From the other day at lunch, incontrovertible proof that NotHideousGirl is strange.

A couple of weeks ago, NotHideousGirl and I both found ourselves missing HatGirl terribly. This picture was taken to document our sadness.

Okay, what the fuck is this thing? It's on the shelf at Rich O's.

NotHideousGirl and BikerGirl missed me a lot while I was in Las Vegas. I like to think that they consoled each other in various ways.

There's some shit going on that I'm not going to write about, but unfortunately it's all I can think about, so I'm kinda stuck with writing random snippets of crap.

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Rich O's has Rogue Chocolate Stout (1606) on tap again, so yay!

When I went in after work, FutureDude asked me what I wanted to drink. I said, "Let's see how well you know me. What do you think I want to drink?"

My question stumped him. But, to be fair, he didn't know there was going to be a quiz today.

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There was also a hot girl and her boyfriend there. They didn't know what to drink, and I recommended Weihenstephaner. They liked it, because it's one of the world's greatest beers.

The hot girl looked really familiar to me. I think there's an actress that she reminded me of. Some Asian chick, and it's weird that I was attracted to her, because I have a pretty strong phobia about Asian women.

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This entire week has sucked at work, but it should start getting better now that an arbitrary deadline has been met.

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Today, I had to go make an addition to the police report I made the other day, as that bullshit is continuing.

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My niece messed-up one of my Rubik's Cubes today, and I cried and cried for hours.

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Not really, I just thought it would be funny to write that.

I solved it in about 20 seconds. It was only a 2x2x2 cube.

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I've been on a search for a new hosting company for barenada.com. I thought I'd found one, but I cancelled that account this morning because they wouldn't give me access to the web server's error logs.

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At lunch today, NotHideousGirl was dressed up as a Catholic schoolgirl, and lamenting about how guys keep telling her that she's cute. Well, duh. My grandmother would look cute in that outfit.

There's a dude at The Pub that always wears a kilt. The last part of this conversation didn't really happen because NotHideousGirl didn't think of it fast enough.

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I can't think of anything else to write.

I thought I wrote here once about lies of omission vs. outright lies. But, if I did, then I must have spelled omission wrong because a search didn't find it. Oh well.

I get lied to a lot lately, it seems. Over the weekend and into the start of the new week, I seemed to inadvertently surround myself with liars. The dishonesty bothers me. Of course it does. I think of myself as an honest person. But I think that, given a choice, I'd rather hear the outright bald-faced lies than the lies of omission.

That's because the latter, they carry with them certain implications. That I'm an idiot. That I could never figure out the truth on my own. That my brain is so preoccupied with listening to what they're actually saying that it has no processing power left to contemplate what they're not saying.

Oh, hey! I found that old entry. It was during my trip to Las Vegas last Fall. I apparently used different terms in the olden days. What I wrote back then was this:

I think that an implied lie might be even worse than an explicit one. Why would I think such a thing? Well, because an implied lie reveals not only the foolishness of the recipient, but also the cowardice of the liar.

Anyway.

So I've not only been lied to lately, I've been called a moron at the same time. Not the best combination. No wonder I've been feeling so irritated. See, quite often I see right through these lies of omission right away, straight to the truth hidden so sloppily inside them.

But do I call these people out? Nope. Do I expose their lies? Nope.

I just turn my head to the side, and I roll my eyes.

Because there's always a chance that I'm wrong. It's been known to happen. Seriously, it has. So there's a slight chance that I'm wrong, but there's a slightly bigger chance that the liar doesn't even know what they're doing. That they're lying to themselves. And to start smashing down the barriers that they've so carefully built around themselves - well that just seems like it would be mean.

So I don't smash their barriers. I don't hand them a flashlight and force them to start poking around the dark recesses of their own minds. I don't grab them by the throat with one hand, forcefully smack them across the face with the other hand, and shout, "Wake up! Don't you see what you're doing? Are you stupid or something?"

Hmmm.

I guess in a way I'm lying, by omission, right back at them.

I should do something else, then. I'm thinking that I should start with the calling people out thing, save the choking and the smacking thing for only the most incorrigible cases.

Her name was Leesa. I think that's how it was spelled. She was nice.

I have no idea why she, of all people, popped into my head tonight as I sat on my swing and watched in vain for any signs of an approaching storm.

Leesa was not a popular girl when we were in elementary school. Not by any stretch of the imagination. She was overweight. She wasn't very pretty. She was way smarter than everyone else.

I think it was third grade, when they started torturing us at school, By making us square dance. With girls.

Third grade is probably about right. By then I'd already been screwed over by whores twice in my life. The first time it was Jackie, who professed her love for me one day, and the next day taunted me from the lap of my best friend Kevin. The second time was Kristie, who was so torn by the parallel advances of me and my friend Mike that she broke both of our hearts by holding hands with another guy on the playground.

See, me and whores, we go way back.

Anyway.

Leesa was, as I said, not a popular girl. She was pretty much the opposite of popular. And it didn't help matters that, two or three times a year, her mother would storm her way onto the school bus and yell at all of us for picking on Leesa and making her cry.

I never made Leesa cry.

I was a good kid. I really was. I was never one of those boys who'd pick on a girl because everyone else was doing it.

Starting in like the third grade, and continuing though the sixth grade, they made us square dance. Just every now and then. Maybe three or four times a year. Any more than that, and there'd have been a riot, I'm sure.

So starting in third grade, instead of gym class, sometimes they'd make us square dance. With girls.

The first time, it all happened so quickly. The teacher said to find a partner, and *hocus-pocus* everyone had a partner. Everyone except for me and Leesa. And then, instead of letting us kill ourselves for being the last ones left, the teacher made us dance together. With. Each. Other.

She didn't give me cooties.

She didn't make fun of how bad a dancer I was.

She ignored the giggles of everyone around us as we twisted and twirled as the caller commanded.

She had such a quiet grace about her. Not a physical grace. None of us had that at that young age. But she had a calmness about her. It was only when the teasing overwhelmed her that she ever seemed to notice it at all.

She was nice to me, and in return, I was nice to her.

For the next three or four years, every now and then, they'd make us do square dancing instead of regular gym class. And for the next three or four years, I never wasted a second picking my partner.

It was always Leesa.

I don't remember ever seeing her in junior high or high school. She was probably there - we just didn't share any classes. I haven't thought about her in thirty years. But she popped into my head tonight, when I was watching for a storm that never came, and thinking about what I really wanted in a woman.

I hope she's had a happy life.

I suppose that a lot of people have looked at me and seen a pot of water on a stove. And they've wondered when I would boil over and escape my container.

Well, those people have been using the wrong analogy.

I'm more like a soap bubble, blown from a tiny plastic wand by a naive kid and drifting in the breeze.

I won't boil over. That's for the young. Instead, I'll pop. And disappear. It'll be like I was never even here.

You know that sound that a bubble makes, just before its flimsy walls fail, and it pops out of existence? That incredible strained silence that can only be heard by the mind, but never by the ears?

That sound deafens me.

Yesterday was a long day.

First, I got to go file a police report about some crap. Look for the story on Law & Order in the Fall. I will be playing myself, and I think I'd like Patricia Velasquez to play my love interest. Not that the story really has a love interest, but I'm maintaining creative control here, and I say it needs one. A hot one.

Then I went to Buffalo Wild Wings for my customary naked tenders. They were out of Newcastle so I had a heterosexual Blue Moon (555) instead.

Once she finally got off work, I went and hung out with WeirdGirl. Then we ended up sleeping until about 9:30 when she had to fucking go back to work because of some big bartending emergency.

So, I came home and was debating going back out when HatGirl called.

HatGirl?

Yay?

Damn right, yay!

She'd been thinking about going to Rich O's, even though it was pretty late, so of course I broke all sorts of traffic and physics laws getting there. But it was too late. They were already threatening last-call, so HatGirl wasn't coming. Oh yeah, I had a yummy Upland Winter Warmer (220) while I was there.

When they started kicking everyone out of Rich O's, I texted WeirdGirl. She was still working. So I went over to this Mac's place to listen to karaoke. I'd been thinking that maybe NotHideousGirl would be there, but I think she was still watching her nieces or something.

You know what's weird? When a cute young girl, who you never saw before in your life, follows you into the men's restroom at Mac's and talks to you while you valiantly attempt to pee anyway, then she drapes herself all over you so she can get by the doorman without getting carded.

You know what else is weird? When you're just sitting at the bar, kinda listening to karaoke with maybe half a percent of your brain, and you recognize a voice. Then you turn around and it's your uncle Wayne who's running the karaoke at the place.

I ended up having a couple Newcastles (5740) and talking to various people about various crap, like how rap music always gives me the urge to start killing whities. I tried to talk to PeeGirl, but I'd already served my purpose with her. Her friend actually seemed more interested in talking to me, but she was with some dork.

Then I came home at about 3:00. I was going to go to White Castle, but I forgot.

I was pretty fucking tired when I finally got home last night. Way more tired than I should have been, I think. I mean, the switch back to EDT gave me three bonus hours, so it was suddenly like I'd gotten up at 6:00 instead of 3:00. And I'd had at least three hours of sleep the night before, so WTF?

If I could sleep on airplanes it would be different. But I can't. All I can manage is to sort of zone out for a few seconds until my head falls and then I almost break my neck jerking my head back upright.

So, when I finally got home, I was very tired. While waiting for my luggage, I called my sister to let her know I'd arrived safely. I emailed RockGirl and WeirdGirl with the same message. I texted NotHideousGirl a few times. She wanted me to meet her at The Pub in Louisville. I declined. She called me gay.

So I went home and took a nap for a couple of hours.

I ended up going to Rich O's at about 10:00. TremensGirl moved from the throne so I could sit there. It was nice of her, but I didn't ask her to move. People all think I'm an asshole about that chair.

Still feeling pretty tired, all I had to drink was a glass and a half of Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier (1932). I traded a few more text messages with NotHideousGirl. Most of her messages were incomprehensible to me. I asked if anyone around me spoke Woman, and some of the girls tried to translate, but they didn't understand NotHideousGirl's particular dialect of that odd language. I think it's known as the drunk dialect.

Anyway, at one point I misinterpreted one of her messages as saying that she was at Mac's, so I undertook the short drive over there to see her. But the doorman said she hadn't been in. Then I talked to her on the phone and learned that it wasn't Mac's she was at, it was this Third Street Dive place over in Louisville.

So I came home and typed up a couple of blog entries. NotHideousGirl texted me that I suck. I went to sleep.

As I write this, I'm an hour into a three-hour layover in Dallas. I don't really mind it though. Truth be told, I kinda like layovers.

These are the rarest of times for me. These are the times when I get to completely disassociate myself from my life and all its obligations and expectations and assorted bullshit. I get to do nothing, feel nothing, be nothing.

For the next two hours, I get to be LayoverGuy. It's like I just popped into existence for a little while, and I only exist in the here and the now. DFW, 06/15/07, 1300 CDT.

For LayoverGuy, there's no haunting past, and there's no threatening future. I don't affect the world, and the world doesn't affect me. Before I got here, and after I leave here, I'll have a destination. An obligation. But not now. Now I have nothing, and I kinda like it.

For the next two hours, I get to be nobody. Not that nobody is a step up or anything, but it's still a nice change.

I know that the expectations and the other bullshit will be there, waiting to ambush me, in a few more hours. Shit, I've already heard some rustling, betraying bullshit's presence. But, for now at least, I can ignore it all. Because, for now at least, I'm nobody.

The conference ended at 1:00 on Thursday, which was quite cool because it gave me some time to attempt to take a nap. It would have been even cooler if the nap had actually happened, but the construction going on in the room above me prevented any Zs from being caught.

I managed to snap a picture of the construction equipment as it was heading to the room above me. How they fit all that shit into one room I'll never know:

After I gave up on sleep, I took my last bottle of Alaskan Smoked Porter down to the race and sports book place. They were perfectly willing to let me use one of their glasses, but they said that some red tape bullshit rule prevented them from opening the bottle. Then this one dude took pity on me and showed me how to open a beer bottle using a lighter. I've already mentioned learning this valuable skill. The Alaskan Smoked Porter (589) was yummy, by the way.

Then I had a Fat Tire (587) and played video poker and glared at my phone for an hour or so. See, I maybe had a date. I wasn't even going to mention it here, in case it didn't pan out. But I had a maybe date with StupidGirl, because my new best friend had told his girlfriend that I was in town, and then his girlfriend had told StupidGirl. She finally called me at 6:00 or so with the excuse that she just got off work.

For those joining me late, I realize that StupidGirl is a terrible nickname. I would change it to SweetGirl, but StupidGirl actually likes her nickname. She says that it gives her a story to tell. So the nickname stays.

Anyway.

StupidGirl and went up to Fremont Street and dicked around there for a while. We were going to have dinner at Main Street Station's brewpub, but they were out of their Triple 7 Porter, and all of their other beers suck. So, in protest, we ate at this Grill Bar Saloon place. I drank Diet Coke, and StupidGirl had some foo-foo thing.

After dinner, we went back to The Strip and took in the volcano at the Mirage and the fountains at Bellagio. Walking down The Strip holding hands with a pretty girl is still one of life's perfect moments for me. I wish I could do it every night. In front of the Bellagio fountains there was much slaking. I think it was all the gushing of the water that gave us the idea. Some lady took our picture slaking in front of the fountains. I gave her my email address so she can send me a copy.

This part is probably going to seem pretty lame, but nothing reportable happened beyond that. I really like StupidGirl, and I'm going to leave it there. Maybe next time I'm in Las Vegas...

First, a public service announcement:

The hosting company that hosts the barenada.com domain has apparently chosen this week to practice sucking dead donkey cocks. Most notably, this has affected all email addressed to or coming from that domain. I estimate that I have three day's worth of incoming and outgoing email jammed-up on the hosting company's servers. Until my hosting company stops practicing sucking dead donkey cocks, email contact with me will be sporadic at best, and nonexistent at worst.

First, I learned that cellphones are banned in the race and sports book areas of casinos not, as I'd thought, because of some tape-delay thing, but because casinos don't want people using the casino's calculated odds and then calling their bookies and placing personal bets.

Second, I learned how to open a beer bottle with a lighter. This is a valuable skill, and quite frankly I'm not sure how I survived to such an advanced age without that skill.