For the most part, I think it was a pretty boring night, at least until I left Rich O's. It was very crowded. It was very loud. I talked to some people. I drank some beer. I got groped. I think that the most unusual thing about my time at Rich O's last night was that I received the most unsubtle text message ever from this one girl.

I ended up having a pint of NABC Old Lightning Rod (450) and two pints of NABC Flat Tyre (343). All were yummy.

WeirdGirl kept having to work later and later, as usual. So I walked over to this Jack's bar when Rich O's closed. I sat with some of the Rich O's people for a while and had a Diet Coke. Then, out of the blue, my friend Eric called. He was over at Sluttopia, so I went there for a while. It was cool to see Eric and some of his friends from his high school class. Sluttopia didn't live up to its new name last night, though. It was pretty much a sausagefest. They had a band there. I bet if they'd had karaoke there'd have been more girls.

Then at about 2:00 I went over to wait for WeirdGirl to get off work.

...you can find stuff like this.

Walking out my front door this morning, I was able to confirm what I'd suspected last night. It was a big tree.

I got pretty lucky, though. The tree barely reached my house.

This section of gutter is toast. I've got a guy coming out to see if there's any damage to my actual roof. He'll also give me an estimate on repairs. This is the same guy who replaced my entire roof a few years ago.

This hole in my yard is going to be a pain to fill, I just know it.

I got lucky.

As it turns out, I have spies everywhere. And I didn't even know that I had them. I thought all I had was people spying on me. Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean I'm wrong about that.

Things aren't as bad as they've seemed. They're still not good. They still suck, actually.

But, thanks to my spies, I feel better about something that's been kind of nagging at me for several months. Not a big problem in the grand scheme of things, but enough to distract me from what's really relevant.

And, speaking of what's really relevant. I feel a little tiny bit better about that, too. Thanks to another spy. I still don't really know what's happened, but I now know that it wasn't this one stupid thing which I'd never even seriously considered except during my darkest moments. So, that's cool. One less thing to worry about.

Anyway, spies are cool. I highly recommend them.

You know what a tree sounds like, when it falls onto your house?

Well, I'll tell you. I'm an expert on the subject, now.

It sounds like a very loud clap of thunder, except that it doesn't rumble on and trail off the way that thunder does. Nope, it's pretty much a loud BOOM! and that's it. Or, in the case of a tree hitting my house, it's a loud BOOM! followed by the sound of three cats hauling ass to the basement.

When it happened, I was trying to take a nap on my couch. I'd just about managed to fall asleep, and the house lost power. Then, the hail started. Itty-bitty little balls of ice, maybe a quarter of an inch in diameter. They were adorable, bouncing across the wood of my deck like spilled Skittles or something.

Then, the BOOM!

I still haven't really gotten a good look at the tree. Or of the damage it surely caused. It's pretty fucking dark outside. It's a big fucking tree, though. One of the tall skinny variety that populates the Northwest corner of my yard.

I'll take pictures tomorrow sometime. And I'll need to get somebody up here to give me an estimate on repairs. I know there'll be some repairs. I could see that much, even in the dark. But, there's no damage visible from inside my house, so it could certainly be worse.

There's this thing that I'm not supposed to write about.

Not that one thing about which I keep writing, even though I'm not supposed to. A completely different thing. One which I've been able to more or less successfully steer clear of for years, except for a couple of minor, trivial, and harmless entries.

I fear all that may change, and that it may change soon.

I really hope it doesn't come to that. I'm really too old for that kind of shit.

This entry, such as it is, brought to you by:

Bluegrass Russian Imperial Porter

(bottle) Pours black, with a minimal tan head that faded quickly. Light aroma of roasted malts and chocolate. Flavor was pretty much the same - roasted malt and chocolate. The finish was a little drying, but otherwise the 11% ABV is hidden very well. A very good beer.

WeirdGirl and I slept until after 10:00. We probably would have slept even later, except my sister called with some disconcerting news. Everything, in the end, so to speak, seems to have turned out well. So that's cool, but it did make for several hours of at least slight trepidation.

After WeirdGirl left, I settled into what's become my normal Sunday routine. Doing laundry. Shooting pool. Watching movies. Glaring at my phone.

But that last thing, I think I did more out of habit than out of any real sense of anticipation. I certainly never expected it to make it's little woo-hoo noise. And, of course, it never did. I was oddly okay with its silence, though. Just like I was oddly okay with the silence than ran through my head all day today.

The silence from my phone was familiar. The silence in my head? Not so much, but still, okay.

See, I don't know what happened, but I have to assume that there must have been a good reason for it. I stated my case, for whatever that might be worth. Nothing changed. So I jumped into my time machine. I was right, it's not so bad.

Anyway, some things are funny to me. They have to be funny, lest they be tragic. And I've got enough tragedy, thank you very much.

The thought that a pretty face, or a sexy body, or a friendly personality - the thought that any or all of these things might be enough for me - that thought borders on hilarious.

There's always something missing, it seems. That thing which is intangible and all-important. That's the thing for which the need permeates me. I've found something to fill that need once, twice, maybe three times. I may never find it again. That would be sad, I think.

Desire is more important than satisfaction. Because you can never really have the latter without the former. If you try, it inevitably feels hollow and empty. It feels like a lie, and for good reason.

WeirdGirl and I talked about this stuff for a while, our breathing still synchronized, in the late hours before sleep took us. We've discussed it before, and it's starting to sink in, the things that I say. She's finally starting to understand me, and her understanding will probably signal the end of this. Whatever this is.

Some of the time, a lot of the time, I imagine that people will read my drivel and figure that I've been drinking. A lot. And on those occasions, I imagine that people will blame alcohol for my drivel.

Perfectly understandable. Usually wrong, but understandable.

Tonight, less than an hour ago, I wrote some drivel. I have been drinking tonight, but I haven't drank very much.

Nope, tonight was a tame night, alcohol-wise.

Now, I'm sitting here waiting for my doorbell to ring. After it rings, I will be able to forget the last several hours, and I will live in the present for a while. Until we awaken in the morning, physically refreshed and emotionally numbed. After some caffeine and nicotine, reality will set back in for both of us.

It will be nice, while it lasts. But, in so many ways, too many ways, it will be a lie.

That's pretty good timing. She's here, and just when I was about to spout some more drivel.

There's a pattern to it, I think. Or at least a series of relationships; one stacked onto another. Towering skyward, but unsteady.

The base is quite stable, thank you very much.

---

Last night, I dreamed of a conversation in which I was asked a question. I've dreamed about this conversation before, and the last time, I gave a decent yet indecent answer for that particular dream moment.

But that time, in that dream, it was someone else asking the question. This time, in this dream, there was a new person asking with both fear and hope in her voice, "What is it you want with me?"

Last night, I awoke thinking that the question itself, coming from that particular person, was flawed. By merely asking the question, she answered it. I wanted what I had at that moment. Which, at that moment, was her presence, and her acknowledgement, and her conversation. I wanted her to ask me that question, just as I'd wanted her to pause a few seconds earlier. Just as I'd wanted her to smile a few minutes before that, and breathe throughout the time we were spending together.

Awake now for several hours, I'm struggling a bit, trying translate these muddled thoughts into words so that I will understand them when I read them later.

---

Whatever it is, as long it's more than nothing. During those wonderful times, when it's more than nothing, I'm perfectly happy. And I'm too busy being perfectly happy to think of anything more. The base is stable.

It's only during those other times, when there's nothing, it's only during those times that my wants start to stack on top of each other. Presence, below acknowledgment, below conversation, always upward. Friendship, below acceptance, below lust, below passion, below love.

The base is stable, but the tower itself teeters. There's an almost constant rain of debris falling from the top. And then, when nothing is finally replaced with something, the entire thing comes crashing down.

But not the base. The base is stable.

What is it that I want?

Sometimes I want exactly what I have, as long as it's not nothing.

It's only when I have nothing that I find myself wanting everything.

The place was pretty freaking packed. I'd been expecting a big crowd. Friday nights are always crowded, plus they were having another art show out in the special people section. The entire place was packed, often standing-room-only, for most of the night.

But that was okay. MusicalYuppieDude gave me a seat on the sofa when I first arrived, so I didn't have to stand. Also at least half of the non-regulars in the crowd were girls in various stages of hotness. Most of them were hippies, but hot hippies. There also seemed to be a very unlikely proportion of blonde girls.

When I first arrived, I waited in vain for a bartender to make his way to me. I ended up going out to look at the art for a while. As in most art shows, there was some good stuff and some bad stuff. It's all subjective. I didn't see any paintings by either MisunderstoodGirl or NotHideousGirl, so that was a little disappointing.

They also had a small beer stand set up at the art show entrance. On the way back to Rich O's proper, I glanced at the labels on the taps.

Cone Smoker!

Yay!

I guess they'd saved some just for the art show.

So, guess what beer I had.

Guess!

Cone Smoker!

Yay!

It was only a 12-oz pour, into a plastic cup, and it took about 15 minutes to pour it, but it was still yummy (3157).

When I got back to Rich O's proper, I had a brief conversation with LaptopGirl, who I hadn't seen before but who was sitting at the kiddie table with some guy I don't like. The conversation was indeed brief. It consisted of her saying, "Hi," followed by me saying, "Hi."

Oh, how the mighty have, once again, fallen.

My next beer, because I didn't want to have to wait so long for another Cone Smoker, was an NABC Flat Tyre (153). In fact, because of some ordering confusion, I was presented with two pints of Flat Tyre at the same time. So that's all I had for the rest of the night (173).

The group in the living room talked about various stuff for a while, and at one point we found ourselves playing euchre. Actually, we all spent the night trying to teach euchre to this one dude. He didn't have a nickname before, and I'm going to pick HairDude for no particular reason. Also playing/teaching was SmooshDude, and PlantDude.

It was a fun night. At one point PlantDude's fiancé, NiceGirl, took his spot in the game, and NiceGirl and I proceeded to win about 7,999,999 of the next 8,000,000 possible points. NiceGirl and I would apparently dominate the Professional Euchre Tour, if such a thing existed.

It was a fun night.