There used to be a popular ad campaign which used the slogan, “Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.” But what about relationships? How far does a friend’s responsibility go when it comes to dating under the influence?

“What would Brian Boitano do if he were here right now? He’d make a plan and follow through. That’s what Brian Boitano’d do…”

When you can’t fight it, you can’t fight it

Bachelor Tip of the Day: You do not make chocolate milk by mixing milk and Hershey’s cocoa powder. Despite however logical it may sound, it does not work.

Addendum: When it says “unsweetened” on the Hershey’s can, they mean it.

I hung out at Little Joe’s last Sunday night with him and Wolfgang. We shot pool for a bit and may or may not have been making small non-monetary wagers on the games.

Little Joe is the last person I personally know who still connected to the internet at 28800 bits per second. He has only been off dial-up for a couple of weeks now, and therefore is just discovering that empire of time-wasting delights known as YouTube. (MySpace would also fit there, but he has not yet discovered that. Although I should tell him about it so I can be #1 on his top eight!)

LJ informed us that his YouTube adventures included downloading music videos from the 80’s along with General Hospital clips from the 90’s. Well, I saw nothing wrong with either of those. Both seem completely normal to me.

As Wolfgang and I began our first game of 8-ball, LJ said he was going to put on some music and disappeared into the next room. A few seconds later, I heard the familiar opening bars of an 80’s power ballad blaring from the computer speakers. I couldn’t quite place the song until I heard the opening lyrics…

Girl you’re looking fine tonight…

LJ reentered the room.

“The Jeff Healey Band?” I might have snickered as I said it.

“Yeah,” LJ had a what’s-wrong-with-that tone. “You don’t like that song?” He spoke with an innocence rarely found in a 35-year-old man.

“No, it’s fine. I just… wasn’t expecting it, I guess.”

“Well, what’s your favorite 80’s song?”

I was thinking maybe something like Sweet Child O’ Mine or Tainted Love, but instead replied nonchalantly, “I don’t know.”

“I was trying to think of mine today,” LJ revealed. “I think mine would be Can’t Fight This Feeling.”

(pause for effect)

OK. There’s nothing wrong with that song. I have it on my iPod. But if you’re a guy, even if that is your favorite song, there’s no need to share that with anyone else. Especially not with other guys when there are no easily accessible exits.

Meanwhile, Wolfgang seemed oblivious to the whole conversation. Either he wasn’t familiar with the song or he was just trying to block out these disturbing pool room confessions.

After the Jeff Healey Band was done, Kokomo came on. So I’m thinking, alright, the Beach Boys, much better. Their music fits most any situation. They sing about surfing and girls and woodies. Nothing can be manlier than that. Then comes song number three…

Oceans apart, day after day, and I slowly go insane…

Can you name that tune? That’s right, Richard Marx and Right Here Waiting.

Now again, nothing wrong with the song. I have the cassette single. It was even kinda hard not to sing along. And this would have been a perfect playlist if you had a girl over or something, and… Ronald Reagan was still President. It’s just not the kind of music you blast while hanging with the boys.

Nevertheless, there we were, three 29 to 35 year old single males, shooting pool while listening to the flowing melodies of Richard Marx. Is it just me, or is there something fundamentally wrong with that scene?

By this time, I’m thinking, if Wind Beneath My Wings comes on, I’m out! I mean, if you’re gonna play 80’s ballads all night, at least give me some Tommy Page or Nicole Richie’s dad or something.

I should insert here that the music was really loud. You could hear it all over the house. LJ must have had the computer speakers turned up as loud as they would go. Finally, after about the fifth or sixth consecutive slow song, Centerfold came on. Never in my life had I been so relieved to hear the J. Geils Band.

So went another evening hanging with Wolfgang and Little Joe. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to burn this Roxette CD onto my iTunes.

“Lift you up when you’re feeling down, make your whole world turn around. I’ll give my heart and soul to you, to let you know this love is true…”

"All those who believe in psychokinesis, raise my hand…"

The title of this post is a quote from Steven Wright. It may seem random, and is, but I think it goes along well with the randomness of the post…

The Alabama football team’s annual A-Day game was Saturday. The game normally draws thirty to forty thousand fans. This year, with a new coach, new hope, and an unquenched thirst for a championship, they had to close the gates and stop letting people in early in the second quarter. Stadium capacity is a little over 92,000.

Even I was amazed at a crowd that large for what basically amounts to a glorified scrimmage. Still, it was a nice “tide” me over until the first game, which is now only 131 days away! Bama football fans are often called fanatical. And, well, we don’t really consider that an insult.

My Mom, sister, and I went. As we were about to enter the stadium, who do we see but my uncle, aunt, and two cousins. I mean, seriously, out of 100,000 people, what are the odds? I got my first sunburn of the year, sitting on an aluminum bleacher in the 80-degree Tuscaloosa heat for three hours.

Mom got tickled when the crowd started doing the wave. By the third time it came around, she couldn’t even stand up she was laughing so hard. It was great seeing her have fun. Even if it did lead my sister to remark to me, “We have got to get her out more.”

When I got home that evening, Pablo was swimming around. I mention this because it has become a rare sight. Although I haven’t written about it, I’ve been really worried about Pablo. He completely stopped eating two weeks ago and only comes out of his rock to get air, then goes right back in. Last Wednesday, I bought two kinds of fish medicine and some anti-fungus tablets at Wal-Mart, and started putting in his tank.

So when I saw him swimming around Saturday, I immediately tried feeding him. And he ate! For the first time in twelve days! I was as excited as I’ve been in a long time. And also hopeful that this means the medicine is working. I don’t know what’s wrong with the little fella, but I’m trying everything I can.

Saturday night, I drove over to Ben’s. Ben and I have been friends since first grade. The night my sister was born (at some absurd overnight hour), after I threw up in the ER waiting room, I wound up at Ben’s spending the night so that I could get to school the next day. These days, we don’t hang out that much or even talk too often since he got married. I think this was the first time I’d seen him since Festivus.

The house was alive with two kids, a one-year-old and a two-year-old, running crazy. His youngest was eating a banana popsicle. Part of it fell on the floor. He didn’t reach down and pick it up. Instead, he got down on all fours and ate it right off the carpet. Ben just laughed. It hit me in that moment that he was in love with his kids. What an awesome feeling that must be.

Sunday, I ran 4.5 miles, which is the farthest I’ve run since the 10K race last year. I’ve developed a new low-to-the-ground, low impact running style. It’s tougher on the thighs, but much easier on the knees. If you’re trying to visualize this at home, it may not sound like the most manly or aesthetically pleasing style, but it seems to be helping. This year’s race is May 19th. I’m hoping to better my time from last year, of course. I’m thinking of shooting for a nine minute mile pace.

In other news, I took my car to the mechanic today. It started hesitating and sounding like it was missing dying last weekend. At first, I thought (and hoped) I had just gotten some bad gas. But two cans of gas treatment and one can of fuel injector cleaner didn’t seem help. Nor did clutching the steering wheel, looking up at the stars, and saying, “Please, please, please start working.” Then I thought maybe some mobsters had mistaken me for the real Jason Morgan and filled my tank with sugar. But the mechanic said the catalytic converter is stopped up. That doesn’t sound too bad, although I haven’t gotten an estimate yet.

Finally, one of my favorite comedians, Steven Wright, is coming to Nashville!! He’s also supposed to be on Letterman tonight. Someone please remind me. (About Letterman, not the concert.)

“From Carolina down to Georgia, smell the jasmine and magnolia. Sleepy, sweet home Alabama, Roll Tide Roll…”