4th

4th

4th

(mis/re)direction!

Okay--

So, okay.

There's this:

http://www.howwearecurious.com

I've started working on the site, and I've installed an application called Movable Type 4 that will let me edit and re-work everything remotely. The basics are real simple, but customization is getting a bit overwhelming. I haven't played around with it too much yet, but I should have a lot more going on there over the next few weeks.

So, basically: This one is dead.

That's about it.

California Trip, Part 1

I've been jotting down bits of the trip I recently took to them Western Parts. These are jumbled, quasi-sequential entries trying to capture moments that stuck out in my head.

---

As a kid, I never imagined that my death would come at the base of a massive presidential shrine.

Well, at least not often.

But as we ascended Hwy 16 towards Mt Rushmore at breakneck speeds, fighting against some imagined throng of Labor Day-crazed tourists, it really didn't seem as implausible as one might imagine. With every twist in the road I could foresee finding that frictional limit--that point where the tires would squeal and the car would become airborne for an instant, only to collapse back to the ground in a mess of collapsing metal, shattering glass and frames that finally chose to rebel against their makers, fully aware that their poor, compatriot Crash Test Dummies were safely packed away elsewhere. The car would twist, contort and implode as much as it could before screeching to a halt wrapped around a Cosmos Mystery Area sign or, perhaps, in front of hole seven for one of the half dozen mini-golf resort areas we had passed.

I wasn't sure if I should feel more or less concerned; In the back, I felt I had the front seats and the bodies of both my accompanying relatives there to buffer me from harm. On the other hand, I felt a little concern that not only did I not have an airbag, but I was also stuck in the middle of the seats, with nothing but windshield directly in front of me. Also not helping me feel at ease was the ever-present bag of knives at the base of my feet. Most unnerving: I really didn't want a wad of cat shit to fall on my head if the car did go vertical.

An explanation: The past twenty-four hours had been spent travelling westward. My Dad was with me, as was his Aunt Kathy and her two cats, who weren't terribly fond of travel. In fact, three years earlier Kathy and I had made this 2200-mile voyage twice. The first time the cats bitched and complained and vomited and defecated freely. Once we learned that removing them from their cat carriers put them at ease, the journey went a bit smoother. I mean, I still reeked of cat ass by the end of each trip, but it wasn't as bad as it could've been.

For this trip my Father was along, and it was much more the chance to drive cross country as an adult with him than it was the thin pretext of helping my aunt drive back to her Palo Alto, CA home from her WI-based summer digs that spurred me along. I had spent the previous week moving and a previous morning unpacking frantically so that I could repack for the trip. We had left that following morning at 6am, driving an hour's drive North to meet outside of a BP in Portage, WI. Hugs were exchanged, coffee was purchased, and we were off. It was a solid eleven hours of driving to get us up to Rapid City, our vehicle feeling more like a misguided missile as we tore through the badlands and past the infamous Wal-Drug at speeds of up to 90mph. I was repeatedly chided by signs that made it clear that South Dakota was meat-territory, and that an animal-friendly vegetarian like myself had no business stopping to dine. Indeed, when we stopped at Sanford's Grub & Pub they had well over sixty menu items, but less than 10% of those that were meat-free. "Hunt, Fish, Trap, Game! we say," they said.

The next morning we caffeinated and made our way towards Mount Rushmore. Kathy was driving. Kathy was over Seventy. And over Seventy, driving. She insisted on kicking it off, telling us that we were to be active observers, checking out the beauty that was South Dakota. She also said that we needed time to wake up in the morning. But, slumped forward in her seat to peer over the steering wheel, dark sunglasses with massive rims that pressed tightly against her forehead, threatening to leave outlines that would not fade, she was not a sight that screamed it's okay--catch some shut-eye. Quite the opposite, as she tried to balance her coffee in one hand and stop the cat in her lap from leaping down by her feet, swerving around a corner at 70mph...I felt the coffee in my hand was, perhaps, unnecessary.

I nervously shot glances behind us as she would inevitably swerve into the adjoining lane rather than slow her ascent, only to swerve back over on the straightaway. I lost feeling in my right hand as I gripped the door handle next to me. I tried to keep my over-active mind satiated by reading the passing signs. It was also not a comfort when I realized that Kathy was doing the same, taking her eyes completely off the road to deliver unto us the history of Black Hills Gold or, sometimes, to express her concern that Memorial Day must bring out the worst drivers, as each of them managed to accidentally depress their horn as they hurtled past us (or swerved away).

After a few more assaults on my nerves we arrived at Mount Rushmore. The girl in the check-in booth looked as satisfied with her lot in life as she was pleased to see us before their opening hours. She informed Aunt K that her "Golden Ticket" wouldn't bypass the parking fee, so we paid up and found a spot in the Lincoln Lot. Mount Rushmore is one of those things that I feel I should see sometime, but didn't feel an enormous amount of pressure to make it happen. This was justified, I feel. We saw Mountain Goat, and that was interesting. Mount Rushmore was cool to look at for a few moments, but it wasn't quite as polished as I had expected and not nearly as big. Once the crowds started arriving we had had our fill, and we hit the road again.

* * *

"That's the sort of thing Marge would never agree to try," says my dad, as I refill my coffee. It's less than an hour after hurtling back down the mountain (Up the mountain, coming down slowly? Not even close.) and my aunt has just finished an IQ-Test provided for us at our table. We're at a diner in Keystone, at the base of Rushmore. It's a one-road tourist trap. There are several knick-knack stores, a few jewelers, restaurants and motels. The IQ-Test set in front of us is a triangle with several holes for pegs. The game is to piggy-back one over another to each empty hole, the ultimate goal to have one peg remaining at the end of the day. Marge is my Grandmother on my Mother's side, who has in recent months taken residence in my parent's house.

"She must fear looking weak," adds Speed Rac--adds Kathy, having just finished the puzzle in two goes. I slide it my direction and start picking out the pegs, which coat my fingers with what appears to be sugar. It seems someone has dumped a packet into the game.

My dad agrees, "For sure. She won't even respond to any sort of riddle or challenge."

I end my first run with three pegs. Damn it. I vaguely register Kathy continuing Marge's evaluation, and I start the puzzle again. Two pegs are left at the end of round two. The waiter shows up with my toast and hashbrowns. On my third try I hit one peg.

"I did it in two," Kathy adds, swallowing a mouthful of eggs.

"So, what's the plan?" I ask. "Which route are we taking from here?"

I really want to know if we're heading South towards Cheyenne or back up to I-90. I've been pushing my agenda of skirting Deadwood since well before the trip began. I avidly watched the HBO series months back and am jonesing for a lawless fix.

"If we stay on alternate-16, it'll loop back to regular-16 into Wyoming and take us back to I-90," my dad says.

"We're not going back up through Rapid City? Because that'd be a huge detour." He shakes his head no. "But isn't it also a huge detour to go up North and loop back around South to get onto Hwy 16 down there?"

"No," he says. "We just stay on this highway."

I press on. "Wouldn't it make more sense to just take 385 from here, back up to I-90?"

"No," says Kathy. "Hwy 16 is the way to take."

I resign from the topic and focus on my hashbrowns. For a bit. We talk about the Crazyhorse monument they're carving, which is shooting to be the largest freestanding sculpture in the world. After a few minutes, I pretend to look at the atlas some more. "Look," I say. "16 loops back South and then we have to go North to get to the Highway. Isn't that backwards? Wouldn't it be much faster to get on the interstate quicker?"

Dad looks. "No--it's about the same distance. This area you're looking it isn't that big, we're not travelling out of our way."

"But," I say, "we've got to get onto I-90 at some point anyway. Is there any real reason to go that way instead of this way?"

"It is about the same distance," Dad concedes.

"We need to head West," says Kathy. "16 is the way you're supposed to take from here, we don't want to backtrack towards Rapid City."

"Well, it's not really backtracking..."

I jump in with my final attempt. "Look--as far as I can tell, there is no discernible difference between these two routes other than I have a vested interest in one over the other. Neither of you care the slightest bit about Hwy 16. There's nothing of note along the way. How is it possibly going to hurt to let me have this?"

They shrug agreements and the bill arrives. My dad looks down at the IQ Test puzzle, which has been placed in front of him. "You both solved this?" he asks. We nod. "Then I'm not trying it."

"What?" I ask, incredulous. "Kathy solved it in two tries, I solved it in three. It's not that rough."
"Right. what if I can't do it? Too much pressure!"

Aunt Kathy laughs. "You are a total chicken, John, and I'll never let you forget it."

* * *

We've just passed the Church of Scientology, in downtown San Francisco. Nobody remarks on this. We're not crazy people.

The trolley behind us might fight us on that point. We've already circled the Transamerica Pyramid three times, with Kathy making sure to stay in the "BUS ONLY" lane with each pass. Maybe we are a bus, but I doubt it. Thick, steel cables are erected above us, stretching the length of the street and criss-crossing in bizarres patterns that lead me to wonder how the trolley's don't get caught in a mess of tangled wires.

Someone honks. We no longer notice.

"I'm on Montgomery and State," a voice tells me over the phone. We're trying to meet up with my cousin David, a newfound CA resident who has just ferried over from Mare Island in Vallejo. I relay this to the others.

"No left turn," shouts Dad. "No left turns anywhere!" He turns back to me. "Why is he there and not here? Tell him to come this way."

I tell him. "Where is 'this way'?" he asks.

"Where is this way?"

"By the big pyramid. Why is he not--tell him to walk four blocks east."

"Walk four blocks--"

"Run."

"Run four blocks east," I correct.

"There's no left turns! Why can we not go left?" My dad is like a deranged Seinfeld.

David runs four blocks and manages to sprint to our car while we're stuck in traffic. My dad spends the time leading up to this reflecting on better days, when he could rap my cousin on the head for irritating him. "Now he'll just rap me back!" he cries.

Before Picking up David we had stopped by Japantown. Japantown is just like the real Japan, only with 45% less tentacles. We had followed Geary from the Cliff House all the way to the Japan Center, only to find the beginning of our Left Turn Blues. At the Cliff House we had wandered around inside awkwardly, only to discover that every floor is also a restaurant. We hung outside by the ocean, watching surfers in the distance, who in turn were watching the ocean much closer than we were. They'd wait for a few wave cycles before intuitively paddling out to meet an as-yet-invisible wave, pivoting once they reached it to frantically paddle in an effort to match speed and direction. Once they did so they would hop to their feet and play Jesus. Only, Jesus didn't fall into the water after busting a few tricks, I don't think.

After a few right turns to compensate for our unexpected ambiturner status, we made our way to Japantown and parked. Japantown is essentially a collection of Japanese-oriented malls. Whereas Chinatown is to some degree a haven for Chinese culture and language, Japantown is more a place for Japanophiles to drop their jaws. And my jaw was dropped, slightly.

I perused shops of Sake Carrafes and Pocky. Hello Kitty was out in great abundance, and there were several places to pick up 'authentic' kimono robes and wooden shoes. I found a store that sold imported Japanese video games and was disappointed to see that they only had titles that had already found an American niche.

"Excuse me."

A clerk stopped and looked my way.

"These are imported?"

"Hai." Very Japanese.

"Do you have the second Osu Tatake Ouendan release?"

Silence.

"...for the DS?" I add.

"We have Bleach," he says, pointing to a $60 fighting game import, "and Naruto."

"Awesome."

I walk out of the store, disappointed. In the end I grab two purses, for my sister and also one for the girlfriend. I grab a box of rice candy, not really sure who will be receiving it but aware that it makes a nice souvenir. I ogle some wooden practice swords a store is selling for $10 a pop before conceding that it'd be a difficult item to get onto the plane when we fly back home. At this point David calls to let us know that he is at the Ferry Building and going to head a few blocks away.

After successfully rendevouzing with David, he updates us on school and moving out the California way. David is just a few months older than me and was one of my closer relatives growing up. His family lived in Syracuse, so we only saw them once a year or so. He had actually just visited on a WI pitstop when he drove from New York to California, moving for Med School and putting our 2200-mile journey to shame. He explains how he and one of his female roommates are both ENFP's--or some such nonsense--which is apparently very exciting. I'd feel out of the loop but I just remind myself that this is the kid who introduced me to Magic: The Gathering and I'm instantly less interested.

We head to Ghirardelli Square. I haven't eaten anything save a piece of toast 8-9 hours earlier, so I push for grabbing some grub. My dad wants to check out Lois's (which he keeps pronouncing as Loris's), which seems to be a 50's-diner-esque burger joint. I'm angling for the fact that it's our last night before flying back home, so when my aunt suggests McCormick's for drinks, I say let's eat.

After settling down at a table and talking hops with the bartender (more or less to compensate for my Aunt talking Wine Shop), I realize that I'm a bit out of my element. I do eat Seafood, but I have no idea how to order it. I eat some fish, but I can get picky on it and I don't like the idea of being able to recognize my food. I settle for crab & shrimp cakes, which seem to be priced more for the decorative element than the actual content of the food. My aunt gets a "salad" or, rather, a head of lettuce cut in half and sprinkled with dressing and bacon.

Don't get me wrong--the food's good. The food's too good, actually. I'm not accustomed to places like this. McCormick's is where my Aunt took me three years ago. She's a big fan of the Ghirardelli Square action. The view is magnificent; The bay is stretched out before us, the sun is setting and Alcatraz Island lies in the backdrop. I eat my food, drink my beer, and accept some seared tuna from Kathy. She seems to be testing us a bit, and when I reject an offering of ginger I feel I'm losing some sort of undefined battle of wills. I've had ginger--I enjoy ginger, I just don't care for it on its own. With Sushi, sure, but with Crab Cakes? I backpedal and try some.

After declining desert and letting Aunt Kathy pick up the tab, we hit Ghirardelli for some chocolate. I get a waffle cone and the girl compliments me on my name, which happens from time to time. Because I'm awesome. And pretending not to notice that my receipt says 'Lennon', I head to watch some Chocolate being made and wait for my ice cream, which immediately drips all over my white shirt.

Because I'm awesome.

We cruise art galleries and mock some tourists. We are so hip. There's a Warhol exhibit. Kathy is excited about a doodler, a doodler doodling doodles that look familiar.

"Did that guy do a lot of stuff for the New Yorker?" I ask.

My aunt nods. I thought so. I thought it looked familiar. We browse his exhibit and I pretend not to notice the blurb on his 50 year collaboration with Playboy. After two galleries and a few manic bathroom hunts, we hang outside on the street and try not to obviously watch the drunks. At first thought I believed myself to be avoiding eye contact with homeless people, but soon realized it was just a guy in baggy clothes who was tanked. He shouts to someone across the street to make sure they know how blitzed he is. I buy some cheap souvenirs--a coffee mug and a snowglobe--figuring that I should return with trinkets for the woman.

The snow globe cracks in my luggage courtesy airport staff (or physics). The coffee mug stays intact.

Kind of.

Two nights later, back in the odd comfort of my new apartment, I present both items to Kate. I feel bad about the snowglobe, which hasn't completely broken but leaks a little nonetheless. She likes the coffee mug, which is vibrant, purple and I think it captures a San Franciscan Sunset better than a $6.99 cup should. She frowns for a moment, and says "I think this is meant to just be a decorative thing."

"Why?"

She hands the mug back to me, pointing out a sticker that proclaims This item WILL expose you to lead and cadmium, two elements known to cause birth defect and miscarriage in the state of California.

"So?" I shrug. "It's two presents in one."

* * *

SciFi

As a rule of thumb I tend to avoid SciFi books. Nothing personal, they just don't usually capture my interest. But! There are exceptions:

Star WarsLegacy of The Force: The biggest exception, I've been hooked on the Post-Return of The Jedi books since just after high school. Not all of them, but there were a few good miltary-strategem focused books that detailed the war with the Imperial Remnant that I enjoyed, and there was a twenty-book New Jedi Order story arc that took place about 25 years after the 'last' movie (chronologically) that I worked through. It was fairly epic, they didn't shy away from killing billions of people over the five years it covered, and that includes major characters.

A couple of years later they released a three-book story that wasn't terribly good but did take place ~35 years after the last movie, so it followed up on some of the characters from the NJO storyline. Another year or so later they started putting out a nine-book arc called Legacy of The Force that is currently a little over 40 years after ROTJ and is extremely dark and political.
Much of it is reminding me of 24, with its interrogation, torture and remorseless murder, but what keeps striking me is that some of it would probably be really well received if they changed the fact that it was Star Wars. There's a lot of subtext and existentialism, all against a backdrop of political betrayals and questions of terrorism and the cost of safety vs. freedom, which is incredibly relevant for today's governmental practices, but is again lost because, hey--Wookies.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy: Douglas Adams is amazing. I read these in third grade (sans Mostly Harmless, which had not yet been released) and then again a few years back. I was going to pick up the Radio Scripts that the books spawned from the other day, but held off in lieu of the backlog I'm already working through.

Neil Gaiman: I've read parts of Good Omens and it was excellent, but I fell off and stopped reading it. I've read his children's books--which are worth checking out just for Dave McKean's art--and his slightly older audience (not by much) book Coraline, which I guess they're making into a movie? I really want to check out American Gods and Neverwhere, the former of which he won a good few awards for.

Ender's Game: Really the point of this whole post--I just started it last night, it's very decent so far. I loved when his older brother threatened to murder him and claim it was an accident, then went into a rant about how he was going to make sure it happened in a few years just so their sister could look back on this childish coversation and feel guilty for even suspecting that he was serious all along. That aside, the dialogue is good and enough people have told me to read that I expect it to be pretty damn clever.

Dune: Frank Herbert is also amazing. It took me three attempts to get over the 100-page hump that starts the book off, but it's hard to put down once you get into the swing of it. And the series gets so goddamn epic later on, 4000 years into the future... Craziness. I really just need to finish the fifth book and be done with it, but it's another one I walked away from and I'm not sure how easy it would be to pick back up.

(edit: [sic] this is to be expounded, I've had to break for work work)

Securing Future Properties

This morning I had to drop Kate off at her dorms before heading to work. It's about a twenty-minute drive, and about 100 blocks in one direction. At one point I began coasting down in speed as I approached a red light. The red light turned green right as I was coming to a complete stop, but the car ahead of me hadn't noticed. So, I stopped.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Honk.

Seems reasonable enough, no? The person in front of us tossed their hands in the air, in a universal "What's the problem?" gesture, and drove off. They proceeded to stay directly in front of us for the next 25 blocks, and turned before us at the same light we were veering right on. It was about that point in the trip when Kate kind of said "Oh no. I think I know which sister that is." 'Sister?' She pointed out the Rosary hanging from the rearview mirror (I like to call it the Trigun Necklace).

I had honked at a Nun.

Sure enough, as we approached Mt. Mary College the car in front of us turned into the parking lot. Since I was going to be pulling right up to the sidewalk and letting Kate hop out of the car, an open target for the ire of a Nun who would certainly not fail to notice that she was returning to campus in the morning hours--and with an asshole who honks at Nun's, no less--I drove one block up, spun around and came back, hoping that my purposeful overshot of the campus parking lot would withdraw my car from the short-term memory bank.

I'm still not sure if it worked. I hope not, because then I'll have an interesting follow-up story.

*

Last week I had a dream that I was one of four chosen from a crowd to have a drinking competition. It is worth noting that I also saw Beerfest for the first time two weeks ago, which is undoubtedly why I felt subconsciously my Inebriation Preoccupation should be tested. It was simple: There were three of us, each with three drinks of varying sizes. The middle size was Sprecher Amber, and the largest and smallest sizes were both light drinks, such as Mike's Hard Lemonade, which I thought was silly. You drank them. First done, won.

I start chugging the largest first, and quickly notice that the other two guys are not participating. I realize I have jumped the gun and swap my glass out for a full one. They then tell us to start and again I notice that the other two guys are barely sipping away. I look around, confused, hoping I can figure out why. Seeing no reason, I go back to slamming mine down. One of the other guys takes few steps towards me, nudges me and points into the crowd. It seems I was mistaken, and there are actually four of us contending. The fourth person apparently suffers from Cerebral Palsy and is wheelchair-bound. The little guy is trying to keep up, but he can't hold his glass properly and is spilling copious amounts of beer and lemonade on himself. The other two guys are tossing the game for him; They feel bad.

At first, I follow suit. But I almost immediately have a lightning stike of dream-logic brilliance, and I realize exactly what is going on. The kid in the wheelchair is playing for a charity, and if he wins he'll donate the money to CP research. The other two guys don't feel their respective charities are on equal footing, and want to help him. I realize--with utter clarity--that if I win I can match every penny this kid would have received to put towards his NPO-of-choice, and that I will do so, in his name--an incredible act of selflessness that will earn me total adoration (and still net me like Eight Grand in prize money). I am amazing.

So I slam my drinks. It is done. The kid looks devestated and the two other guys look pissed. The group throwing this contest seems a bit baffled, but stumble over and hand me my prize money. The crowd begins to boo and rise from their seats. Spastic Boy has knocked over his drink now because, hey--kid's got Cerebral Palsy, give him a goddamn break--and now he's--is he crying? Oh, what the fuck. Someone hosting the event leans in close and tells me that I'd better get out of there, so I do. Winding down side streets, as I make my away from the mob and the uproar, I realize how wrong my original math was... and that I won't be able to make that proxy donation after all. Huh.

Should I feel bad that this is how I act in my dreams? Or, should I just be grateful that I'm not that bad in actual life? Probably I should just feel bad that I kind of wish I was.

Busywork

I'm actually waiting to leave work so that I can pursue my true passion. Here's a hint: It's the cause and solution to all things.

A. L. L.


But whilst I wait for others to take the floor, here's a top-off of what I'm currently up to:

* How We are Curious!

I started a website to host the music I've recorded, and I ported over my recording equipment. I have not set any of this up yet and try as I might I don't get home as often as I'd like.

* Things We Shout at The Ground (in no particular order)

Stalemated. For now. There's still talk about striking up a small publication. Y'know--for funsies. I would say this has temporarily taken a backseat to other pursuits.

* Team mUtah! ((2.0))

Frisbees! Adam and I are the only post-apocalyptic survivors of the original Team mUtah!, our Ultimate Frisbee team (an ill-fated one, I might add). The original was a hodgepodge group of more newcomers than anything and we quickly took the back of the pack in our League. We did score, like, 10 points once. That was awesome.

Adam and I have joined a Thursday League that starts up April 19th. This means Thursdays will now be Frisbee, followed by Beer and Pizza at The Lodge. Pretty awesome, if you ask me. Which you didn't. Thanks, asshole. Thanks a lot.

* Death By Nerf

Mike and I have started work on a webcomic. I've written a few scripts and guidelines, he's drafted up a layout for the site. We're waiting until we have an arsenal of strips ready to go (Say thirty or so) before we actually put anything up, but we have a domain registered and are actively pursuing this. Maya is looking to contribute, also. In the few strips we have cemented we have appearances by Olmec, Gak, a man with the head of a horse (for a head, not for funsies), and the 4th wall is broken. Pretty sure that all spells "Terrible Webcomic", but what can you do?

We're trying to tiptoe around the fact that "Nerf" is in our title, and we are refraining from referring to it as anything other than a word. It is not prevalent in the comic. We're also realizing that we need to decide on a visual aesthetic for the art and try to come up with alter-ego characters that don't blatantly resemble Penny-Arcade, CtrlAltDel, Applegeeks, etc... characters. And we need to learn some PHP and figure out an update schedule. My guess is June we'll try to have something up. The layout Mike sketched is pretty badass. I dig it.

-more to come-

Escaping work, now.

Shenaniganza

I'm awful at this thing.

The second to last Saturday ago was St Patrick's Day. St Pat, as some of you may know, was the Patron Saint of Awesome. He was in charge of getting drunk and playing Tetris, and sometimes he even was the Patron Saint of...other things. Such as when your friend is taking one for the team, and you just don't know what team, or even why, so you just steal the chick's little brother's Drum Game and stay up until the w[ee/ii] hours of the night, drumming away to Material Girl and Chumbawumba like there's just no tomorrow, fighting the dawn with PBR after PBR. After you finally can't see straight enough to stop the gay dancing wolves from mocking you, calling you out and you amble out to the porch, beer in hand, shaking your fist at the sun and saying "Seriously--Ridge Racer? On Oni? Thats heavy shit, right there." He's kind of the Patron Saint of that.

Which is, y'know--awesome.

5:10 am I wake and amble upstairs to find the bathroom occupied. I sit for a moment, glare at the wall, and shuffle back downstairs. 5:20 am I shuffle back up and brandish my fist towards the closed door. 5:30 am it opens and I offer urination rights to those who desire them, as I feel urination should come before shower. It's just a good practice to take up. Little did I know that the bathroom would soon be commandeered. 5:50 am I get my chance and I am in and out and dressed and contacted-all-up by 5:56 am.

We walk to Paddy's Pub, a few blocks away. I order a round of Gunnei for those surrounding me and we make our way inside. Because I paid for the first round of drinks it's only natural that in waiting for my change I am the last to the seats and get the honor of standing. Fuckers. Fucker Fuckers. I consume two beers and wander home, grabbing a stray battery for my cell phone and finishing the process of waking up. It is now 7:15 am, I walk to McDonalds and then to Bar #2, Rascal's. I drink a green miller lite solo-style, then walk over to Bar #3, BBC's. We shoot pool and eat chips and salsa and drink pitchers of Bitter Woman IPA which is neither Irish nor Green but hey--fuck Women who are also bitter, right? and then we walk to Bar #4, Vittuci's. By this point it is a quarter of nine and hey--shots? Why the hell not, right? Shots and T-Shirts all around, courtesy Adam, and Jake mans up and takes his first. I'll be damned if I'm going to let Jake out-alcoholic me and I slam mine back, too. The others follow. We walk outside. Hey, I say. If Jake can handle his liquor, then I c--Jake handles his The Knot shot all over the sidewalk. And, your mom--because she happens to be there. Weird, right?

McDonalds again and we walk to Bar #5, Halliday's. Crazy Paul drops $30 on shots for us, who he does not know. Jameson? It's 11--why not? We shoot darts and drink gree--hey, look... it's Paul again. Thirty more dollars in shots? Okay. Okay, Paul. Okay. We drink green beer and shoot more darts and--okay, what the fuck? No, Paul. $90 worth of shots for people you do not know is not okay. Or it is so okay. I forget. We steal wall decals and we leave.

Bar #6, Up-&-Under. Pool is played, which is new. Beer is had, which is green and also new. Bakery break!

B a k e r y ' s a r e d e l i c i o u s.

Bar #7, Scaffidi's. Pool is--too damn full. Beer. Mmm, beer.

Bar #8, Wolski's. Beer. Mmm, beer.

Bar #9, Judges. Nobody is here. Bar #9 becomes Qdoba. Qdoba becomes home. It is now 3:30 pm. I sleep. It is now 6:05 pm.

People appear, in small groups or alone, and beer is begun anew. It's a party. Party things happen. We invent new, clever games. Such as Flip a Card and Take a Drink, which soon becomes Say a Number and Drink that many and eventually I'm Going to Spin This Quarter and You Drink While it Spins, okay? which is a good game. Shots! Pictures! Woo! There is a guy passed out on the floor, sleeping in a bed of stick-it notes and gummi worms. People have pictures taken of his head + their balls. Eventually a cab is called. The driver is told to take The Body to 35th and Viliet. The Body climbs in the back, grateful for such nice strangers as to get a cab to take him somewhere.

He is never heard from again.

The end.