Whew!

I made it though the last three nights, and this fuckwad of a month is effectively over for me. Tonight I'll get to enjoy a relatively stress-free Saturday.

It'll probably be boring.

Anyway, last night I got to Rich O's at around 8:30. The parking lot was only about half full, plus there were about 20 people all leaving at the same time. It looked like they were having a fire drill or something. So it was strange to walk inside and see that the place was completely packed. Not a place to sit anywhere.

I waved at SpikeBoy, who was looking quite miserable on the throne surrounded by weirdoes, and went and stood at the end of the bar. I had myself a Spezial (880) and talked with GlassesGirl for a few minutes, then LibertyGirl, and then RealTrainGirl came in so we moved four feet and stood in the annex for a while.

After a bit, MisunderstoodGirl came in, and actually talked to us. No, really. She was in a talkative mood. That was quite a nice surprise.

Finally, some idiots left the island. About fifty people scrambled for the seats, but only six people succeeded. My friends and I were three of them, the others were some PBDs that I don't know.

So we spent the rest of the night just drinking and talking. My second beer was a Rogue Imperial Stout (36), available on tap. Yummy, but deadly.

My last beer was something new for me:

Schneider Aventinus Weizen Doppelbock (20)

(draft) Good, but not as good as everyone else seems to think. Nothing noteworthy at all. I'd describe some details but there really aren't any. It's just a beer.

When my voice becomes weak and raspy, is it because I've gone hoarse from screaming, or is it because I no longer have the strength to shout?

I can still whisper my thoughts, but there's nobody close enough to hear.

The thing about jigsaw puzzles is this: it can be the most beautiful puzzle ever made, but if there's a piece missing it's nothing more than a pile of cardboard, capable of bringing nothing but disappointment.

For those of you with lives, those of you that don't have the great beers of the world memorized so you can recognize them simply from the bottle, this is Delirium Tremens. One of the world's finest beers.

This is my desert island beer.

And it's fitting that I'm drinking this now, because while I often feel like I am very much alone on an island, this day, with its crowding and its socializing and its obligations, this day magnifies that feeling more than any other. You can be completely surrounded, but if the right person isn't there, you're still alone.

That's an official Delirium Tremens glass, too. I used to have two of these glasses. This one's mate is far away now.

Part of my problem is that I read too much into things. I look for hidden signs everywhere. And not just signs. I have to look for the bad in everything I see. And I keep looking until I find it.

I can take the most heartfelt compliment and twist it into an insult. I can take the simplest greeting and turn it into a goodbye. This is my super power. But I don't use it to ward off evil, I use it to ward off everything and everyone.

Well, almost everyone.

Why, I wonder, can't I ever recognize good for what it is? Why is it that I can immediately see the bad, but when something good presents itself I must transform it into something else?

I dunno. Probably because I'm a dumbass.

So I'm drinking my symbolic beer (379), my second of this night. Later I'm going to have a third. Good thing I'm staying home tonight. After I drink my beers I'm going to go downstairs and shoot some pool. Maybe make some movies if I can remember to turn the camera on.

It's midnight now. November 24th is over. Good riddance.

President Bush's aide said, "Mr. President, I've afraid I have some bad news. Something terrible has happened."

"What's happened?" the President asked.

"There's been an uprising in South America, and over a thousand Brazilian people have been killed," the aide told him.

The president buried his face in his hands for a few seconds as he tried to come to grips with this news. In his head he was already preparing the statement he'd make to offer his sympathies. But he needed more information.

He raised his head and asked his aide, "How many people are in a brazillion?"

When you're concerned about having a nervous breakdown, then merely being irritated all night could almost count as having a good time.

Almost.

Last night was Virtual Friday because of Thanksgiving.

Yay!

The night before Thanksgiving is, traditionally, one of the busiest nights of the year for bars.

Boo!

I've seen bigger crowds at Rich O's, but not very many. I don't think that I've ever seen a more irritating crowd though.

So I didn't do much in the way of socializing. Talked for a while with this one dude who doesn't get a nickname.

To drink, I had a couple pints of Spezial RauchBier (860) then a half-pint of Smithwick's (630).

It was all quite dull. It definitely could have been better. It absolutely could have been much worse.

Well I struggled with this decision for a long time, but finally I made my choice.

I'm not going to write about what this date is. Was. Could have been.

Not because I don't remember, and not because I don't care.

Nope, I'm not going to write about it because that would be a privilege, not a right. And it's a privilege that I haven't been granted.

So I won't be writing a thing.

There's this one chick.

I'm not going to embarrass her by naming her here. She'll know who she is.

I think she's a fantastic writer. I've felt that way since I first discovered her, what seems like years ago, but I wasn't really able to say why I liked her writing so much. I mean, I was physically capable of saying it, and there was never any prohibition against saying it, I just couldn't find the proper words to describe my reasoning.

I may have found the words.

When I first read her journal, for a few joyous minutes, I thought she was someone else. Too quickly, I learned the truth, and I was a little disappointed with that knowledge. I wanted the person I thought she was, I wanted her to be the one writing those beautiful words.

Since then, I've gotten to know the real person behind those flowing phrases and I'm no longer disappointed. I'm blessed, and I'm glad that I was wrong when I thought she was someone else.

But the thing is, even though I know who's really doing the writing, when I read her words they go straight to my heart and, for just an instant, I forget what I know. For just an instant, I imagine that someone else writes those words. Sometimes I even imagine that I write them myself.

Her writing does that for me. It speaks the words that my heart wants to speak, but cannot. Or, it lets my heart hear the words that it's dying to hear, but which would not be spoken otherwise. That's why I think she's a fantastic writer - because her words, once written, don't need her anymore. Her words, once written, go to where they are needed the most, and they give voice to what would otherwise be silent.

Her words fill the silence in my soul with music that it can dance to. Even when it's a sad song, it feels good to dance.