All day yesterday I was craving these catfish fingers from a place called Famous Dave's BBQ in Clarksville. I'm not sure who this Dave guy is, but I'm pretty sure he's never had his own DaveFest. So I'm clearly the real Famous Dave.

So at 6:00 or so I went to said BBQ place and had me some yummy catfish fingers. I had a bottle of Newcastle (7275) with them, and I bought a couple more orders of fish to take home.

Rich O's was packed with strangers. Or fucktards, as I kept calling them. I tried for a while to sit at the island with some weirdoes, but most of the night I stood at the end of the bar (called the g-spot for some reason) and glared at the people in the living room area. Turned out that they were all from the New Albany High School class of 1971. Whoopee.

Anyway, I stood at the end of the bar and had a couple pints of Rogue Dead Guy (486) and glared at people. Then after a while NotHideousGirl's sister, OddlyFamiliarGirl, came in and stood with me. I talked to her for a while, and I traded text messages with NotHideousGirl.

Then, because I'm nice, I took some cigarettes and a gluten-free beer to NotHideousGirl. We talked for a while, then I came home and ate the rest of my catfish fingers.

To finish the night, I sat on my swing and almost managed to finish a pint of Dead Guy (504) from a growler I'd bought the other day and then forgotten about.

There were about a million things I wanted to do today. I think that I will fall somewhat short of that number, since it's almost 1:00 and I've managed one thing so far. Two if you count putting clothes on.

What I did was take the Monte Carlo over to the garage. It actually started right up, so that was a bit of a surprise. I'd thought that the battery might be completely shot, because last Sunday after I'd let it run for a while, I shut it off and it wouldn't even turn over. But today it started up without any problems, and the check engine light never did come on. So that was cool.

But it's still got that pesky coolant leak. So I filled the radiator from my hose and drove the car over to my usual mechanic to have them check it out. I knew that it was either the lower radiator hose or the water pump. Of course, it's the water pump. I say of course because that's obviously the most expensive option, and the one that I would never dream of attempting myself. I've changed a few water pumps in my life, and it's just not any fun at all.

So I'll have to wait until my next payday to get the thing fixed. And then, the Monte Carlo will be pretty much back where it was a couple of years ago. Running fine, but still in need of a new exhaust system.

I don't have to work until Tuesday. I'm actually pretty excited. Not sure about what, though. I mean, I'll probably just go to Rich O's every night and wait in vain for something to happen. I'm probably just excited about getting to sleep in for a few days.

Anyway, I went to Rich O's tonight. I got there at about 7:00. I hadn't planned on getting there that early, but neither had I planned on my cats Buddy and Nugget declaring jihad on each other while I was trying to take an after-work nap. The sound of their hissing and growling always cuts right through me.

So I got there a couple of hours earlier than I'd planned. I got to park in the official parking lot, and it was pretty dead at first. There were a couple of strangers at the bar. MusicalYuppieDude was sitting with more strangers at the island. Some dude who kinda looked familiar was in the throne. I sat on the sofa and had a Rogue Dead Guy (408).

For the longest time, nothing happened. After KindaFamiliarDude left the throne I moved there. I had another Rogue (428). I sent a couple emails to RockGirl.

After another hour or so this one dude who looks like my cousin Robbie came and talked with me for a bit. Then FirstGirl came and sat on the loveseat. We talked about various fluff for a while, so that was nice.

I ordered another Rogue.

At about 10:00, a bunch of PBDs came and sat all around the living room area, and they started talking about football. So I got bored very quickly, paid my tab, and left. I didn't quite finish that last glass of beer (446).

Oh yeah, one cool thing was that I got a message from BikerGirl. Actually, it was an email saying that she'd left a comment about my spider entry.

Anyway, kind of a boring night. I think the best part was when I got home and I got to sit on my swing and contemplate the universe for a while. That's always fun.

I suppose, if I felt that I had to write something about something, and if I felt that I had to use an analogy to do so, I'd write something like this.

We were just cruising along. I was driving, she was riding shotgun. We had no specific destination in sight - we just went wherever the road took us. We rode together because we enjoyed each other's company. We rode together for a long time.

Everything was good. Not great, but good. Better than most road trips. It was fun. It was nice. It was easy to imagine that a fantastic destination awaited us, but still, it was the journey that captivated me. Us. Whatever.

But then, then for some reason that I could not and still cannot fathom, she decided to grab the wheel, and overpower me, and cause us to veer off of the smooth road. Into the brush.

We're still moving, I suppose. But we're encountering a lot more bumps and other obstacles now. It's pretty fucking distracting, and it's become a lot harder to just enjoy the drive and the company.

And nothing has been the same since.

I'll go ahead and put a disclaimer at the beginning of this entry. Some people will believe it, and some people won't. Probably most people won't. But it's still true.

This entry is not relevant to my life as it currently is. Any resemblance to anything in my current life is purely coincidental.

Anyway.

We're doing this all wrong. Most of us have always been doing this all wrong. This whole romance and seduction thing, I mean.

One of the greatest lies ever told, and one of the most common lies ever told, is, "I don't want to ruin our friendship."

Why, I have to wonder, why are our friends less suitable for romance and seduction than random strangers and casual acquaintances? Physical attraction issues aside, I mean.

Clearly, they're not less suitable.

Sex is the easy part. Actually getting along with another person is the hard part.

We're doing this all wrong.

There was drinking, certainly. And conversation, absolutely. I got the crap flattered out of me by a girl who wasn't completely drunk off her ass. I got to see my sister, Dina, smile for the first time in two weeks. I got to see HatGirl and NotHideousGirl at the same time in the same place. I got to see a dog wearing sunglasses. MusicalHippieDudeMusicalYuppieDude and I split a bottle of yummy Malheur 10 (41). I learned something bad about myself, and I began to suspect something bad about a friend.

I don't want to say that none of that stuff mattered to me. Because it all mattered. But I don't think that any of it mattered as much as it could have. Or, perhaps, should have.

Because through it all, I was waiting. Not anticipating. Certainly not dreading. Simply waiting. Because waiting is the context of my life now. And, not coincidentally, it's also the title of this entry.

On Sunday I spend almost the entire day in my detached garage, working on my dad's old Monte Carlo. When, at 7:00, it finally roared to life, well that was one of the most welcome sounds I've heard in a long time. I let it run for a half-hour or so. I watched the white smoke fade to gray and finally to nothingness. I listened to the motor transition from a very rough idle to a smooth, albeit loud, purr. I watched coolant drip from a small hole in the lower radiator hose and form a spreading green puddle on my driveway.

I did those things and more but, mostly, I waited. After I put the Monte Carlo back in the garage, I took a shower, and I waited. I went to the store to buy cigarettes and Diet Vanilla Cokes, and I waited. I bought dinner at McDonald's, and I waited.

For almost the last three years, I mourned. And that was the context behind everything in my life, every word of every entry in this journal. Behind every word I said and every thought I had and every action I undertook, I mourned.

Now, I don't do that anymore. Instead, I wait.

This is better, I think. Definitely easier.

I think I could wait forever. Sometimes I think that it might be best if I did wait forever.

Because, I know that if the waiting ever ends, then the real work begins.

Context doesn't add background to a life. Context defines a life.

I was just struck by a bit of a realization, and I wanted to write something about it. I can't write much, of course, because that would entail stating the truth that I've so carefully avoided here. But I can write a little.

The thing is, I've almost always been the moth. Drawn towards a flame that can do nothing but burn me. It's instinctive. It's my nature. The brighter and hotter the fire, the more I'm entranced. The light and the warmth of the flame - they reassure and comfort me. They give me something to strive for - to wish for - right up to that point where it's too late, and I get burned.

For almost all of my life, I've always been the moth. Always getting burned.

Twice, as far as I can remember, I've been the flame.

The first time was almost three years ago, and the second time was Friday night.

It's a pretty strange feeling, being the flame. There's a feeling of safety, certainly. And a definite sense of validation of worth.

But when I'm the flame, I exist only to burn. To consume. My heat and my warmth, they are mere side-effects to the truth.

It's a pretty powerful metaphor, I think. I really wish I could do it justice with these words that I write.

But I cannot.

I've tried, for weeks, to write an entry about context. And I've failed, for weeks. It's like I know exactly what I want to say, but there's a disconnect between my brain and my fingers. And so, instead, I write irrelevant drivel while the important stuff - the context - stays locked up.

Like right now. I'm pretty sure that something is happening that would piss me off, were I sure about it. I'm already pissed off even though I only suspect that it's happening.

I could list the details of my suspicions, but there'd be no point, without context. And it's context that's important. And it's context that I've been unable to write about.

Context, I'm pretty sure, is the most important part of any story. And it's eluding me, when I try to catch it as it scurries around inside my head. I know it's there. I can feel its presence. But I cannot describe it, or explain it, or write about it with any degree of legibility.

I'm pretty sure that, right now as I type this sentence, something is happening. Something that I do not like or approve of or understand. But the thing is, without context, people would be on their own to determine why I'm so bothered by this. And they'd all come up with perfectly reasonable explanations. And they'd all be wrong, because they'd only have the basic facts. They wouldn't have the context.

I started out tonight in a pretty good mood. Now, I'm right back to where I started. Irritated without fully understanding why.

Anyway.

Something has shifted inside me. I no longer have any desire to write about the mundane facts of my mundane life. Because only through context would those facts have any real meaning. And that context, as I already said, is eluding me.

There's a word that's been on the tip of my tongue for a while now. A word that I want to scream as loudly as I can, for anyone who might listening. I could scream that word. And it would have meaning. But it wouldn't have the right meaning, because there'd be no context to go with it.

So I won't scream the word, and I certainly won't write the word. What I'll do, instead, is think about the word over and over and over and over, every three seconds on average, until I fall asleep. Then I'll probably dream about the word. And maybe in my dreams I'll finally find the context that has eluded me so well in my waking life.

I find myself wishing with all my heart for something that I absolutely do not want.

That's very scary to me.

Because, what if I get it?

I wonder if, sometime during the coming days and weeks and months, I'll look back at this brief period of my life, and wish that I'd done or said something different.

Actually, that word different is misleading. Because, in actuality, I've done nothing, and I've said nothing.

I wonder if I'll wish that I had.

People can sense it, though. That something is wrong. That something has happened or that something is happening or that something is about to happen. And they ask me about it.

I answer that I don't know. I don't know if there's really anything wrong. I just know that something feels wrong. Things are strange. Tensions are tangible.

Something is crumbling, I think. And I'm not sure whether to attempt repairs or to run away from the falling debis. I should know what to do. Whether via intellect or instinct, I should know what to do.

And maybe, by doing nothing, I'm answering my own question.

Man, I'm tired.

My experience with tests has always been like that of most people, I imagine.

I'll answer all of the questions, and there'll be a certain percentage that I know I've answered correctly. The rest of the questions I'll either think I got right, or hope I got right.

In most cases, because I'm not particularly stupid, the number which I know I've answered correctly is pretty high. Then anything else is just icing on the cake.

Even on those tests that have been especially hard, I might know for sure that I've answered, say, fifty percent of the questions correctly. In those cases, I can use simple math to keep my optimism up.

Like, say it's a multiple-choice test with four options per question. I get fifty percent right because I know the answers. Pure blind random luck should ensure that I answer twenty-five percent of the remaining questions correctly. So that's sixty-two and a half percent, and that's still not great. But because I'm usually not a total idiot, let's say I can narrow my choices down to two out of the four. Then random luck should get me fifty percent of those remaining answers. That's seventy-five percent, and I can certainly live with that. And of course the fact that I'm not really relying on random luck makes my actual score even higher.

So I took this practice test last night. It consisted of forty multiple-choice questions with four options for each question. I took the test, and I counted the number of questions which I knew, without a doubt, that I'd answered correctly.

The counting didn't take very long.

Two.

There were two questions out of forty that I knew I'd nailed.

The answers were in the back of the test. I got thirty-four correct. A passing score was twenty-six.

So apparently my knowledge of the subject is decent, but my confidence in that knowledge sucks big ones.

Today was the real test. It was also forty questions, with four options per question.

I know that I nailed a whopping ten of the answers.

Pure blind random luck would get me to seventeen and a half correct. Narrowing my choices down to two would get me to twenty-five. The fact that I'm not really relying on luck should get me over twenty-six so I pass.

This was a hard class, and it was a hard test. I'm not especially worried, but I'm not especially confident either. And I'm definitely glad that it's over.

I've been in a training class this week. A pretty tough class, made even more tough because most of us there feel like it's a waste of time. One more day of class tomorrow, then a test that we all figure we have to pass or we'll get fired and/or shot and/or publicly flogged. That's never been explicitly stated, but it's the general impression.

Yesterday and today they gave us practice tests to bring home. The purpose of these tests, as far as I can figure it, is to make us want to kill ourselves.

My sister has complained that this blog of mine is difficult to follow because I'm often too cryptic. After two days of this class, I know exactly how my sister feels.

A Rich O's tonight, they had a thing for this Stone brewery guy. I was just there for my regular after-work beer (plus Monday is Pizza Day for me), and I didn't stay for the Stone dude, but I did have one of their beers.

Stone 10th Anniversary IPA

(draft) Clear copper with a firm white head. Aroma of flowers and bubble gum - very intriguing. Flavor was very complex and hard to describe. There was definitely some lingering hop bitterness at the finish but it was accompanied by the complex flavors so it wasn't overpowering at all. An IPA that I actually like. Wonders never cease.

I'd had a Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier (2226) before that, so I was already over my quota for the evening.

Oh yeah, there a new guy working at Rich O's who looks disturbingly like FutureDude. Same shaved head and glasses and general build. I was referring to him as FutureDude's mini-me but then I heard someone call him Bizarro FutureDude and I think that's the nickname that will stick. It really is quite funny, but I don't think FutureDude shares the mirth.

What I want to know is, why can't they hire more people who look like CuteBartender?

Sometimes, like right now, it just doesn't apply. Sometimes, like right now, it leads us down the wrong path, drives us to the wrong conclusion.

Sometimes, like right now, it fails us.

Not that it really matters what I write about my current irritation. People are going to think what they want to think, and facts be damned. After all, I'm only the fucking star of this particular show. What do I know, anyway? Certainly not more than those around me. Those people can all not only read my mind and my heart, but they can probe even more deeply than I can.

Not.

I've seen an awful lot of parallels lately, but this is no longer one of them. Those particular lines diverged at some murky point in the not so recent past.

Anyway.

To call upon examples from the past in an attempt to understand and explain the present, well it's a time-honored method. But sometimes it's a waste of time. Especially when the wrong examples are being brought forth.

This explanation, this simplest explanation - sometimes I even wish that it was the correct one. Things would be a lot easier for me. I could just accept it and move on. It would be nothing new for me, after all. I've been through that particular scenario at least a dozen times.

But the simplest explanation is not the correct one, this time. And I don't really feel like lying to myself about it. I'd rather know the truth, even if it hurts. Even if it ends up hurting more than the lie.

Not that anybody is going to believe a word of this.

I realize, of course, that it would help matters greatly if I could say exactly what it is that's been bothering me about all this. And, believe me, I would if I could. Or perhaps I would if I knew would be more appropriate.

See, I don't really know what it is. I have some ideas, some theories, but I'm far from certain.

I don't know exactly what it is that's bothering me. But I do know what it's not.

Occam's Razor does not apply in this case. It really doesn't.

I stole this from somebody at fark.com the other day. I wasn't going to post it because of copyright concerns, but it's just so damn fitting and accurate that I couldn't resist.

Just like I couldn't resist going to Dina's today to see her new kitten.

A new kitten!

Yay!

It is, of course, a comfort kitty, which is one of the best kinds of kitties. It's a Siamese, and it's about the size of my hand, and it likes to meow and climb and sit on people.

I could have stayed and petted that kitten for weeks, but I think that it might have become awkward for my sister's family after a week or so. So I tore myself away, and I tore the kitten from my lap, and I went to Hooter's in Clarksville.

While there, I had some yummy mozzarella sticks and three yummy glasses of Newcastle (7107), then I bought some crab legs and brought them home.

I never said that this would be an interesting entry.

Observant readers may have noticed that there was no Friday Beer Report this week. There's a simple explanation for this really. There was no Friday beer. After work I slept until after 11:00, and I was still in a crappy mood, so I stayed home.

So I'm feeling very disgusted and disillusioned. I'm thinking that I'll coin the word disgullusioned to more efficiently describe this mood. Or maybe disillusted. Whichever term I choose, I get the feeling that I'll be using it a lot.

Since I hadn't so much as stepped outside my house for 24 hours, I succumbed to the peer pressure from the voices in my head at about 6:00 last night, and I went to Rich O's.

It was fairly empty at that early hour. Just some weirdoes in the living room area. I sat at the bar and had a Sclenkerla Marzen (943), which I just noticed has made it to number 11 on my all-time consumption list. That's just in the few months since SteveFest.

Anyway, I sat at the bar for a while. Then TremensGirl came in and joined me. I think I put too much pressure on her almost immediately. I mean, how was she supposed to counteract the disgullusionment I was feeling for her entire species?

Once the weirdoes left, I moved to the throne and TremensGirl moved to the loveseat. Various people came and went at various times. My next beer was a very yummy Baltika 6 (396).

Last night BikerGirl was having a wandering birthday party, and I ended up trading a few text messages with her to see where they had wandered to. They were going to The Pub, so I went over to Louisville. I was early, so I stopped at Hard Rock and tried to talk to CoolHairGirl for a bit, but they were very busy in there.

At The Pub, I had a couple Newcastles (7047) and talked for a bit with BikerGirl and her posse. I watched the clock very closely, and right at 12:00 I gave her a birthday hug and then came home.

So today it was suggested that I be bluntly honest at all times. The unspoken implication, of course, being that I'm some sort of pathological liar.

I'm annoyed by this. Annoyed enough that I will now present two facts.

Fact One: I do not believe that honesty should be used as an excuse for cruelty.

Fact Two: I do not believe that discretion and honesty are mutually exclusive.

That is all.

Fill this out about your SENIOR year of high school! The longer ago it was, the more fun the answers will be!!

1. Who was your best friend?
That year it was probably either Jeff or Mike - both cousins of mine.

2. What sports did you play?
Yeah, right.

3. What kind of car did you drive?
A 1973 Mercury Comet with a 351 Cleveland motor in it. It was ugly as fuck, but it screamed.

4. On a Friday night what were you doing?
Usually hanging out at Mike's

5. Were you a party animal?
No, I could never keep up with those people.

6. Were you considered a flirt?
Nope.

7. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir?
No, I was straight even then.

8. Were you a nerd?
Smart yes, but a nerd? I don't think so. I mean I wasn't in the A/V club or anything like that.

9. Did you get suspended/expelled?
I was a good kid.

10. Can you still sing the fight song?
Again, I was and still am straight.

11. Who was your favorite teacher?
Maybe Mrs. Webber. She was very nice.

12. Where did you sit during lunch?
I think that was the year I mostly just hung out at my locker and watched the girls go by.

13. Name the school full name?
Floyd Central Junior/Senior High School.

14. School mascot?
A Highlander. Not the immortal dude from books and TV though. Basically, a guy in a dress playing bagpipes.

15. School colors?
Green and gold.

16. Rival high school?
New Albany High School.

17. Did you go to Prom?
No, Lisa and I went straight to the after-prom sex.

18. If you could go back and do it again, would you?
It would be fun for a few days. I would take zero shit from anyone.

19. What do you remember most about graduation?
That it was a relief.

20. Where did you go senior skip day?
Yes, and I told my mom beforehand that I'd be doing it. There was a kegger at the house of some guy I never heard of. It was fun.

21. Favorite memory?
That was a long time ago. Too long ago for me to pick out a favorite memory. Probably something to do with Lisa though.

22. Were you in any clubs?
Not in Senior year. I was in the Spanish club before that though.

23. Where did you go most often for lunch?
Whoa, deja vu. I stood at my locker and watched pretty girls.

24. Have you gained some weight since then?
Yes, but not as much as some have. I mean, I haven't totally blimped-out.

25. Who was your Senior prom date?
Would have been Lisa if we'd gone to either mine or to hers.

26. Are you planning on going to your 10-year reunion?
No. I went to my 20th though. And I'll go to my 25th when it happens.

27. Who was your home room teacher?
No homeroom when I was a Senior.

28. Who will repost this after you?
Fuckifiknow Jones.

29. Who was your high school sweetheart?
That year it was Lisa. Before that it was Jackie.

30. Do you still talk to people from high school?
I run into old classmates very rarely. Like the other day at the funeral home. Most of my graduating class seems to have disappeared.

31. Did you win prom queen or king?
Bwaaaahahaha!

32. Where did you work in high school?
Nowhere, unless you count mowing my grandmother's yard for like $5 each week.

33. what were your grades?
By then I was pretty much all straight-As.

By the time I'd posted my overlap entry late Friday night, it had already happened. But nobody knew it yet besides the dozens of kids who'd started calling each other within minutes.

My sister didn't find out until after 5:00 Saturday morning. I didn't find out until after 6:00.

At 6:21, my phone rang. I looked at the screen. It was my sister, Dina. I answered. She was crying.

Now my grandmother has been in the hospital for a couple of weeks, and not in the best of health. So I steeled myself for the news that my grandmother had died.

But that's not what had happened. That's not why Dina was crying.

I can never remember the exact words at times like this.

"Cory...(blah)...accident...(blah)...killed...died," she told me.

My mind went off-track. I hadn't steeled myself for this. Not at all.

Wait a second, I thought. Cory is her son's name. My nephew's name. And he was killed AND he died? That's just too much.

It's still too much. It will be too much for a very long time.

---

I've been at Dina's all day. Everyone has gathered around her. Doing what we can, which isn't much, but it's something. Making phone calls so family and friends don't hear about it on the news. Screening calls to Dina's house. Making sure that someone is always at her side, offering comforting touches.

My family is destroyed.

---

I suppose it's ironic or something that all of the thoughts I used to suppress so that I could sleep, those are the thoughts I call upon now to let me sleep. I call upon these fantasies from the past to distract me from the horrors of the present.

---

I went to work Monday. Dina had gone to the visitation for another boy killed in the accident. I needed to keep busy. So I sat at work and configured some software while my nephew lay on a slab at the funeral home.

---

I'm so worried about my sister. About everyone in my family, but mostly about Dina.

This is the hardest thing she will ever do. She will get through it though. Not because she wants to, because there will certainly be times when she doesn't want to. But she'll get through it because she has to. Because she's the strongest person I know, and because she has a daughter and another son. She will get through this and while she'll never get over this pain, she will get to the point where she can at least live with it.

---

Tomorrow is Cory's visitation. The funeral is Wednesday.

So fucking surreal.

---

One of many news stories about the accident.

My family has suffered an unimaginable tragedy.

I don't know when I'll be back here. I'm not going to trivialize what's happened by writing my usual irrelevant drivel.

I can't help but think, sometimes. Even though I know that thinking is, quite often, a really stupid and pointless endeavor, sometimes I just can't stop myself.

Right now, I'm thinking about a couple of sheets of paper, lying on a table. And one paper is overlapping the other, just a little bit. Just at one corner.

On each of those papers, there is a story. The stories are totally isolated, completely self-contained. Just like the paper on which they're written. Except for that one corner, where they overlap.

I like that part. It's my favorite. More than that, I think that it might be the only part that matters.

I suppose it's a good day when the worst thing that happened was that I woke up from a dream too early.

I was at Rich O's, of course. It seemed like it was just after work, but it must have been later than that because it was already dark outside.

I was sitting with NotHideousGirl, making small talk with her as she ate a salad. I was having some beer but I don't know what it was.

When NotHideousGirl was ready to leave, I offered to walk her to her car. Because it was dark, and also because there were hoodlums hanging around the car wash at night.

We went outside, and she didn't have the slightest idea where she had parked. So I took her hand and we started walking. There must have been a million cars spread out across ten thousand parking lots. But that was okay. I'd walk with her and make sure that she got to her car safely. Because I'm nice and shit.

After we'd walked about a gazillion miles away from Rich O's without seeing any cars that looked even remotely like hers, NotHideousGirl suddenly remembered where she'd parked.

"Fuck," she said. "I'm parked right outside the door. We must have walked right by my car."

So we turned around and started walking back toward Rich O's. It was really quite nice. Walking along, holding hands with a pretty girl. All of the hoodlums were staring at us, but they weren't doing any of their catcalling or any of their other usual antics. I was protecting my friend from crap like that. I was useful.

Then, all of a sudden, NotHideousGirl saw something off to the right. I didn't get a good look myself, but there was something going down. It was some gang thing. Some revenge that one gang was exacting on another. I wasn't sure exactly what was going on, but I knew that it was dangerous for NotHideousGirl and me to be there.

NotHideousGirl let go of my hand, and she started running back towards Rich O's. I ran after her as well as I could, but it was like I was running underwater or something. NotHideousGirl was literally running circles around me - desperate to keep moving, but unwilling to leave me behind. As she ran circles around me, she kept grabbing my hand and trying to pull me along with her. I wanted to go faster, but I just couldn't.

After a very long time, we finally got to NotHideousGirl's car. She got in and sped away.

By this time I was pissed. There I'd been, having a perfectly wonderful time, and then those fucking gang-bangers had gone and ruined everything. There I was, in my own fucking dream, and these punks had spoiled everything.

I decided to go and kick all of their punk asses. I started walking back to where the commotion had been taking place, but I woke up.

Those punks got soooooo lucky. I was going to mess them up real good. I was going to grab them by their ankles and swing them around and slam their heads into the ground. I was going to fucking kill them for ruining my sweet hand-holding dream.

But instead, I woke up.

We have such an oddly strained relationship, sleep and I.

I've spent a good portion of the last few years wishing for sleep, but finding it unattainable. And I've spent a very large portion of the last couple of months trying to avoid sleep, but finding it unavoidable.

Tonight, I wish that I could just stay up. Stay awake all night and then somehow manage to function at work tomorrow despite the lack of sleep.

What used to be an escape for me, it's transformed into something else. A nuisance, I guess. A biological obligation that I'd rather do without.

I don't want to sleep tonight. I can't shake the feeling that I might miss something wonderful.

And besides, I've got crap to think about.

Like, a short while ago, in an email to RockGirl, I joked about being tested. And passing that test with flying colors. And being rewarded for passing. It was all fun and games, but there was also truth buried underneath my words.

And now, now I feel like I'm truly being tested. And I don't have the slightest idea what it is I'm being tested for. Friendship? Loyalty? Honesty? I believe that I can (and should!) pass any test for those qualities. But what about the more advanced topics?

What about compassion? What about empathy? What about those things for which there is no right answer, only the illusion of correctness that my own point-of-view and my own perspective brings?

And what if the test is made up entirely of trick questions, only I'm not sure that they're really trick questions at all?

I wish I didn't have to sleep tonight.

I could spend the entire night thinking about what I've seen and heard recently. I could spend the entire night figuring out exactly what it is that this test is supposed to be measuring.

And then I could decide whether I wanted to pass that test or not. And whether I want to cheat or not.

Of course I didn't really say this. The whole thing just reminded me of an old Ren and Stimpy show where they had this conversation.

Because, as everyone knows, I'm such a people person, I left the throne at Rich O's today and acted as Beer Ambassador to a couple who'd never been in there before.

This couple had come in and announced that it was their first time. The bartender gave them the 10-second spiel - Smoking in the bar area, non-smoking everywhere else, draft beers on the blackboard and bottled beers listed at most tables.

I was sitting, as I said, on the throne. Enjoying a yummy Delirium Tremens (1018). After a while, the new dude came in and sat on the sofa to have a smoke and I talked to him for a bit. I asked him what he and his wife had decided on. He was having an NABC beer, and his wife hadn't decided yet. He admitted to me that it was his wife who was the real beer snob of the two of them.

I went out front and talked to his wife for a while. She likes porters and Belgian beers. So I immediately liked her. We discussed the beers on the draft board - there were a couple of pretty good Belgians that she'd never tried before, and even a yummy porter listed. What wasn't listed, even though I knew for a fact that it was available, was Gulden Draak. I talked her into trying a small sample of Delirium Tremens, but I think she'd already made up her mind and so she had a Gulden Draak. I went back to the throne.

I knew that I wanted another beer, but I also knew that another Tremens would be out of the question on an empty stomach, so I had a small sample of something new to me.

Brooklyn Summer Ale

(draft) Clear gold in color. Good heaping head. No detectable aroma. Tasted like watery grass. Not very good. Not very good at all.

My second full beer ended up being a Paulaner Hefeweissbier (358) and then I came home.

Today I've found myself to be in an incredibly good mood.

And why shouldn't I be? The things that are good are great, fantastic even. More than I ever dared to let myself really, really hope for. And the things that aren't so good, well they're pretty much all irrelevant anyway. So fuck'em.

I could count, if I felt like it, I could count the number of times that something good has happened over the last three months. It's a pretty small number. But it's not quantity that matters, it's quality.

I mean, how many times do you really need to win the lottery? For some things, even once is enough. And what about ten times or twenty times? And what if it's a gazillion times better than winning the lottery?

I feel so fucking blessed.

I'm thinking that maybe I died again, on that night back in early May. Maybe I died and was immediately reborn. I certainly don't feel like the same person, and I certainly don't act like the same person, and this damn smile I'm always sporting even keeps me from looking like the same person, so maybe I'm not the same person.

If that's the case, then good riddance. That guy was a real buzzkill.

There are so many things that I want to say.

But not here, not now, not yet.

I keep trying to write the same entry. And I can never get it to come out right. It's very frustrating, because I know that I should be able to do it. But it's like there's a locked door in my head, and all of the words that I need are behind that door, and I don't have a key.

Meanwhile, I think that I've allowed myself to become distracted by certain things. By certain inanities and irrelevancies of life.

I fooled myself into thinking that where I was at, where I was going, that it was at least better than standing still in that gray place. Now, I'm seeing the truth again. I'm still wasting my time, and this illusion of progress has been nothing more than another lie.

I haven't been making my way out of this place. I haven't been making any real progress at all. I've been wandering in circles around an oasis that's just another mirage.

I have this thing I do. Like a test, for girls that I meet at Rich O's. A suitable metaphor probably exists, I just can't think of one right now. I was going to use bar, like the kind you jump over, but if I used the word bar and Rich O's in the same paragraph and they didn't mean the same thing, peoples' heads would start to explode. And that would be gross.

So, I observe women. I've probably mentioned that before. But not all of my observations are strictly sexual. Nope, I'm also doing some subconscious evaluating. Some specific evaluating. And over the last several weeks I've regained enough consciousness about myself and the world around me to be able to actually notice what it is that I'm evaluating.

I've been calling it an intelligence test. I've told myself that's what it is. I've told NotHideousGirl that's what it is. But that's not really what it is. Or that's not all that it is. It's much more than that.

I think, if I had to narrow this test down to one crucial element, to the one thing that it tests for more than anything else, that thing would be the ability of a girl to detect bullshit.

This bullshit detector of mine seems to be foolproof. So that's good. What's bad, however, is that it's dependent on a friend of mine being there at Rich O's.

See, he's the source of the bullshit.

And if a girl falls for his bullshit, then she fails my test. Simple as that. She reveals herself as worthless, at least as anyone who could ever be more than a friend.. At least to me. To my friend, not so much. He eats that shit up. That's why he does what he does. Because sometimes it actually works.

I forget where I was going with this.

I can't for the life of me remember enough about Thursday and Friday to write about. So maybe I'll write about last night and that will jog my memory or something.

Got to Rich O's very early because I'd thought that NotHideousGirl was having car trouble again and I was going to ride her around give her a ride around town. So by the time I was ready to leave, and I found that she was already at Rich O's having dinner, it was too late to turn back.

Oh, yeah. I spent all day Saturday alternating between reinstalling XP on my home computer, and hacking away at this sludge-filled pipe under my kitchen. The XP install went okay, though I had a pretty big scare at one point when it looked like I'd lost two disk drives. The plumbing work went okay too. My kitchen sink now drains normally. But, at about 4:00 Saturday I found myself covered in nasty gray sludge that smelled like sewage. Between sawing through the pipe, and then carrying the pipe outside, and then banging the pipe on the ground to loosen the sludge, I basically showered myself with that nasty crap for two hours.

And two hours is about how long I spent in the real shower, later, before I began to feel clean again. While showering, I wondered if the sludge would either (a) kill me, or (b) bestow upon me some super powers. More on that later.

Anyway.

I got to Rich O's a little after 7:00, and had a Wostyntje (308) and talked to NotHideousGirl for a while. She was in a shitty mood though, and she left pretty quickly. I moved to the sofa and vegged out for a while. I had a couple more Wostyntjes (328) and then I had a beer that was new to me.

Avery Karma Ale

(draft) Clear copperish amber. Average head that dissipated quickly. Aroma almost undetectable, but of apple peels and spices. Flavor started out very weak, but as my tongue became accustomed to it, I ended up like this beer a lot. A 5.2% Belgian session beer. Pretty damn cool.

Then I sat on my swing and had a Schlenkerla Marzen (705). Then I went to bed.

---

Let's see, Friday night. Hmmm.

Okay, here's something. My sister Dina and her husband Kenny came in for a while. I had three glasses of Paulaner Hefeweissbier (307) and sat at the island and talked to them for a couple of hours. After that I don't remember what I did. I think I texted some people but they were all being mean and not replying. That would explain my Friday night entry I suppose.

---

Because I had Friday off work, I went in to Rich O's on Thursday too. I think it was boring there, except that at one point my friend Eric came in. Also, there were a lot of hot girls around. I don't remember much about Thursday.

Oh, yeah. I had a new beer Thursday night.

Three Floyds Gumballhead

(draft) Had a sample, and was intrigued enough to have a half-pint next. Hazy yellow in color. Good head and great lacing. Aroma was mostly floral, with a touch of the bubble gum scent that was expected because of the beer's name. Flavor was pretty damn good. Intense, but it never quite got to the point where it was overpowering. Not bitter at all. A little weird. I liked it.

---

Okay, I'm all caught up now.

Ours is a strange and wonderful relationship.

She's strange, and I'm wonderful.

Or maybe vice-versa. I guess it's all a matter of perspective.

Thirty percent of the time, I worry about one scenario. Another thirty percent of the time, I worry about pretty much the opposite scenario.

The rest of the time, everything is fine. Good, in fact.

Forty percent goodness. I've known so-called happily married couples who couldn't make that claim.

I don't feel like writing about last night at Rich O's, or about tonight at Rich O's. Or about my ongoing computer and plumbing woes. I don't really feel like writing about anything at all. But I suppose that I should, so that my fan has something to read.

I did a little experiment the other day in which I, once again, confirmed my hypothesis that people are mean. I don't know why I continue to lie to myself about this very obvious fact of life. But I do. I lie to myself and then I keep trying to prove myself wrong, and I keep ending up disappointed when I prove myself right instead.

I mean, I know deep in my soul that people are mean. So why does it still surprise me?

And the closer I feel to a person, the more disappointed I become when they turn out to be mean. Every fucking time. I don't get it. I should be totally used to this crap by now. I should totally stop trying to prove myself wrong. Arguing with myself is a no-win situation no matter which side ends up being right in the end.

This is a crappy entry. It makes it seem like I'm in a bad mood or something. But I'm not.

You ever want a rewind button for your life?

I want one right now.

I want the last hour of my back.

So, I think that I've mentioned before that my spiffy new kitchen sink doesn't drain very quickly. In fact, it's pretty much a race between draining and evaporating. I've gone to bed at midnight, with a full sink, and gotten up at 9:00 with an almost drained sink.

My plan was to get a plumber over here this Friday to fix the thing. But my recent computer woes caused me to change those plans. I didn't want to spend a zillion dollars on a plumber and then not have any money left over to fix the computer.

So, like I said, I changed my plans.

I went to the hardware store and bought one of those drain snake thingies. Never before have I felt so masculine. Except maybe that one time when I managed to shit out half my body weight.

Then, when I got home, I dismantled the pipes under my sink and, after much trial and error, figured out how to use the snake thingy without somehow burning my house down. Problem was, I extended all 25 feet of that thing into my pipe, and when I retracted it and reassembled the pipes my sink still wouldn't drain.

Luckily for me, my sister's husband Kenny is a Mr. Fixit. I talked to him, and he gave me a couple of ideas for things to try next. First among those ideas was to climb up onto my roof and see if the vent pipe might be clogged. Second among those ideas was to go into my basement and start cutting into pipes.

I chose the easier idea. I climbed up onto my roof with a flashlight and the aforementioned drain snake thingy.

Shining the light into the vent pipe revealed nothing, so I started snaking the, um, snake thingy down into the vent.

Oh, I guess I should say how to use the thing.

1. You loosen this thumbscrew at the thingamabob end and start cramming the coil/wire into the pipe.

2. When you feel an obstruction, you tighten the thingamabob-end thumbscrew and start cranking the handle on the housing doohickey while applying gentle pressure on the coil/wire.

3. When you feel the coil/wire going further into the pipe, go back to step 1.

At least, that's the way it's supposed to happen.

That is not, however, the way I chose to do it.

Nope, what I did was complete step two, loosen the thumbscrew, and then watch in awe as the entire 25 feet of coil/wire slid completely out of the housing doohickey and disappeared down my vent pipe.

Oops.

To review:

1. My kitchen sink still will not drain, so whatever has been clogging its drain line is still clogging its drain line.

2. Also clogging its drain line is a 25-foot length of coil/wire.

3. I suck.