Seven times.

I've seen her seven times.

Seems like more than that. Seems like it should be more than that.

I remember the first time I saw her. I saw her and I said to myself, Wow! Who is that?!? She's hot!

This kind of thing happens to me all the time. I am a straight and single guy after all.

The thing that makes the situation with this girl a little strange is that, I've seen her six times since then, and each and every time I've said to myself, Wow! Who is that?!? She's hot!

I don't seem to be able to recognize her. Not at first. It always takes a few seconds before my brain let's me remember that I've seen her before. It always takes a few seconds before my brain stops being surprised at how pretty she is. It always takes a few seconds before my brain let's me get a word in edgewise.

Hey, asshole, you already know her. Put your pants back on.

It's pretty cool, to be astonished by the familiar.

I highly recommend it.

Some of you may recall a conversation I wrote about a while ago. A conversation between my lovely self and Roger, the owner of Rich O's.

That conversation went something like this:

So for a while there my life was pretty good. It had meaning. I had something to look forward to.

Not anymore.

Yesterday, I found this on Roger's blog.

Harpoon Winter Warmer has been scratched from the Saturnalia line-up.

Because of bean counters.

I fucking hate bean counters.

I could swear that the stool across the table creaked when she sat down.

Or maybe it was something as simple as the way the sounds of the room changed, the way they had to take a different route as they bounced around the room. Or maybe the lights dimmed, just a little bit.

Whatever. Something happened.

I braced myself. Though I knew that it wouldn't do any good, though I knew that I never had been and never would be prepared, I braced myself for the sound of her voice.

"Hi, stranger," she said.

And there it was.

"Hi yourself," I said.

It was the best I could do. My mind was already racing. Why is she sitting across from me, and not next to me? Does she know? What will I say to her?

I bowed my head and closed my eyes. I didn't dare open them. I didn't dare look up. I couldn't look at her. It would ruin everything, if she saw my eyes.

"Haven't seen you around here in a while," she said. It was a question phrased as a statement.

"I was out of town last week," I answered. "And before that I was a little busy."

I held my breath.

"Busy?" she asked. "Doing what?"

Fuck.

She already knew. I could hear it in the crack of her voice.

"Who is she?" she asked softly.

I took a sip from my beer, and I swirled it around in my mouth.

This was my chance. I could put a stop to this right then and there. With one tiny little lie, I could finally end it.

I swallowed my beer.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't lie to her. Not even for this. Not even to set us both free.

"She's nobody," I answered.

"Nobody?" she asked. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive," I answered. "Nobody at all."

It was amazing, how effortlessly those words left my lips.

"Why should I believe you?" asked. There was, however, no accusation in her voice. She already knew the answer. She just wanted to hear me say it. To hear me admit it.

I raised my head. I could see her. She sat not three feet in front of me. I could smell her. Feel her heat. I could almost touch her.

I opened my eyes.

"Because you're here," I said to an empty stool.

I'm wondering, did she simply use me for my knowledge of beer and its various glassware?

And, after having gleaned that information, could she then find no other use for me?

Well I suppose that's okay.

It's not like I didn't get anything from the experience.

I checked her ass out every chance I got.

Nice.

Damn.

I had a thought.

Not more than five minutes ago, I had an actual thought.

But that train was derailed. Derailed by my cat Nugget deciding that now would be a good time to jump into my lap and finally welcome me home from Las Vegas.

Oh, what a good kitty Nugget is! Now go away.

Now to get that train back on the track.

I have no idea what I was thinking.

I bet it was about some girl though.

Because I never know when Evangeline Lilly is going to approach me and challenge me to a tongue-wresting match, I've been carrying these little Listerine thingies around with me all the time.

They look like thin sheets of plastic, and they dissolve almost instantly in my mouth. You've probably seen them.

Anyway, sliding one of the thingies out if its container and putting it on my tongue takes about two seconds, and makes my breath minty-fresh.

But when five or six of the things stick together, and I don't realize it until it's too late, they set my entire mouth on fire and make me for several painful moments regret that whole being born choice that I made many years ago.

I didn't say that this would be an interesting entry.

I like this. I wrote this back in February. When actual emotions ran though me.

"Dave, cheer the fuck up."

She'll say those words, and she'll look at me with her head tilted a little bit to the right. Maybe she'll think that having her head tilted like that will give her the best view of my transformation. My emergence from melancholy to effervescence, all because of the magic of her words.

"Now why didn't I think of that?" I'll ask, my words dripping with sarcasm. "Just cheer the fuck up, huh? Damn. I've been such a fool all this time. It's so clear to me now."

"I'm just trying to help," she'll protest.

I'll sigh a little. "No you're not," I'll say. "You're not trying to help me at all. You're just hoping that I'll cheer up so you won't feel so guilty."

"Why should I feel guilty?" she'll demand to know. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"I didn't say that you should feel guilty. I just said that you do." My voice will soften a little. "And you're right, you didn't do anything wrong."

"And I don't feel guilty either," she'll say.

"Yes you do," I'll say. "You wouldn't be here otherwise. You'd be over there with those assholes. They'd be more than happy to flash their fake smiles and laugh their phony laughs for you. You know that you'd feel comfortable with them, but you came to me instead."

"How come you're such an expert on what I'm feeling?" she'll ask. "Maybe I'm just here because I care about you."

"That's pretty convenient, don't you think? You find yourself in the same room with me and all of a sudden you decide to care about what I'm feeling? I don't buy it."

"What happened to you?" she'll ask. "I thought we were friends."

I'll sigh again. "I thought so too, once."

"And what about now?"

"Now, I don't think so," I'll say. "Now I don't think we're anything."

"Doesn't that bother you?" she'll want to know.

"More than words could ever say," I'll respond. "But it's the way it has to be."

"If that's the way you want it..." She'll get up to leave.

I'll reach out and put my hand on her arm. "That's not what I said."

"What is it you want from me?" she'll ask. She won't sit back down.

"It doesn't matter what I want," I'll answer. "It never has mattered what I want."

"Well what about what I want?" she'll whisper.

"Just tell me," I'll say.

"I want you to cheer the fuck up."

Then she'll go over to where the assholes are sitting. She'll tell them that she tried to cheer me up. And they'll flash their fake smiles and laugh their phony laughs, and she'll feel comfortable with them.

In real life, I would never be so cold to her.

In real life, she would never breach that subject with me.

In real life, we'd pretend that everything was fine.

(Written Saturday afternoon)

Three hours this time. Stupid Delta.

I'm sitting in the BBC bar at the Cincinnati airport, having a yummy Dark Star Porter (248). It's yummy.

Anyway.

I can still really feel Southern Indiana trying to repel me. I bet the plane used extra fuel as it carried me Eastward. I bet the pilot was concerned.

I am a salmon being forced to swim upstream, but I have no spawning to anticipate.

Back to the grind I go. No choice, really.

At least no choice that I'm willing to make. No chance that I'm willing to take.

Hey, that rhymed!

My Pulitzer awaits.

Update: it ended up being a four-hour layover because of the stupid weather on the East coast.

Update Again: My cats were glad to see me. I guess that's something.

(Written Friday night)

Man, this has been a week of boring entries. But that's okay. It means that there's been no drama stirring up crap in my head.

I suppose that will change though.

It always does.

The conference ended at 11:30 this morning. I didn't stick around to watch them clean up. I took a cab over to The Hard Rock so I could buy a souvenir glass and eat lunch at The Pink Taco. I'm not a huge fan of Mexican food, but I've always loved the enchiladas at The Pink Taco. Plus they seem to have a rule that only drop-dead gorgeous girls can work there. I was surrounded my supermodels and movie stars. So, just like my regular life back home. Not.

After lunch I took a cab over to New York New York. I stuck my head in ESPN Zone to see if PonytailGirl was working. She wasn't, so I went over to Nine Fine Irishmen.

I sat at the bar and the guy asked me, "Smithwick's for lunch?"

That's what I said to him every day when I was here in August. Pretty cool that he remembered.

So I had two Smithwick's (1444) then I dicked around New York New York for an hour or two. I really like that place. It's got style.

After I'd cabbed it back to The Rio I tried a couple of times to take a nap, but it never took.

And now I'm at The Tilted Kilt drinking a Tilted Kilt (526). The plan is to make this a short night because I have to get up at like 3:30 to leave.

Oh yeah, VegasDude finally called me back. He was quite apologetic. I told him not to worry about it.

Deschutes Black Butte Porter (4)

(bottle) Cola color. Roasted malt and caramel aroma. Fairly thin mouthfeel. The flavor was of cola and caramel. Slightly dry finish. Good.

Other than that, I had three more pints of Tilted Kilt (560), and I talked with HenPeckedGuy, then at around 10:00 I went up to my room and slept.