I kind of knew that this past weekend would be awesome - friends, booze, a lake - but I didn't realize that it could possibly be this huge. Awesomely, fantastically huge. Perfect company, perfect planning, perfect weather. Dude, there was a reggae band, and they totally said, "Have lots of kids. We'll have a limbo party."

Let's just do this quick-hit style. It's not really possible to put it into words, so we'll run down the highlights:
- I missed the Whippy Dip, sadly. However, I arrived by 11:30, and finished my third beer by 11:42. So much for cutting back.
- With regard to the crowd, it had been 2 months since I'd seen Nemo, 3 months since I'd seen Jenny, 7 months since I'd seen Deedz, 13 months since I'd seen Harper, and 22 months since I'd seen Tina and Karen. It may have been the first time all seven of us were actually in the same location at the same time, though this is unconfirmed.
- A Harper pie is two slices of bread with anything inside. It's stuffed in some sort of sandwich maker and thrown in a fire. It's awesome. My first Harper pie was stolen, and featured pepperoni, pizza sauce, and mozzarella. Totally awesome. (On Saturday, Harper pies were stuffed with apple pie filling. I didn't manage to snag one, though I totally got some s'mores.)
- About 12:30, we called Tina & Jenny to check on arrival status. We called from my phone. Tina picked up, excited. Ben was on the other end. Ben then pulled off a Rd impression for a solid three minutes. He ended the conversation not by saying, "Goodbye," or "Talk to you later," or, "Can't wait to see you!" but, instead, by saying, "Check ya." "Check ya!" They totally bought it, as evidenced by Tina saying to Ben, five minutes later, "It's so good to hear your voice!" (We would later learn that Tina thought "Andrew" sounded "a little off," and communicated this to Jenny shortly after the call.)
- Jenny and Tina moved 4.5 miles in three hours. Jenny committed an unspeakably awesome act during this time.
- When Jenny and Tina arrived (2:30, I seem to recall), we weren't allowed to ride on top of their car to the bonfire. Something about near-death experiences. Sigh.
- All told, we cashed in at about 4. 3:45, maybe. I didn't snore a lick, Deedz would report.

- - - - -

Interlude
Besides the company and the all-around fantastic-ness, the best part of the weekend was clearly the institution of the "Two put-ups for every putdown" game. I think it's a remnant of Nemo's elementary school summer camp days.

Simple math: Put someone down, and you're required to put them up, twice.

Standard guy-to-guy put-up: "I like your shirt. You're awesome at soccer."
Standard guy-to-girl put-up: "You have a nice personality. You have a nice smile."

Items that came up as put-ups this weekend included sandal quality, ability to throw a Frisbee, waterskiing ability, perhaps, photography skills, sunglasses (proper colored), eyeglasses (yellowed), toenails (hideous, but not as bad as they could be), and ability to make up games.

I also applied it at work today. Perhaps it's a bastardization, and perhaps I shouldn't've done it but, well, it's fun.

During volleyball, for instance: "That bump sucked. I like your necklace. Your haircut looks good."

Quite fun.

The downside is that it probably encourages putdowns. The upside is that the put-ups are really fun.

- - - - - - - - -

- Saturday started with doughnuts. Doughnuts. (French toast, and coffee, and fruit, and bagels, but mostly doughnuts.) Also, confirmation that I didn't snore, which is reassuring.
- The morning cruised. Dock hanging-out. Tubing. Double-no-handedness. Swimsuit analysis. Totally hetero sunscreening.
- Lunch brought us burgers.
- Then, cornhole. Cornhole concluded with an incredible Deedz-Rd victory, including, I seem to remember, a called cornhole shot, and then, most certainly, a spontaneous crabwalk. A crabwalk! T.O. would've been proud, and might just use it as his own. (Deedz and I would close out the best-of-three later that evening, though Carrie and I were clearly the stars of that round.)
- I think we're getting old. Shortly after cornhole, we fell asleep. Or sat there. Or laid there. On the dock. Conked out. Awesomely dead because we'd been active for, what, 45 minutes?
- At one point, I pissed Nemo off. I said I'd rather sit outside on the pontoon than watch the Tigers. It was beautiful outside. And, as I said, rather assholically, "It's a game in the middle of June." Conversation was better because we didn't go inside to watch the Tigers.
- I redeemed myself by playing dock Frisbee.
- The night was truly the EPOTM, which is to say the Engagement Party of the Millennium. The food was boss. (Beef, coconut rice, chicken with some mango, corn with something called vanilla butter. Suffice to say, Ben did not choose the menu.) There were mai-tais, and my borrowed Hawaiian shirt was a subtle hit. Tina absolutely killed at limbo, though Carrie was pretty good. (She later admitted to fantastically playing to the crowd by continuing to hold her beer as the bar got lower and lower. A nice touch.) There was a conga line. It didn't really catch hold. Perhaps too early.
- Didi taught me that "every reggae song sounds the same," which I kind of knew, but it was reassuring to hear someone echo the opinion. The only white dude in the band, also the lead guitarist, was forced to stand at the back of the stage.
- For the first time in all of our lives, the Wildcats were definitely the life of the party.
- We also took an E2 Pyramid photo. I think it was my idea, and I know I was sober when I came up with it, but that doesn't make it make sense.
- I cashed in about 1:45. Others were earlier. A few were later. I think everyone made it to a bed.
- Deedz confirmed that I indeed snored that night. Though, after a stern lecture, and instructions to roll over to my stomach, I responded with, "Oh, okay, cool," and was out. And silent.

- - - - - -

Lesson Learned

When someone asks, "Can this dock handle all of us for this potentially fantastic sunset photograph?" and Harps says, "Nope," it's bet not to arrange said photograph.

This was learned, on two occasions.
1) When the dock collapsed.
2) When, the next morning, we were told, "Hey, the dock's floating in the middle of the lake."

No worries, though, Harps totally (kind of) fixed it. That man's the man.

- - - - - - -

Sunday was a hidden gem, though Jenny and Didi weren't there to experience. The Cats made it to Sunday...nobody else did.

What this meant? More dock frisbee. More hangout. Deli sandwiches. Another few runs on the boat. (Including, if I might say, a fantastic tube battle between myself and Harps. It's fitting that it ended 1-1-1, because anything else would've seemed unjust.)

Eventually, a 3:30 departure. A 7:50 arrival home. Perfect.

- - - - - - -

For the record, I missed MI-127 Southbound once on the way in, and once on the way out. In the first case, I was avoiding Michigan International Speedway. In the second, I was avoiding a Starbucks billboard. I suck.

- - - - - - -

I wish I could've communicated the awesomeness of the weekend properly. Maybe I'll express it better another time. Unlikely though.

- - - - - - - -

As this is the most finely scheduled summer in the history of my scheduled summers (this is my first, to be certain), I've got a Gurs-trip this weekend. Gurs, yes!

A quick one, because I'd like to write something about my dad. It was Father's Day over the weekend after all, and I chose to call, though I was in a food coma when we spoke and was, therefore, pretty unresponsive.

I like my dad for a lot of reasons, none of them particularly interesting or illuminating. Mostly, he's a nice guy. And he's a funny guy. And he's pretty smart, too.

Examples of funny:
Mom: "Gene. I'm going to go jump in the shower."
Dad: "Be careful."

Funny.

Dad, circa 1989: "Memory's the second thing to go, you know."
Me, 9 years old: "What's the first?"
Dad: "I can't remember!"
Me: Laughing. Probably, like, eight minutes straight.

My dad never, never, resorts to any of the terrible classics. (For instance, "I'm so old, we didn't even have history when I was in high school.") He only resorts to the hilarious classics. (For instance, "Did you get a haircut?" "No, I got 'em all cut," etc., etc., etc.)

I also like my dad because he's Polish. Therefore, we often have kielbasa on Christmas. Kielbasa's great because it stays with your belches, say, minimum three days. Pretty awesome.

I also like my dad because he's pretty helpful, even when he doesn't need to be. There were a lot of things he could've done when I moved a few months ago. "Get your own furniture, son. Your older brother never needed us," would have been the best option, for him. Or he could've said, "Well, we've got some leftover stuff. Why don't you come down Friday night, pick it up and bring it back north, and then bring the car back Sunday? Then you can drive home." Instead, he (and my equally-awesome mom, who, by the way, recently commented here about stinky urine) chose to leave Chicago at, say, 4 a.m. on a Saturday 'morning,' spend about 38 straight hours moving furniture, and then leave without any more thanks than a "Can I get some free groceries?" and a few just-as-they-arrived-here hamburgers.

I think the best thing about my dad is that he's been pretty successful, but he's also supportive of his fantastically odd kids who are doing their best to avoid that plight. (Well, number two and number four are, in vastly different ways. Number one's figured it out. Number three's a sellout, but in the best way possible.)

October 2001:
"I want to earn poverty-level wages and work every day all summer in the middle of nowhere." I said. "Awesome!" was his response.

November 2005:
"I'm ready to get out of here. I have no idea what I want to do. I want to keep trying, though, I think," I said. "Come live in the basement. Figure it out. No rent or anything. And you'll get to hang out with us, too," he said.

September 2006:
"Dude, I totally got shitcanned. I don't know what's next," I said. "That's too bad. Come hang out here this weekend. I'll make you an awesome steak, and you can watch the Cats lose to New freakin' Hampshire." (He didn't actually predict the NU loss. Oh well.)

I'm pretty happy because I've stopped calling him Old Man. As in, "How ya doin', Old Man?" which is pretty rude and, to be sure, pretty inaccurate.

Let's be honest, I also like my dad because he introduced me to the Cubs and Fighting Irish football. And because he let me drop down drag bunts as a nine-year-old, and because he moved me to center field. I think it's awesome that he continued to coach a bunch of 15-year-old punks, and continued to play his slow, fat son (me) in center field. Old time's sake, you know?
Also, I like my dad because he gave me his solid black "Director" polo shirt. It clearly does not identify what he was directing, which is why it's awesome.

I don't know. I'm pretty lucky.

I talk about my parents more than any 27-year-old dude should (and not just here), but they're pretty fantastic. Pretty deserving, I guess.

- - - - - -

The White Stripes record kind of kicks ass, I think. "Rag and Bone" is the ninth track, and it's this creepy thing about Meg and Jack wandering through town scavenging junk to sell. "We can do something with 'em. / Make some money out of 'em, at least."

And "Effect and Cause" is a pretty fantastic, countryish final ditty, and a few songs - notably "You Don't Know What Love Is (You Just Do What Your Told)," "Little Cream Soda," and "Bone Broke" - feel a whole lot like De Stihl or White Blood Cells, which is to say, pretty awesome.

- - - - - - - -

I'd really like to get back to writing here twice a week, but I don't know if that's reasonable. I'm about as slow as anybody in the world in "winding down," post-work, perhaps a remnant of my previous semi-nocturnal baseball existence. But I'll get home from work 6ish, poke around on Pitchfork and Slate and the NU message board for a half-hour, get to a run or a walk, get to a shower, and by the time I'm ready to start making dinner, it's 8 p.m.

I also don't know if it's worth it though, clearly, writing about asparagus-urine brings out the commenters. Seven (!), and counting (?).

- - - - - - - -

I'll be at Harper's place in less than 24 hours. I spoke to him tonight. I really hope I make it there in time for a stop at the Whippy Dip (sp?). Peanut Butter, mmm.

I'd really like to recap my brother and his lady's fantastic visit up here - it was fantastic, though I was pretty much an embarrassing drunk, on some level - but there was a revelation that happened right as they were about to arrive that is far too important to not open with.

Ok. Here. Just learned this weekend:
Asparagus makes your urine stink. I mean, reek something awful.

You probably knew that. Everyone, it turns out, knows it, except for the Ruds.

How does asparagus, and its urine-stink, come up in conversation?

A timeline:

Wednesday night, 830ish: I make asparagus. Steamed, with some lemon. The leftovers go to my plastic thing for lunch purposes.

Wednesday night / Thursday morning: I definitely notice a urine-stink. I had had probably four beers over a three-hour stretch, so I was some level of buzzed. I attribute the urine-stink to skunky Miller Genuine Draft. Canned.

Thursday, lunch: I get in a conversation with a coworker, a former sous-chef, about asparagus. He gives me great asparagus on the grill tips. Turns out, asparagus is one of his favorite foods - he used to pick it wild in his backyard, and eat it 10 minutes later. Pretty awesome.

Thursday, drive home: I relate this story to the Carpool-mate. I tell him that our friend the former sous-chef really loves asparagus, one of his favorite foods. Carpoolmate responds, "Remind me not to stand next to him when he's peeing." Me: "Huh." He: "Asparagus makes your piss stink." Me: "Whoa. I noticed my pee stank today. I figured it was the skunky beer." He: "It was the asparagus."

Thursday, early evening: The Boy calls. We hatch plans. They're just arriving in town, or perhaps about to arrive in town. Plans mostly firmed, I ask, "Did you know that asparagus makes your urine smell?" He laughs. He's stunned by the question. He answers aloud: "No. I did not know that asparagus makes your urine smell. By the way, I'm saying it out loud just so that she'll hear what a ridiculous question you just asked." The lady: "You didn't?" Boy: "She said, 'You didn't?' "

And thus, a quest. Who does know that asparagus makes your urine stink? Are we somehow left out of this game? How did everyone find out?

Flash forward, Friday at dinner (this will be the only actual story)
We (the Boy, his lady, myself) sit down. We dilly-dally, as they say, in making our order. The waitress has bragged about the indoor margaritas as compared to the outdoor margaritas. There's a rapport there. She's fun.

After we order our chicken quesadillas, we order our entrees. As a side, The Boy and I go with the fantastic sweet potato with candied walnuts. The lady goes with "steamed seasonal vegetables."

We've finished our quesadillas, we're on our second round of drinks, perhaps starting the third, and the main course comes out.

Her side item: Asparagus. Quite a bit of it.
The reaction: Uproarious laughter, obviously.

The waitress gets defensive. We assure her, we're not laughing at her.

Eventually, she comes back with more drinks, or something. She makes reference to us laughing at her. Again, we assure her that it's not her. I finally say, "We're laughing about the vegetables, if you must know."

She responds, without hesitation, "What? The pee smell?"

And now, my friends, the laughter gets turned to 11. It was out of this world.

- - - - -

I'd say the total amount surveyed wasn't that great. I think the total count surveyed was six. Five of six knew about the urine smell. Some "just knew." Others knew because of Austin Powers, apparently. The oldest person surveyed did not know. Possibly because she's older and, in her time, people didn't talk about things like the stink of their pee.

Also, Tina knew. I forgot to ask Gurs when I was speaking with him. Did you know?

Of Ruds surveyed (five total), none knew. I'd think the sixth would know, what with his being a vegan and all, but I can't be sure. After all, the vegetarian did not know.

I think this is fascinating. Particularly because I think the Ruds eat/ate a better-than-average amount of asparagus. I can't think of an analogous thing that people might not know. But, yeah, I'm fascinated. Did you know about the pee smell?

- - - - - - -

Is there anything else worth recapping? Probably not. It's just great to see that kid, you know?

There was a psychological breakthrough that occurred on my end, probably three years ago. At that point, I was (somewhat) jokingly repeating that I had two actual friends: Gurs and Nemo, of course. At some point, again, three years ago or so (maybe the time he called me, just because he was looking for someone to talk to, while driving a Dodge Durango near the fourth tee up in The Ring Fingernail, avoiding the rest of the family; he had exercised other options already, but there remained time to kill), and it started with ND football, and it continued with NU football, and then it morphed into life, on some level. I don't know when it happened. I guess it was probably when he agreed to come to The 'Port in the interest of a two-day road trip to Kansas City, June of 2003. (Read the blogs from June. Quick-hitting. Fun. I kind of wish I could get back to that, but I live a different-paced life now. Probably more hanging out now. Definitely more time devoted to cooking and cleaning and the like. [I used to clean, say, twice a year. Now, it's more like monthly. Actually, bi-weekly.] And definitely a less-interesting job, etc.)

Anyway, at that moment, when The Boy had just finished his sophomore year, I changed the list to "Three friends." I'm really, really happy to consider him a friend. Not just a brother, which is different, and is wrought with different requirements, connotations, obligations. This has morphed into real friendship, I think, which is purely a matter of choice. And it's awesome.

Anyway, the visit was simply a nice time. Nothing particularly notable (though the two of them jumped out of a plane, which is pretty notable, and pretty badass). But mostly, just hanging out. I bought Thursday. They bought Friday. We split Saturday.

A bar on Thursday night, an outdoor dinner and a bar with an uncomfortably loud band on Friday, the beach on Saturday afternoon, a ballgame on Saturday night, a dive on Saturday post-night, and a stomach-curdling breakfast on Sunday. Stomach-curdling in the good way. No dollar Mooseheads, the only miss. But there were Mad Libs, a strong hit. And we got to chant, chant, chant for the home team, though nobody else really joined in. They met the two most worth-meeting compadres, though they would've met two more had they been less old. (Youth is wasted on the young, this 27-year-old says.)

They were out by 9 Sunday morning, and it sounds like they were home by one. It's a wonderful, happy experience to have had. Sometimes, sometimes, it makes me wish I were in the C-H-I. But, then again, this is about the most beautiful place in the world, in its own way.

(I should mention that this is only the second time I've met the lady. She's comfortable making asparagus-pee jokes, which is certainly worth something [good]).

It sounds like they made Sunday a productive one. Me, I spent it in a food coma, prone on the couch, 30 minutes awake, ten minutes asleep, repeat, watching El Pato, El Tigre, and Senor Furyk. Aaron, sadly, played Baddeley.

- - - - - - - -

Let's talk "Friends," but only briefly. I've always had "Friends," never have I had people I considered "Drinking Buddies," which is far different and far less significant. I've found myself with "Drinking Buddies," which are certainly useful to have. They may develop into "Friends," but right now they're just "Drinking Buddies." Good, but not great.

Perhaps if I were less concerned about "Drinking," I'd have more "Friends" and fewer "Drinking Buddies." It's something I've decided to work on. Period. Cokes for me, on occasion, anyway.

- - - - - - - - -

Let's talk "Friends," actual "Friends." Or, rather, Friends. (No quotes. No need to use quotes here.)

I just got off the phone with my Friend Tina, and I found out, completely unbeknownst to me, that she's on her way to the Upper Midwest four days from now. As I write, in fact, less than 100 hours from now.

What this means, dear readers, is that E2 will be 100 percent reunited, less than 100 hours from now. Truly, it's amazing. Six people, and we never actually all lived together at the same time, but we're all still in contact ... almost six years later. (March 2002 is when I left E2, and the lease was up August 2002. That's a long time.)

So, here's the anticipated attendance and, more amazingly, where they're coming from ("Beer on a Lake" takes place near Detroit):

Harps, the man of honor - D.C.
Deedz - Atlanta
Jenny - Chicago
Tina - Seattle (and, kind of, Paris)
Nemo - Ann Arbor (and, kind of, Poland)
Me - The Ring Fingernail

I don't know, dear readers, that's a pretty fantastic haul. I had no idea it was happening, and I think it's something to truly, really be proud of.

It's a pretty amazing group. I kind of hope someone owns a camera. I don't. (Jenny does.)

Harps is absolutely the best. The rest of them, too, obviously.

- - - - - - - - - -

I think there were other things I wanted to cover. Probably about my booze consumption (too much, and too frequent). Maybe about Gurs' pending visit (Thursday-Saturday, promises to be fantastic). Maybe about a hoped-for visit from my sister over the Fourth of July, or maybe about the fact that I've tentatively decided that a mid-July trip back to the CHI is worth my time. Or maybe about the fact that I've been consuming R.E.M. lately. The band, not sleep, certainly. (Even Up, I'm serious.) Or maybe about how awesome The Long Blondes record is. Or maybe about how I'm geeked that the new White Stripes album is getting strong reviews.

Mostly, I'd like to write about my dad. But, well, it's almost three. I leave for work in less than four hours. It'll happen.

But now, instead, my heart's all aflutter with thoughts of this weekend. It'll be so, so, so awesome. Wow.

Maybe I'll write before then; I'd like to, in fact. But, in all likelihood, it'll just be reaction Sunday night.

It's weekends like this that make The Ring Fingernail the perfect place in the world. Mid-80s all weekend, and enough of a sunburn to let me know I'm alive. Sweet. Some semi-sleepy beach reading on Saturday, some low-quality beach volleyball this afternoon, and grilling and the Cubbies later on tonight.

As I said, about perfect.

- - - - - - -

Grilling. I made a major purchase last Sunday. I expected, what with Amazon Super Saver Shipping and all, that it would arrive sometime next week. But, sweetly enough, it showed up at my door Wednesday afternoon. Well, not major in terms of cost, but major in terms of enjoyability factor. Sweet.

And then, just as I was wondering whether I had made a strong purchase - after all, it was a semi-impulse buy - this. Validation. Sweet, sweet validation.

And then, last night, my first experience with it, Saturday night. (Plans on Wednesday, slovenliness on Thursday, an energy-sapping run on Friday.) Two relatively cheap steaks, two ears of corn, and some oven-roasted red peppers combining for just about the finest thing I had ever prepared. Nay, the finest thing ever prepared for my by my foot-high magic rectangle.

Indeed, a foot-high magic rectangle.

I've had some pretty good experiences with these before - hot dogs at CoPa, turkey dogs at Miller Park, burgers and veggies by the Central Street Metra station - but nothing as sweetly wonderful as those two cheap steaks and those two ears of corn.

We're doing chicken and, perhaps, burgers tonight. I'm imagining the results will be similarly strong.

Best $49.70 I've spend in a long, long, long time. And that's only considering one meal thus far.

- - - - - - - - -

I had an embarrassing conversation on, let's say, Thursday night. I'm pretty sure it was Thursday. I was talking to my parents for the first time in a few weeks. Ten days or so, anyway.

It was revealed that, while I wrote - in two separate locations - how awesome my mom is/was, I never actually called on Mother's Day. Me = first class bastard.

I probably called the day before or the night after, but not on the actual day. Lame. Lame. Lame.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Thursday was awesome because it was on Thursday that I received the itinerary email from Harper regarding Engagement Shindig '08: Beer by a Lake.

The itinerary, starting Friday, June 22, at approximately 6:30 (after dinner), though I'll be there at about 10, reads something like this:

Friday, 6:30-Sunday, 3:00 p.m.: Drinking. Swimming. Lake-ing. Getting sunburned. Not sitting on the furniture while wearing wet clothing. Not candle-lighting.

Sunday, 3:00 p.m.-7:00 p.m.: Driving home. Basking.

The guest list, or rather, the list of email recipients, seems like it'll be a truly fantastic time. I couldn't be looking forward to it more.

The fact that it'll be the peanut butter and jelly in a three-weekend sandwich that includes visits by The Boy and his lady (next weekend) and by Gurs (the last weekend of June) makes it that much more fantastic.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Wednesday plans included a return to last summer's place of business, and it was pretty fantastic. The fact remains that there are a lot of ways to spend an evening that are far worse than sitting in a ballpark, stomping along to the annoying songs, and generally being silly. That's what I did on Wednesday, with a former coworker, and it was just great.

The fact that the tickets were free and the company was good seems to make it fairly likely that I'll do it quite a few more times this summer.

Baseball's the best.

Holy crap, dude. Conan just told me that Kobayashi's hot dog eating record was broken over the weekend. Where the hell is Darren Rovell? Here he is, and it doesn't seem like he's even covering the news. When America's - nay, the world's - foremost competitive eating reporter doesn't have the story, America - nay, the world - has got a problem.

(It used to be professional jealousy, friends. Now it's just unadulterated snobbery. I've got an unreturned email from last summer. I should totally return it.)

- - - - - - -

A special thanks to Flax for saving last week's blog with a comment; I was headed to a commentless abyss which, to be honest, really frustrates your awesomely humble narrator.

Reasons for decreases in traffic, for the second time in three months:
- Not enough urinal stories
- Posts are too long
- I don't talk to my friends anymore
- Nobody likes baseball
- I no longer have an enemy (there's no doubt that the R/DS clearly brought RHH to its peak)

So, you see, I'm thinking that I might address issue five - no enemy. I've got a developing enemy. I wrote about him recently - the "self-depreciating" guy. He's also my carpoolmate, which was tolerable for a time (when there was a third), but is becoming less so.

Reasons for this (though, to be certain, no WIDiRVoFOW, which would be renamed WIDisCaVoW - a bit of research into last May would reveal, perhaps, what this means) include the following:
- Tardiness
- Poor taste
- Bad storyteller
- Brags about drunkenness
- I mean, really poor taste
- Doesn't realize that he has poor taste
- A general lack of respect for others' time
- A general lack of respect for others, in general
- First-class bulshitter, which is a bad thing, in this case (that is, he doesn't 'bullshit' in the 'make friendly, engaging small talk' way, but, rather, he makes shit up)
- Says the word "like" way, way, way too much

So, yeah, I guess that having an actual enemy might spice things up. If I start dwelling on how much I dislike him, as I did with the R/DS, we might get really good stuff. But, of course, that was also borne of constant, constant exposure. This exposure is far less constant. So, we'll see.

I'm hoping there's interest in a WIDisCaVoW, and perhaps I'll have one next time.

- - - - - - - -

For the first time as a grownup, I realized on Sunday that I'm no longer building towards anything. Or, rather, there's no seasonal cycle to my job (and, therefore, kind of, my life) anymore. This was a big part of my life, previously, of course.

Grind, grind, grind, all-star break, grind, grind, rest, work a bit, work just a little bit, work just a little bit, work like hell, work like hell. Repeat.

It'll be interesting how I deal with it, say, six months from now. I've been here eight-plus months now, which is a fair amount of time (though not that long, of course), and I've just hit this realization. So, when it's still the same thing, say, six months from now, will I be fringe-depressed?

I'm not sure. I do know I'm going to see my former team play on Wednesday. I might get there late. I'll definitely have a beer. Or three.

- - - - - - -

There's some seriously awesome shit coming up this month. I noticed it on my Outlook calendar at work. The Outlook calendar is good for something.

This weekend: Nothing
Next weekend: The Boy, in the Ring Fingernail
The following weekend: Harper, at The Lake
The following weekend: Gurs!

To the extreme.

- - - - - -

I've not talked to my friends lately, though I broke a streak by talking to Gurs last Wednesday and, again, tonight.

The reason I've not talked to friends? Because my life is pretty boring right now.

Work, cook, work, cook, work, cook, drink on Wednesday, work, cook, work, drink on Friday, kill time Saturday, potentially drink Saturday, clean Sunday. Even my grocery list is the same every week.

However, I've mixed it up a bit. I bought kiwis on Saturday, and cottage cheese on Sunday. Whimsical!

I've not talked to Nemo since his visit...three weeks ago. I think the HLM post creeped him out. It creeped me out, after all.

- - - - - - -

The best part of "killing time Saturday" and "cleaning Sunday" is, of course, the Chicago Cubs on WGN.

I've determined that I like Len Kaspar. I actually like Len Kaspar. He's too stats-y, but he's a bit funny, and sometimes his overly-specific stats are interesting. And he likes the rock and roll. They're, in some twisted way, preferable to the Chip and Steve crew we had in 2003; Steve was insufferable at the end. The broadcast crew of a major league team is a sales crew...Len and Bob are too soft on guys at times, but I'd prefer that to Chip and Steve's overly critical bent.

I can't honestly remember Harry's crews, though I always liked Harry and Steve. I can't remember how, say, DeWayne Staats or Thom Brennaman or others fit in; I was pretty young then.

Let's be honest, though: This was a great, great, great weekend to be a Cubs fan.

How often do you see your crazy pitcher lose it? How often do you see your crazy pitcher's non-personal catcher get a busted lip because your crazy pitcher lost it?

One of the best parts of baseball is the foreign-born players trying to elucidate their feelings. Find a transcript of Zambrano's press conference after he obliterated Barrett: "It was my fault. I'm a man and he's a man and you don't talk to a man like that. And I'm a man. And he's a man." (I kid because I love. But he didn't make sense.)

And then, the totally-expected blow-up from Coach Lou was fantastic. Totally expected, and he acknowledged as much, but he did a pretty good job of it. All told, a Sunday well spent.

The better thing about baseball is that, after about two miserable weeks of play, two straight wins have us talking about baseball in October. Or, rather, has Ron Santo talking about baseball in October. You never know... The NL Central is pretty bad... They've got a chance to make up serious ground on the first-place Brew Crew... The bullpen has gotta come around... It's the first damn week of June, for Chrissakes.

Baseball's awesome.

Cubs related: A New York Times article on Kerry Wood. Buzz Bissinger, of Friday Night Lights fame. Worth your time if you're a Cubs fan. It's pretty detached - blames everyone for his injuries, and provides the portrait of a man, Kerry, kind of beaten, but not quite beaten. (Though, we know, he's most certainly beaten.

Buzz Bissinger also wrote the Three Nights In August book about Tony LaRussa a few years ago. E.M. Swift this week wrote a fantastic Sports Illustrated article about LaRussa and his struggles - pitcher's dead, team stinks, driving drunk - thus far this year. The conclusion: Tony LaRussa is now a Baseball Man.

It's awesome because, back in the days when I was in the White Sox TV booth, we'd always giggle when Hawk Harrelson used the term "good baseball man." Because it's a funny term. I'm not a "good baseball man" because I can calculate on-base percentage.

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Elisha Cuthbert's on Conan now. She says "like" even more than my new enemy. She's far less hot today than she was two days ago.

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I meant to write a few weeks ago about a realization related to The Hold Steady and, more specifically, Separation Sunday.

I've long determined that my favorite song on Separation Sunday is "Stevie Nix," which has the fantastic, fantastic coda (though, of course, a song by The Hold Steady is often just one long coda, or rather, is typified by a complete lack of, say, verses and choruses):

She got screwed up by religion, she got screwed by soccer players
She got high for the last time in the camps down by the banks of the Mississippi River
Lord, to be seventeen forever.

Etc.

Anyway, "Stevie Nix" was played, and played fantastically on Wednesday, May 16, when I saw America's greatest active band perform. As my favorite song on one of my favorite records, and, as someone who generally picks up and sings along to lyrics, you'd think I'd know that my favorite song was being played from the opening lyrics. But I didn't. I had to write down a clue - "Drinking gin from a jam jar," and, in fact, didn't even know that it was "Stevie Nix" until the "screwed up by religion" part.

So, even though it's my favorite song, potentially, on the record, I don't know the words. Or, rather, I know the words, but I don't know which words go with which song.

This is why I love Separation Sunday: One long, beautiful epic poem. I think it's my second-favorite record ever.

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I think this post had a few fun spots, but was mostly fairly boring. Again. I mean, you wouldn't believe how much this kid uses the word "like." Shit.