What's this? Good news?

Hey, thanks to everyone who wished me well and offered support and an ear yesterday. It was a long, strange, stressful day, and it helped to know that people were there to let me talk it all out. Anyway, I got a call from Geico this morning, and it looks like a dodged a bullet. The car is not going to be totaled, even though the estimate is a hearty $2,500. They didn't say whether or not that included my exhaust system problem, but I'm holding out mischevous hope that they'll assume it was caused by the accident and will go ahead and fix it on Geico's dime. Wink wink. In the meantime, the Cobalt is probably mine until next Friday; obviously it wouldn't break my heart if they go ahead and keep at it until the next Monday. I don't plan on taking many liberties with this rented vehicle, but it would make for a much smoother ride to the Eastern Shore. So anyway, my financial ruin isn't imminent just yet. But I'd still be willing to sell some organs, if anyone is game.

Since yesterday's post was a heady read, let's take a trip into the Wayback Machine, just in time for my *gulp* 5-year reunion next month. Wanna do some blow?

1. What high school did you go to? Archbishop Curley High

2. What year did you graduate? In the year 2000

3. What were your favorite band(s) or artist(s): Pearl Jam, woo!

4. What was your favorite outfit? well, we had a dress code that I stretched to its very limits. I was fond of my short sleeved button-down shirt that was BRIGHT ORANGE. Oh, and the buttons were metallic. Wear that with one of my trademark ties (Dali's Persistence of Memory, Joe Cool, or the orange tie with little white flowers) and either my light blue or olive green corduroys, and you can see why I didn't date much.

5. What was up with your hair? Eesh. Freshman year I started getting the Caesar cut every time I got tired of my generally shaggy mop. Soph. year I tried parting down the middle with disastrous results. Junior year I started off with remnants of a blond dye job, and spent most of the year gelling it. By senior year I settled into the buzz cut you all know and love.

6. Who were your best friend(s)? Joe, Will, Ryan, Dillon, Goat, Geoff, and Johnny D

7. What did you do after school? track, cross country, lacrosse (one year - HA!), Blackfriars' Theatre, The Curley Chronicle newspaper. I also dabbled in Visions Lit Magazine and the CORD Yearbook.

8. Where did you work? Ech, I never worked during the year. But I spent one magical summer manning the snack bar at Bengies Drive In Theatre, one of two drive-ins still open in Maryland

9. Did you take the bus? There was no bus for the good Catholic boys. I carpooled in the mornings and my parents picked me up in the afternoon

10. Who did you have a crush on? Haha, I actually used to have a list. There were at least a dozen. The one that did the most damage was Emily. If you really want that story, it'll cost you.

11. Who did you date? Let's see, there was Cindy freshman year (4'9" - funny visual), a whole lotta nothin', then Erica and Kim senior year.

12. Did you fight with your parents? Oh yeah...my dad and I went at it all the time. Fire indeed hot.

13. Did you ever get detention? Like four times total. Always dress code violations - dark socks on gym day, facial hair, that kind of stuff.

14. Favorite subject? Spanish, English with Mr. Keller

15. Who did you have a CELEBRITY crush on? This one is humiliating. Jennifer Love Hewitt. I will now set myself on fire.

16. My grades were... Damn good, with occasional horror stories like Pre-Calc thrown in for flavor

17. Did you smoke cigarettes? A drag here or there

18. Did you lug all of your books around in your backpack all day? ugh, usually not. Have you ever seen one of those giant square Literature anthologies?

19. Did you have a clique? mostly I hung with the other oddball smart kids, and then of course the drama kids

20. Where was your Senior Prom? The Belvedere in downtown Baltimore. It was nice enough, but the class of '99 had their prom at the Marriott in Times Square. You can see why we were a bit disappointed, no?

21. Did you have a Max like "Saved by the Bell"? My friends and I always hit up the Double T Diner in Rosedale

22. Admit it, were you popular? No - I even had a few mortal enemies (in that really ridiculous name-calling and shoving macho all-boys high school way), and then a decent sized group of people who liked me for who I was

23. Who did you want to be just like? Joe always seemed like nothing ever really got to him, that he didn't sweat things. But I know now that there's a downside to that.

24. What did you want to be when you grew up? A writer, on the creative side of things

25. What was the color of your yearbook? There was a navy blue one, a nasty light-blue marble one, a fruity rainbow one, and a neat greenish one.

26. What were the colors of your school? Black and white, with red as an "accent color". Dude, I'm not lying. It says that in the handbook.

27. What was your school mascot? The FRIARS! RRRRGGGHHHHHH!

Current Music: Johnny Cash - Folsom Prison Blues

Big bang baby, it's a crash crash crash.

As I try to emerge from the stupor of a day-long Quantum Leap marathon on the Sci-Fi Channel, I am going to play good news-bad news with you crazy kids. The good news is that I am currently in possession of a shiny new black Chevy Cobalt. It has only 7500 miles on it, and it handles so smoothly, I couldn't even tell it was running when I first hopped into it. So what's the bad news?

The car is a rental from Enterprise...because I wrecked my Camry. I feel so stupid. I hopped into the car at 7:20 this morning, and of course it was miserable and gray and rainy, because that's how Maryland rolls this week. At any rate, I was rushing to get out of my development, and I pulled out into the road without really checking the left side of the road. I didn't hear the guy honk his horn, but I saw him a second or two before the impact. I froze up and heard the crunch, that muffled, exterior sound that comes with a collision. I started sliding, and didn't stop even after I thought I had control of the wheel and brakes. I finally settled to a stop in the road, right in front of the sidewalk. The impact caused me to bang my head on the door, but thankfully, I'm not hurt. Neither was the other guy, who all things considered, was pretty calm. I've never dealt with anything like this. It scared the hell out of me. The paramedics showed up, but left as soon as we assured them there were no injuries. Then a police officer came, but didn't file a report because we weren't hurt. When I tried to drive off, the car was handling very oddly, so the cop flagged me down and said that the axel on my side was badly bent and I wouldn't be able to go anywhere. So I thanked him, pulled back into the development, and came inside. That was that.

So what can you do? I called US News and left a message for my boss saying that I wouldn't be in today. It was gross out, and I was cold from being out there for a half hour or whatever, so I changed into pajamas, and just sat until I got my wits about me enough to call my mom. Then I laid out on the couch, fell asleep for a bit, and called Geico. They handled everything for me, which calmed me down a bit. From the questions they asked, I got the idea that I'm not in as deep shit as I could be. I had my seat belt on, there were no passengers or injuries, and the police didn't give me a citation. So they know I wasn't drunk at 7 AM, haha. But they called a tow truck, and arranged to have my mess schlepped off to a body shop in Ellicott City. I decided that it would be good to have a way to go about my daily life, so I also got Geico to set me up with Enterprise. After negotiating with the Enterprise agent for a car that would be covered for the $25 a day coverage under my insurance, I wound up with the nifty little Cobalt. The first thing they tried to give me was an SUV...my ass. At one of the slightly over $25 tiers was a Dodge Stratus; I have to admit I was sorely tempted. "I DRIVE A DODGE STRATUS! I'M A DIVISION MANAGER! PEOPLE ARE AFRAID OF ME!!!" It probably would've been too distracting. At least I didn't wind up in a Ford, or as the old saying goes, Found On the Road Dead.

So in the long run, what does this mean? After the initial freak-out this morning, I've been trying not to think about it. I was already worried about money before I had this brain fart. The best case scenario is that my car can be fixed. In that case, it costs me a $250 deductible and whatever monthly rate hike they charge me for insurance. That's the BEST case. Worst case? My car is totaled. It's highly possible. This car is ten years old, 219,000 miles gone, and it now has a mangled front fender with a bashed headlight. The body damage is such that I can't open the driver's side door all the way. The big deal, of course, is the axel, which is bent at a 60 degree angle, at least. If my car were in great shape, it would be worth $6000 blue book. It's not quite that good, as it stands. If it's totaled, I need a new car. Either I get a cheap used car, and probably pay god knows what else in repairs at undetermined intervals. More likely I get the cheapest new car that I can, and try to get a longer payment plan so that I can actually squeeze it into my monthly budget. Wheeeeeee.

The real world is fun, ain't it?

Current Music: Led Zeppelin - Babe I'm Gonna Leave You

Dove Girl, I hardly knew ye.

In my daily perusal of my friends' Live Journals, I came across a haiku generator. It seemed like a fun waste of thirty seconds of my life, so I entered my username, clicked the button, and got the most depressing haiku it could've given me. To top it off, the syllables were all out of whack!

washington d.c twice
a day there's no story
there that's pretty much

So yesterday something finally happened that I had been dreading for a long time. They changed the advertisements on the four-sided column in Union Station, the one that I pass every day to get from the train to the Metro, and back again. For at least the past three months, those ad spaces had been inhabited by the Dove Girls. For the uninitiated, Dove launched an ad campaign revolving around what their skin care products could do for "real women", as opposed to those spooky, glowering scarecrow coke-heads that some call "supermodels". If you know anything about me, chances are that you are aware of my personal preference for softer, curvier women. Angular, sallow cheeks and jawbones and protruding rib cages aren't my thing; call me crazy. So yeah, these spokes-models were pretty cute, and not gargantuan by any means; just a little fleshier, a little more proportional than you would be used to seeing. There was a leggy blond that especially appealed to me. She had this adorable bob hairstyle, and very delicate-looking fair skin. She was photographed in a playful, hands-on-hips pose with an open-mouthed grin of delight and surprise. I made it a special point to walk by the column on the side facing her ad. I was apprehensive with the changing of each month, aware that some day she would be gone...and it finally happened. They replaced her with an ad for the latest derivative Nora Roberts dime-store romance novel. Talk about adding insult to injury; at least the black girl with the heart tattoo was replaced by carrots. But I'll carry on somehow; the important thing here is that I have my memories of the good times with the blond Dove girl, and no one can take that away from me.

Yes, I'm a lonely, lonely, strange little man. What of it?

Current Music: Fountains of Wayne - Hey Julie

I laugh in the face of danger. Ha!

Yeowch, I fell asleep on this one. It was originally posted to my Live Journal on Friday afternoon:

I've been in a surprisingly upbeat mood today. It's not exactly like I'm the Bluebird of Unhappiness on a regular basis, but between the job/money situation and my personal life, those nasty little voices nag at me consistently enough that it is truly refreshing to find myself on an even keel in the (gasp) morning, on my way to (double gasp) work. I've gotten bored with the random shuffle mode on my DJ, so as I waited for the train this morning I started scrolling through the list of artists and cobbled together a brief playlist that suited my needs quite nicely. I stopped in the middle of the 'D's, which ensured that I got my fill of Bad Company, Collective Soul, even a little Cheap Trick. It was mostly light enough for me to sleep through on the train, and I even included Bill Withers' "Ain't No Sunshine" to fit the day's weather forecast. I think some of the best playlists are the spontaneous ones.

However, I had an unsettling moment while riding the Metro out of Union Station. I was reading the Express article about the warnings of a terrorist attack on New York's transit system, and it dawned on me that I was riding on the subway in the Nation's Capital. Yeah, I know, I've been doing just that five days a week for six months now. Mostly, I don't let myself think about it. But in this moment, I felt a real apprehension, even fear. I was in danger, I could be an innocent victim, a target. I didn't linger too long, though. We have a president who has preyed on those types of fears for four years. He has used them to rob us of our civil liberties and our economic well-being, and for 1,944 American soldiers, their lives. So if those are the consequences of being afraid, I think I'll pass. I heard somewhere that nobody lives forever, so if they get me today, so be it. What am I going to do? Walk clear across Washington D.C. twice a day? Carry a blast shield with me? Refuse to go to work? I'll take my chances, because the odds of NOT getting blown up are very much in my favor.

Speaking of political type dealies, I stumbled upon Moby's online journal yesterday. Yes, that Moby. It is truly a delight. He quite often weighs in with his own take on the issues that affect us as a people (you may be shocked to learn that he is a liberal), his experiences in traveling the world, and even an occasional "top ten" list. He even posted a fantastic joke that I will take the liberty of reprinting here:

Donald Rumsfeld is giving the president his daily briefing.He concludes by saying: "Yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers were killed.""OH NO!" the President exclaims. "That's terrible!"His staff sits stunned at this display of emotion, nervously watching as the President sits, head in hands.Finally, the President looks up and asks, "How many is a brazillion?"

Ba-dum-bump. Anyway, go check it out here!

That's all I've got. Most of my entries lately haven't been very fun, so I'll scurry back this weekend with a wacky meme or an anecdote or something. Or maybe we'll all have cookies and ice cream! Hooray!

Current Music: Chris Cornell - Seasons

Yeah, it's been great and all, but you have got to go.

Oh crap, is it time to find another job already? I am afraid so. Let me count the ways. The commute absolutely, positively crushes my soul. Somehow an eight-hour workday seems longer when you're traveling three hours back and forth to the place of business. Also, you would think that by October, all of the back-to-school-and-no-more-vacations crowd would be back in full force, but somehow every means of transit just gets more and more congested every day. Especially that infernal Metro. There is nothing so demoralizing as being squeezed, shoved, brushed aside, poked, and just generally treated like a piece of meat because the prick with a giant unwieldy briefcase thinks that he's more important than anyone else and he has to get there first, dammit. It amazes me to think that I pay to be treated this way, but that's America for you. And the job itself? It's mindless busy work, and it gets more mindless and more busy all the time. You may remember something about Mikey getting a chance to quit working alongside me and start teaching, right? Well, they haven't hired anyone to replace him, and they don't plan to do so. Which essentially means that tasks which were previously divided among five people (and six people at one time) will now be split four ways. For the math-handy among you, that's 25% more work. So do you think they're going to show their appreciation by handing out some of the $27,000 they no longer have to pay Mikey? Even a simple cost of living increase? Hoho, oh, no. In fact, my boss forwarded an email detailing the surprising news that a senior political writer at the magazine had just been laid off, with "more likely". So, as always in the working world, the people who make it happen take the fall to protect the bottom line for the Big Boys. Incidentally, I don't know how much longer I can live on my salary as it is. Sure, I'm making it right now, but the always-lovely Unexpected Surprises keep blowing holes in my checking account. The estimate on a new muffler, which I will be getting this weekend, is $200 - UNLESS I need a whole new exhaust system, in which case we're looking at 500 or 600 dollars. To top that off, I have a fairly pressing need for a home computer that doesn't freeze up 30% of the time I log on-line...every time I log off...every time I try to open another program while on-line...you get the idea. So that's at least another 500, even without any bells or whistles. My car is a ticking time bomb, I spend more money on gas than I do on food (I guess we all do)...ugh. $27,000 and I worry about making ends meet. Is it any wonder I'm pissed off at the people running this country?

Well, back to the drawing board. Time to shine up that resume and bark like a dog.

Current Music: Bob Dylan - Like a Rolling Stone

I change by not changing at all.

It is cold in this office, ridiculously so. It is the beginning of October. I wore shorts all day yesterday with no problem. Today I am wearing a long sleeved shirt and khakis, and there is no reason why I should be sitting with my arms hunched at my sides for warmth and shaking involuntarily. I am convinced that it is all a massive plot to freeze my brain and keep me from having independent thoughts. If you stay here longer for a year, it probably works. That's why the creepy little guy at the other end of the row of cubicles has been here for five years. That, and he has to keep a low profile to avoid being discovered as an alien in disguise. Did I mention it is cold in here?

Gordon's Vodka and I may be enduring a trial separation for the foreseeable future. Saturday night was the first cast party that I could call my own in quite some time, so I figured I would finish off the bottle of Gordon's that Carrie and I shared last weekend. After all, there was only a quarter of a one liter bottle left, that couldn't be any more than 5 to 7 shots, right? Oh ho. Naturally, I didn't take into consideration the eight months or so that it took me to finish my last bottle of Gordon's, the 1.75 liter special. Neither did it occur to me that I hadn't eaten for six hours by the time I started drinking. So, how does the rest of the story go? I wish I remembered. I was already cruising by the time I had run out of orange juice to mix, so I took a few straight shots and then started carrying around the bottle and swigging from it. No chasers or anything, mind you. So I drank for 4-5 hours solid and then had an adventurous walk home with my escorts, Boothe, Molly, and Carrie. Needless to say, I couldn't walk straight; on the contrary, I stopped dead in the middle of the street and stood there for several moments until I was nudged along to continue. Having made it back to campus, I settled down on the parapet near the library and laid down. When Molly offered me her coat for a pillow, I declined because the concrete "felt good". Only when I started feeling dizzy did I get up and resume the return trip to Middle Hall. Once there, I hunkered down on the porch with Boothe and Molly and acquiesced to their attempts to rehydrate me...sort of. I spilled just as much water as I consumed, some of it deliberately, in the belief that none-too-subtly tossing water over my shoulder was amusing. I also sent an offending broom tumbling to the ground below for no good reason. Through no small effort, I made it to the futon by 5:30 for a good morning's sleep. But for the last day and a half, I have paid dearly. The ache in the back of my head and the pressure at my temples are so persistent that what I have cannot possibly be described as a hangover. I think we've graduated to full-fledged tumor status. Best of all, THE VODKA IS NOT GONE. It currently sits in my cabinet at home, mocking me along with the tiny bottle of Smirnoff I bought "just in case". Curse you, Gordon's.

Hurrah for the Corpse Bride, and sucks to Route 301. The next time I go to Chestertown, I'll be taking the day off, I assure you of that.

Current Music: New Radicals - Someday We'll Know

I have no shame.

Hey there, Timmy and Tammy Everykid! Why so glum? What's that you say? You're discouraged by all of the turmoil of war, hurricanes, energy crises, judicial vacancies, and so forth? The world is going to hell in a hand basket and you feel powerless to do anything about it? You just don't understand why anyone would be attracted to Paris Hilton? Well, SHUT UP! Stop being such a damn baby! No wonder you don't have any friends!

Um, what I meant to say was, there is a solution, and it's easier than you think! All you have to do is suck up to somebody popular and get them to give you a ride to Chestertown (motto: Come for the education, stay for the corn!) to see Duchamp Redux: an Ersatz Neo-Futurist Production! What the purple monkey heck is that, you ask? That's funny, I don't remember saying that it was your turn to talk, you ill-mannered banana hammock! To the rest of you, who were waiting patiently for me to finish, I apologize. For this show, a cast of 25 mildly attractive college students have memorized over 45 short plays, ranging in length from fifteen seconds to two minutes. It took lots of threats and mocking humiliation from director Dale Daigle, world-renowned for his experience in lion taming and air guitar, but he whipped these young people into shape. The audience will be seated on stage and will be harassed by a fierce-looking blond Amazon until they shout out numbers like hungry animals. Each number, ranging from 1 to 61, is attached to a specific play, as displayed in the program. The flaxen-haired stranger will then choose one of the shouted numbers at her own discretion, and the according play will be performed. This bizarre spectacle will continue for an hour, by which time the charming, unkempt performers will have completed no less than 30 plays. (Wow, that's amazing!) It sure is, parenthetical exclaimer! But what happens if they fail in this task? Failure is not an option, dammit! But just in case this does happen, Daigle has promised that the audience will receive a full refund and pizza. He will then torment the offending cast members with the empty boxes and hurl bottles of liquor in their general direction.

Sure, this sounds like the Utopian wet dream of some crazy Swede, I know that. But it's all true! Except for the libelous parts. Maybe you're the distinguished theatregoing type, and you'd like to know a bit more about what you're in for. Well, aren't we hoity toity all of a sudden? You can't fool me; I've seen that well-worn CATS t-shirt in your closet, you dirty fraud! Here's the deal. Many of the scenes are funny and absurd. Some are sincere and solemn. Most are political and provocative. A few are just plain gross. You'll see foul-mouthed bicyclists, fashion-conscious males who indulge their primal urges, homophobic puppets, vengeful meditation, feminine hygiene cross-bred with accessorizing, and the good old stand-by...MUCH, MUCH MORE! What??? You're STILL not convinced? Well, I've got a big fat rock with your name on it, you snooty, un-please-able person, you! And if idle threats don't do the job, this will. For two nights only, WAC Drama welcomes back its two most distinguished alumni*:

* = Who graduated in 2004, have odd facial hair, and happen to live together but don't like each other that way

KEVIN BROTZMAN AND MIKE MEAGHER

What will this pair of unpredictable jokers do when the spotlight is theirs for another half a minute? There's only one way to find out, by gum!

Now that I have surely brow-beaten you into a rousing night of fine performance art on the Eastern Shore, I will make with the details. Show dates are Thursday, September 29 (HURRY! ONLY FOR A LIMITED TIME!) at 7:00 PM and 8:30 PM, Friday, September 30 (FDA APPROVED!) at 7:00 PM and 8:30 PM, and Saturday, October 1 (THIS IS NOT BOXING DAY!) at 8:00 PM. Tickets can be bought for just five of your filthy paper dollars, though to ensure a seat, you must reserve ahead of time by calling (410) 778-7835 or emailing drama_tickets@washcoll.edu. Please don't do both; we will find you and give you a sideways wedgie. The bubbling cauldron of dramatic activism where this freakish sideshow takes place is Tawes Theatre, in the Gibson Performing Arts Building. It's the one that all of the Native Americans are buried under. You may find it if you drive or jog to 300 Washington Avenue, located in Chestertown, on the dazzling, fiddler-crab infested Eastern Shore of Maryland.

Oh, I can't believe it! Some little snot-nosed weiner out there is still not satisfied! What now? Yes, I did suggest that you could make a difference in this crazy world by going to Duchamp Redux. No, I haven't mentioned how. I'll fix you good...grumble...exposing my ignorance...
As I just remembered, there is even a humanitarian bent to this weekend's proceedings. Your five dollars will not go straight into the pockets of those Drama Department fat cats, but rather it will be donated to the American Red Cross for its Hurricane Katrina Disaster Relief Program. So be the first on your block to shame your selfish neighbors, who have probably wasted their five dollars on some gross McDonald's sandwich with that brownish lettuce and those unholy blends of congealed sauces. Finally, the Dale Daigles and Harry Wrights of the world are giving back to America...after taking so much. So remember: if you miss this show, you don't care about black people. Just try and live with that.

Wow, there really is something very wrong with me.

Current Music: Harry Nilsson - Without You

In the style of Larry King.

No, I haven't morphed into a geriatric owl creature. However, I am stealing Mr. King's format of random observations:

-After traveling two miles from Route 32 to I-97 on Friday in THIRTY minutes, thanks to the fallout from a previous carbecue on the highway, I cannot imagine how I would have reacted to a fourteen hour backup such as took place in Houston during the mandatory evacuation. The veneer of human civility runs very thin. Suffice to say, I employed middle fingers and got in a brief shouting match with an inconsiderate driver.

-As Molly alluded to, Entenmann's coffee crumb cake is delicious. How did I ever forget this?

-There is comedy, there is high comedy, and then there is Christopher Walken in full outlandish supervillian mode suddenly breaking into...an armpit fart concerto. I was drinking at the time, which explains why I was watching "The Country Bears", but I'm fairly certain that I really saw this scene unfold.

-At the very least, it is estimated that 100,000 people marched on Washington, D.C. Saturday to protest the war in Iraq, as well as the other policies and failings of George W. Bush. Some guesses put the number closer to 300,000. No matter what, it is very reassuring to know that other people are pissed off and that we're doing something about it. Even better: there were only three arrests reported.

-On the other hand, two counter-protests in DC netted a *total* of 600 people. Comparatively, they look a little foolish. And really, I try occasionally to put myself in the other person's shoes, but when you carry a sign that says "Arrest the Traitors" - well, as has been said before, "It's better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak up and remove all doubt."

-Back to the bizarre, do yourself a favor and download a cover of the Talking Heads' "Burning Down the House", as performed by...Tom Jones and the Cardigans. You may curse me for it later.

-Nothing says "I can't be trusted with the keys to your room while you're away" quite like locking yourself out of said room twice in the span of a weekend.

-Duchamp Redux is going to be a hell of a show, even if the scene I wrote did get nudged out. All I care about is that I still get to injure myself and my roommate in the name of comedy.

-I do believe I stripped for a nickel last night. At least I got to keep the nickel.

-I don't drink coffee very often, and now I know for sure that it's not best to start when you'll be crossing the Bay Bridge in the pitch dark in the coming hours. That was not fun in my addled state.

-I am going to start writing a new play this week. I will write 20 pages of it by Friday. If I do not, please punish me accordingly. Start coiling the wet towels now.

Current Music: George Harrison - Set on You

B-I-G Pimpin'

Okay, I have made a promise, and I must deliver. Here goes.

HEY KIDS! Tired of the same old forms of entertainment? Reality television giving you a rash? Is that Playstation 2 controller covered with that gross dirt and gunk from your heathen's hands? Does that Tom Clancy paperback make you long for the sweet, airtight embrace of death? Well, have I got the solution for you!

Come see the Rude Mechanicals production of KING JOHN at Laurel High School! They even let you choose which date you would like to attend! How's THAT for service with a smile, huh? Select from Friday, September 23 (why, that's tomorrow!), Saturday, September 24 (very popular with the ladies), Friday, September 30 (just added!), or Saturday, October 1 (that's a whole month away!). All shows are at 8 PM Eastern/6 PM Mountain time. Tickets are just $10, $8 for students and senior citizens. No Ewoks, though. They aren't covered by the insurance plan. If you are one of those hyper-sensitive types who needs to know exactly where a building is located before you decide to drive there, it can be found at 8000 Cherry Lane, Laurel MD 20707. So Mapquest it and quit whining, you pansy.

So what exactly do you get for eight or ten dollars, you wonder? Oh, my stars! Well, it's a show that is two parts Shakespeare and one and three-eighths Monty Python. It clocks in at just about two hours, which is highly valuable when it comes to Willie the Shakes. You'll marvel at the breast-fondling, French-stereotyping, lion-wearing, thumb-sucking whimsy packed into this little dynamo! If that's not enough to convince you that an evening with the Rudes is a better use of your money than the latest Ben Stiller Wankathon, I have five - er, no, three! - words for you...

JOHN.

CURTIS.

HEFNER.

Damn skippy, hippie! You loved him in "Vigil"! You recoiled in horror for "Blue Surge"! You wondered what the deal was with all the red coloring in "The Crucible"! But Hugh's favorite cousin is back with a vengeance and chewing every piece of scenery that doesn't contain asbestos! Can the consummate "larger than life" actor make you forget the meaning of the word subtlety? There's only one way to find out! Come on out and watch him bring the energy, the noise, and possibly the funk to the titular role of KING JOHN! Do it, or I will hunt you down and cut you!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, I'm back. Whew. What just happened? All I know is that I logged into Blogspot, and then blacked out. Why are you crying?

Current Music: Jay-Z - Big Pimpin'

Kevin, meet Cactus. Cactus, Kevin.

I've been promising this update all weekend, so I'd better get to it while everything is fresh in my mind.

If you're not a wrestling fan, it may be tough to imagine why I have such wide-eyed admiration for Mick Foley. Allow me to make my best attempt to sum it up. Mick Foley is one of us - a wrestling geek who made good. He grew up in a stable, suburban home on Long Island. He was best known for his sense of humor, and wasn't exactly a hit with the ladies. He didn't get his first kiss until he was eighteen; it was his freshman year at college, she was the girl he was crushing on hard. Then she called him "Frank". Ouch. After such a devastating blow, it was clear that there was only one path for Mick to take: he would train to become a wrestler.

Shortly thereafter, Foley began training with former tag team champion Dominic DeNucci in Pittsburgh. But he never gave up on college. He would drive from New York to Pittsburgh and back every weekend, sleeping in his old Ford Fairmont to save money. He worked from the bottom up, and waited seven years to get his break with a major company, WCW. Even then, he didn't have it made. He battled and struggled and moved from company to company, even wrestling death matches in Japan just to feed his family. He sustained countless injuries, the worst of which was having his right ear torn from his head after getting caught in the ring ropes during a tour of Germany. (So, is wrestling fake or real? The answer lies in between, of course. In this case, it was an unfortunate accident). It all paid off in 1999, when after fifteen years in the business, Mick Foley finally won the WWF World Heavyweight Title. That chubby, awkward guy from Long Island, the kid who wrestled as "Dude Love" in his backyard with his friends, had the top spot in the wrestling world.

Around the same time, WWF commissioned a professional writer to help Mick compile his life's story for publication. After his initial excitement, Foley was disappointed to see the early results. The pages he read sounded nothing like him. It was so flat and sterile. For God's sake, this ghostwriter didn't even know who the Fonz was. How could he give readers insight to the real Mick Foley? So Mick took action. He told Vince McMahon and his cohorts that he wanted to take a shot at writing the book himself. After producing several handwritten chapters, the company agreed. So Mick kept writing...and writing...and writing. About seven hundred handwritten pages later (don't quote me on that), he had his first New York Times bestseller. "Have a Nice Day!" was a huge success, and shattered the popular legend that wrestling fans can't or don't or won't read. It was heartfelt, it was funny, and most important of all, it was impossible to put down. The book created a world of opportunity for Mick. He was able to write a follow-up, "Foley is Good", which was just as popular. Since then, he has also written a handful of children's books and two novels: "Tietam Brown" and the newly published "Scooter".

More importantly, Mick was able to find life after wrestling. Most grapplers never do - they spend their entire lives traveling from show to show, taking hundred dollar paydays in podunk towns like Kearney, Nebraska in hopes that they'll get another break, or that they'll just feel something. With his all-out, risk taking style of wrestling, Mick knew that he was putting himself in serious danger the longer he wrestled a full schedule. Now that he has made his mark in the literary world, he is practically retired. Since 2000, he has wrestled a few dates a year, but he mostly just makes public appearances. This gives him much more time to spend with his beautiful wife and four children.

So what can I say? I grew to love him by watching him wrestle in the guise of a wide range of characters: from cheesy hipster Dude Love to tortured, mangled freak-turned-lovable, sock-puppet wearing goofball Mankind to bloodthirsty maniac Cactus Jack, I've been rolling my eyes or laughing or gaping in awe all along the way. Once I read "Have a Nice Day", I felt like I knew the man behind those masks, and he wasn't very different from you or me, give or take an ear and some front teeth. My favorite match of all time is still his no-holds-barred street fight against Triple H, a bloody marathon of a bout that unfolds like a story. To me and my friends, it is known simply as The Street Fight. I rejoiced when I was able to track down a rare Cactus Jack t-shirt on eBay, and in fact, I was once accosted in a Suncoast Video by a fan who offered to buy it right off of my back. (It was too small for him, and I wouldn't have done it anyway.) I dressed up as Cactus for Halloween. I adapted parts of "Have a Nice Day" for a Playwriting II project, which meant foisting the book upon TM for a period of time. I wonder how much he read. When I thought about who I would actually *want* to be my commencement speaker, rather than the crackpot governor of Maryland, it couldn't have been anyone but Mick Foley. As lukewarm as my interest in the current wrestling scene has become, I'll still flick on the TV any time I hear that he's making an appearance. (The next is October 3, by the way.)

So, okay, even if you don't think Mick Foley's wonderful, you can understand why I was so whacked out over the looming prospect of meeting him face to face. Mostly, I was worried that I would blow it. I so desperately wanted to say something witty, or honest, or original, something I'd want to remember, and maybe he would too. I spent hours debating what I should say, how I should act. Should I tell him that I'm a huge fan? Bleah. He's never heard that before, I'm sure. Do I tell him that I dedicated multiple college assignments to him? Sure, THAT's not at all creepy. So yeah, I was worried that in the heat of the moment, I would turn into a quivering, sweat soaked mass of awkward stammering and wide-eyed confusion. But, there was a more latent fear, no matter how impossible it seemed to me. As another one of my personal icons, Bill "The Sports Guy" Simmons has said, there is nothing worse than meeting one of your heroes and finding out that he is a jerk. With all of this swimming around in my head, I left my parents' house at 9:30 AM Saturday morning...

...And got to the convention center at 11 AM. For the uninitiated, I (or my parents, I guess) live no more than 40 minutes away from downtown Baltimore. This part of the story is not terribly interesting and it just makes me angry, so I'll keep it short. Construction RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE TOLLS on I-95. No one was moving. Brilliant. Had to turn around and take Eastern Avenue to the Harbor, which meant sitting at a traffic light every twelve seconds. Spent ten-fifteen minutes downtown in an amusing search for a parking lot that had an attendant, since I didn't have exact change and driving in the city is an impossible discipline. Found a place on Pratt Street that offered me parking and a car wash for twelve bucks. My car is dirty and I was too frazzled to keep looking for something better, so I acquiesced. Walked several blocks to the convention center. Okay, we're caught up.

So now I'm sweating profusely, I'm sure. At least I fit in better that way. Okay, that's unfair. Several of the conventioneers seemed rather well-groomed, and only a select few were in costume. Besides, I have no right poking fun at anyone when I was wandering around in a Cactus Jack "Wanted: Dead" shirt holding a Mick Foley novel. I wonder who I came to see, hmm? Anyway, I entered the convention area to find a sea of tables and booths. Comic books and action figures and whatever else have you, as far as the eye could see. I set about to find Mick, afraid that I could miss him. After all, he was only there until 1 PM and I had no idea what kind of line there would be. But as I wandered down the main aisle, I saw a familiar banner and yes, some familiar faces.

Their names are Mike and Jerry, I hear, but I know them only as Tycho and Gabe, the creators of Penny Arcade, the gold standard among video game-themed webcomics. There was nobody (!) at their table, so I wandered up and struck up a conversation. I told them that I loved the comic, even though I was a casual gamer. They expressed surprise that I still understood and enjoyed it, so I assured them that theme matter such as giant scorpions was universal. They agreed. I also rambled on for a bit about how great it is that they run the Child's Play charity at Christmas, which started off as a gesture of goodwill and an opportunity for gamers to prove to an ignorant, litigious society that we're not all degenerates. Tycho explained that he knew that people would be willing to give just as long as they made it as easy as possible. So they did all the grunt work in contacting the hospitals and setting up a means of distribution and a wish list through Amazon and PayPal, and the results have been staggering. (Over half a million dollars worth of toys, books, and money collected in just two seasons!) I also congratulated them on a recent eBay auction of one of Gabe's art prints, which raised $8700 for Hurricane Katrina relief. Gabe pointed out that it was the winning bidder who did all the work. Finally, I decided that I should probably stop being a deadbeat and buy something from them. I asked about the poster and t-shirt prices, and was informed of some enticing package deal. They assured me that their partner Robert would accept my "filthy human money", which at the very least made it clear that they talk just like they write. Tycho noticed that I was seriously mulling it over, so I quoted the ancient prophet Homer J. Simpson: "Your ideas intrigue me, and I wish to subscribe to your newsletter." He laughed, and as a line was forming, I rededicated myself to finding Mick Foley. Eventually, I came back and bought a Fruit'>http://www.penny-arcade.com/view.php?date=2003-06-04">Fruit Fucker t-shirt. As I told Gabe and Tycho, "You just can't say no to the Fruit Fucker."



I probably didn't spend more than five minutes searching, but it seemed much longer. While I was conversing with the Penny Arcade guys, I heard a PA announcement about Mick Foley. I didn't want to seem rude, so I didn't abruptly stop and find out what it was. Was he leaving early? Was he in a secret, cordoned-off room? In my impatience and insecurity, I considered stopping to ask someone where he could be found, but who among them would know? I imagined a haughty X-Men fan heaping scorn upon me, the oddball who comes to a comic convention to seek out a dirty pro wrestler. Finally, something caught my eye in the far corner of the room: a telltale black shirt with a yellow print. This was it. No turning back.

As I approached, there he was, in the flesh. The shaggy long hair, the wild goatee, the burly frame...in a Bruce Springsteen shirt, but no matter. He sat with an assistant, who collected the money. There was a stack of brand-new "Scooter" novels, a pile of 8x10 photos, and a smaller stack of copies of "Foley is Good". Behind him there were "Wanted:Dead" shirts, but they weren't the originals. This was a newer model, that read "Wanted: Dead or Alive", and said "Mick Foley" rather than "Cactus Jack". No thank you. The line wasn't deep at all, maybe five people. I took my place at the back, and noted the prices. $20 for a shirt, $15 for a photo, $10 to get your own item signed. Ouch. So I was definitely just getting my novel signed. Or was I? When I was next in line, I picked up a copy of "Scooter". I'm going to read it some time anyway, I might as well get it straight from the source. His assistant told me it was $28. Ouch. Maybe not. Mick looked up from the book he was signing and told me that he'd sign my copy of "Tietam Brown" for free if I got the new one, too...if I wanted. But even the prospect of Mick Foley bargaining with me didn't overwhelm my grip on the purse strings. Not that I have a purse, of course. It's just a figure of speech, I swear. So I put down my $10 and handed "Tietam Brown" to Mick. He asked me if I had enjoyed it, and I started gushing. I don't think I was too mawkish, but I did make it a point to tell him that I loved it, loved all of his books...not that I had read "Scooter" yet, but I plan to...my favorite match of all time is the Street Fight...

"With Triple H?" he asked.

Of course. It had never occurred to me that everyone didn't speak in the same code as my friends and I, and that after twenty years in the wrestling business, he had probably had more than his share of such matches. Oh well. Working overtime to cram in as much content as I could, I tossed him the story about someone trying to buy my Cactus Jack shirt right off of my back in the mall. He offered some sort of cursory response, probably "Yeah?". I don't remember, because I was concentrating very hard on not wetting my pants. So I told him that I dodged a bullet, as it wouldn't have fit the guy anyway. Before I could ask for a picture, the next guy in line walked up and handed Mick a handful of fliers for his buddy's wrestling show or something. They talked for a minute, and I patiently waited until they were done so I could get my picture, the picture that will hang from my baby's crib someday. Okay, maybe not, but you get the idea. Part of my insane pre-comicon deliberations involved this moment. What pose would I assume for the picture? I wanted to go with the Cactus Jack "Bang Bang" fingers, but it seemed way too over-the-top and chances were that I would find a way to screw it up. I finally settled on the cheesy Mick Foley thumbs up, which he had assumed as part of his on-air persona late in his career. As I leaned in for the picture, I caught Mick in my peripheral vision giving the thumbs up. Well, that settled it, then. Camera and novel in hand, I thanked him and went on with the rest of my life. Observe.



The time was 11:30 AM. I had done everything I had come to do, at a price tag of $37 for admission, parking, and an autograph, and it had only been half an hour. So I shuffled around the convention for a while longer, stopping to gaze idly at a Family Guy figure or a rack of comics. I was out of my element. I took a return trip by Mick Foley's table, on the off chance that he would be free to talk and I could say something more substantial. He actually happened to be standing in front of the table, and as I came nearer, he walked right past me to buy an action figure from a nearby merchant. I didn't get a chance to get his attention, but I noticed that he wasn't much taller than me, maybe an inch or two. He was HUGE, however, a bear of a man. He turned and left, and I have no idea where he went. In the course of another thirty minutes of wandering, I didn't see him again. I don't know if he grabbed lunch or what, but it seemed odd that he would disappear ninety minutes into a three-hour session.

The more I think about it, he really didn't seem to be in a good mood. Maybe he was missing his family, or maybe he was tired. Perhaps he was discouraged by a low turnout at his table and a lack of buyers for his newest novel. Way to go, Kevin, you insulted Mick Foley and made him cry. Okay, not really. But no matter what it was, he didn't take it out on the people who had come to see him. He was very polite and patient with me, as well as the folks ahead of me in line that I observed. Small children, women, dorky young guys like myself, it didn't matter. I guess you could get pretty sick of the song-and-dance after a while. But all that matters to me is that I met Mick Foley, and I have a picture to commemorate it. Oh, and the book! I almost forgot. The inscription read, "To Kevin - glad you liked Tietam. Mick Foley and Socko."

Current Music: Jim Johnston's Mankind Theme

Don't you ever think anything you don't say?

I am home for the weekend. I need the comfort that my family provides, just need to eat with them and talk to them and see my house again. I'm going to see Boots at the hospital tomorrow. I'll watch the Ravens game on Sunday with my dad and Uncle Phil, have a few beers. And sure, while I'm here, I'll pop into the Baltimore Convention Center tomorrow morning and visit with Michael Francis Foley. That's probably why I'm so jittery, nervous, scattered, almost nauseous tonight. I can't focus. So this should be an adventure.

My cousin asked me to be her confirmation sponsor. For you non-Papists, that basically means she's going to get smeared with some oil by the bishop and that will give her the gift of the Holy Spirit. ("Whoooo, Holy Ghost, Holy Ghost! Whoooooo!") Think of it as a Bat Mitvah for Catholic kids. And I'm there as...um...a witness, a role model. I'm actually looking at it as a sort of honor, especially since it's the second go-round for me. I sponsored my sister when I was still in high school. Really, I guess a kid could do worse for role models, as long as you ignore the infrequent church attendance. I'm banking on God to do just that. I have been trying to curse people out less, after all.

I hate that freaking talking baby in the Quizno's commercial. Ugh. It was almost funny when it was a John Travolta movie...FIFTEEN YEARS AGO! Plus, whatever MS Paint-esque program they used to make the baby's mouth move looks like shit. Why didn't they just construct a horrifying, monstrous baby puppet of some sort? At least it would've had shock value; that would be something. I don't even know who voices the baby, but it sounds like the fat guy from Herman's Head. Trust me, that's not the sort of comparison you strive for as an actor. I guess if you were Horatio Sanz, it would be the proverbial dangling carrot. But he would just start laughing in the middle of the sketch and choke on the carrot. I'm not fond of Saturday Night Live, either.

One of my favorite subplots of reality television is the wide array of useless, half-assed "jobs" attributed to the contestants. I understand that you take whatever work you can find to pay the bills, especially as the Conservative Bloodsuckers find new and creative ways to funnel more and more money from the pockets of those who can least afford it. But if you're a waitress in a coffee shop, don't give me this "barista" crap. You serve coffee. You don't barist. Along those lines, you are not a "document manager". You are a file clerk, a paper pusher, a cubicle monkey. I love those contestants on the other end of the spectrum - those who embrace the absurdity and marginal nature of their work. I thought it had reached a new peak with Howie, the former male stripper and current meteorological student who yearned to be a Jedi...until he discovered that they didn't have sex so much. Then I tuned in to the season premiere of Survivor last night and discovered that one of the castaways was credited as a...magician's assistant. I have nothing to add to that. Color me impressed.

Why the hell are guys so crazy about losing their hair? I find myself flicking loose hairs off in the shower, brushing them off as they fall on my desk, running my hand across my hairline and imagining that it's getting farther away, peering at the top of my head in the mirror and making note of how much scalp is visible. Screw it. Even if my hair does fall out, that doesn't make me less of a person. I won't be less funny, less sensitive, less compassionate, less intelligent. I like my hair; it's always been thick and dark and soft. I even think it's kind of funny that I've got patches of gray. I'll miss it when I'm gone. But if anyone is shallow enough to dismiss me because I lack it, then it should be their loss. Just think of what a badass I'll be with the shiny, globular skull and thick, rich goatee. Maybe I will be less of a neurotic, jabbering sillyhead.

Probably not.

Current Music: Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Straight to You

Kevin SMASH!

Because I'm tired and I saw this in Kate Amann's lovely LiveJournal and it looked pretty neat and therapeutic, it's time to fight back. SHUT UP!

Shut up, headache!

Shut up, sleep deprivation!

Shut up, seasonal allergies!

Shut up, stupid college researchers, who I've been talking to on the phone in chunks of fifty per day for the last week!

Shut up, MARC Camden Line train that's been late arriving late in either Laurel, DC, or both every day for the last two weeks!

Shut up, crappy Main Street Laurel, with your interminable traffic lights that are poorly timed, lane designations that shift at the drop of a hat, and moronic drivers who swerve into said lanes without signaling or waiting!

Shut up, beaten-down old car that needs a 40-dollar oil change every few months, a few hundred dollars for a new muffler, and a tank of gas every week and a half at three dollars per gallon!

Shut up, beaten-down five-year old computer that is obsolete in every way and crashes every time I log on to - or off of - the Internet! I don't want to pay hundreds of dollars for a new computer!

SHUT UP, COMCAST! I DO NOT OWE YOU SIXTEEN DOLLARS FOR INTERNET SERVICE THAT I DID NOT RECEIVE! I WOULD RATHER BATHE IN VINEGAR AND URINAL CAKES THAN SIT THROUGH YOUR IRRITATING PHONE PROMPTS AND EXPLAIN THE SAME PROBLEM THAT I'VE ALREADY EXPLAINED TO FIVE OTHER PEOPLE IN THE LAST TWO MONTHS!

And of course, shut up, George W. Bush. You and your Junta, your cronies, consistently make life worse for hardworking, honest, regular people like myself and the people I love, and you could care less. It only took five years for your approval rating to plunge into the thirties, and that is a damned miracle. I hope you're sleeping well at night.

Whew, well I guess I feel better. It's nothing that another Friday afternoon won't cure. Oh, and I'm going to meet wrestling legend, bestselling author, liberal spokesperson, and my personal hero Mick Foley on Saturday at the Baltimore Comic Convention. Squeals of delight. There will be a story, and hopefully pictures.

Current Music: Soundgarden - Ty Cobb

"Searing Gas Pain Land?"

As some of you know, Boothe and I took a trip to Six Flags: America yesterday. Why would we want to do that? I got two free tickets when I signed up for Comcast High Speed Internet, and I'll be damned if I wasn't going to get something out of my six weeks of testicle-bunching torment. So, rebounding from a rousing night of two-man Circle of Death, Molson Canadian, and wrestling DVDs, we clambered out of the condo at 10 AM and hopped in my roaring, groaning beast of a car, bound for Largo. We made it there by 10:45, fifteen minutes after the park opened. I was unpleasantly surprised by the TEN dollar parking fee, but I eased my sorrows by making the "Don't forget, we're parked in the Itchy Lot" joke for the ninety-seventh time. The classics never die.

Now, let me back up for a second. I *love* roller coasters, and I have ever since I was in my early teens, when I got tired of holding everyone's backpacks during our trips to Kings Dominion and Busch Gardens. But there are good theme parks, and bad theme parks. I give the aforementioned my seal of approval, as well as Hershey Park. However, as it is the closest park to home, I have been to Six Flags enough times to say without equivocation that it is...not good. There are plenty of mitigating factors. The park has undergone a few theme changes in the last couple decades, from the jungle-motif Wild World to the more generic, Cal Ripken-sponsored Adventure World (nothing could beat Crocodile Cal's Outback Beach House, though), to the current Six Flags: America brand. As a result, the park's actual "theme" is something of a hodgepodge, a bunch of half-assed ideas. You have the awesome comic-themed rides in Gotham City, but there's also a Looney Tunes area for the kiddies, and for some reason a cowboy-and-pirate-type land. But isn't it called "Six Flags: America?" Well...yeah. So right inside the gates, they've thrown together a colonial village of shoppes and reste roomes and the like. What a mess. Oh, and occasionally, someone gets stabbed.

But the worst aspect of SFA is without a doubt the pervasive flaw in every park under the Six Flags Umbrella: those horrid commercials with the creepy Dancing Old Man. Seriously, whose idea was that? "I know what will make people flock to our parks! We'll dress up a woman to look like a mutated cross between Charles Nelson Reilly and Abe Vigoda, and have it show up in a colorful bus that plays that annoying Venga Boys song. The Old Man pops out of the bus, dances spastically, and lures children away in the mysterious bus. It'll be great!" Of course, the creepy bastard is plastered all over the interior of the park. Amusingly enough, my father claims that it is actually Charles Nelson Reilly. He won't accept common logic as proof to the contrary. It hurts just to think about it.

So, I've already told you that Six Flags: America patches together pieces of several other theme parks. Still, it seems like there should be some cohesive, overriding theme that binds the various parts together. Boothe hit upon it as we disembarked from the Superman: Ride of Steel. It's a junkyard. It's painfully obvious from the high vantage points of the various roller coasters. From the dizzying heights of the Two Face: Flip Side I remarked on the highly visible storage area, complete with sheds, beer kegs, tents, and the like. But that's nothing compared to the view from atop the 90 foot drop on the Superman. It appears as though you are plunging into what was once a body of water. Now, however, it is an atomic, bright green mass of stagnance. As Boothe said, "If we fall, it's comforting to know that we'll be dissolved upon impact by flesh-eating bacteria". But the Bog of Eternal Stench was just the tip of the garbage iceberg. There was also a haphazard collection of junk scattered around a neglected field of grass between featured areas of the park. It included a length of tubing that looked like it was taken from a McDonald's PlayLand, a lonely locomotive, an empty gazebo, and best of all...and abandoned junked car that could have been a Pinto. Why? The world may never know. I won't even try to comprehend the wooden crosses and replica (I hope) skeletons that can be seen from the waiting area for the Superman ride. I can only assume it's a memorial to the immigrant laborers that died to build the coaster. Poor Canadians; they just wanted a piece of the American dream.

Beyond the pervasive urban decay decor, the core problem with Six Flags is that there just isn't enough to keep you there for a full day. They've mostly had the same shows for years; even if that's your thing, you can't sit through the Batman Stunt Show or the Looney Tunes gang singing "Funkytown" too many times. The roller coasters they have are very enjoyable; even the wooden ones are a good old-fashioned thrill. But there are only seven of them, and I have never been to Six Flags on a day that all of them were operating at the same time. Because we got to the park early, we avoided long lines until lunch and managed to catch all but the Mind Eraser while they were actually functioning. By lunch time, we were pretty satisfied. The water park is closed by this time of year, and even if it were open...well, you know. Those things are as sanitary as the restroom of a Shell station. We're not stupid or rich enough to hit the arcade. So we had some overpriced Chinese food and hit the best rides one more time, and then grabbed some funnel cake for the road. Of course, we were exhausted and dehydrated, so I pulled into a 7-Eleven and bought the most orgasmic Slurpee of my life. The final tally: Five hours at Six Flags: America. Forty dollars for food and parking. Ninety minutes round-trip. But the tickets were free, and the rides were fun, and the weather was nice for most of the day. But if anyone wants to take me to Cedar Point next year, I won't say no. I hear they are stabbing-free.

Current Music: Foghat - Slow Ride

My Canadian bride rescues me from the dying days of baseball.

You know what? I've been silent on the subject of my Baltimore Orioles for entirely too long. Yes, I said "my". The day I was born at Greater Baltimore Medical Center, Oriole Hall of Fame manager Earl Weaver was ejected from a game, as was his style. Being born and raised in Baltimore, I was destined to root for the Birds. There are pictures of me sitting in my high chair, wearing a tiny replica Jim Palmer jersey. My dad took me to my first game at Memorial Stadium when I was five. I didn't take to the team or the sport right away, but I've been draping myself in black and orange for thirteen years now, over half of my life. Sometimes it seems a lot longer. I have seen a lot of great players and moments in that time. Mike Mussina striking out fifteen Indians in the American League Championship Series. Eddie Murray returning to hit his 500th home run. That fantastic bench-clearing brawl against the hated Yankees. Cal Ripken...well, everything about Cal Ripken, especially the urban legend that his consecutive games streak was jeopardized when he was arrested for assaulting Kevin Costner after catching him in mid-coitus with Mrs. Kelly Ripken.

But those grand moments have been few and far between lately. "Dem O's" won the World Series in 1983, when I was still an infant. In my early years of fandom, they made back-to-back playoff appearances in 1996-1997. At no other time in my life have the Orioles even been to the post-season. Still, I've supported them through it all. When they let my heroes like Mussina and Rafael Palmeiro leave for greener pastures in New York, Texas, and the like, I still went to Camden Yards and shouted myself hoarse. As they populated the team with has-beens like David Segui and never-wases like Omar Daal, I tuned in to Comcast SportsNet for the first pitch. Even when the ragtag Orioles of 2001 battled to an even record late in the season, only to crash and burn with a dreadful 32 losses in their final 36 games, I gritted my teeth and hoped that I had seen the worst. But I can safely say that the second half of the 2005 baseball season has been one of my most frustrating and depressing experiences as a sports fan, and sometimes it leaves me wondering why I keep coming back.

Sure, the losing sucks. In my more fatalistic moments, I've wondered if my home team will ever win another championship in my lifetime. But when the O's burst out of the gate in first place in April, and stayed there for two whole months, I allowed myself to enjoy it, with a little caution along the way. For the first time in recent memory, the Orioles were winning. Fans, reporters, other players were all talking about them! My team! The Yankees and even the Red Sox were looking up from behind. As soon as it came, it was all gone, though. Injuries and inconsistency caught the Birds, and they fell hard. In a month and a half, they've gone from first to near-worst, with no signs of recovery. It eventually cost the manager, Lee Mazzilli, his job. That sucks for him, but someone always takes the fall, and he was about as interesting as the soap scum I just scrubbed off of my bathtub. Oh well.

No, the worst part is the actions of a select few players who are giving Baltimore a bad name. If you watch Conan O'Brien with any frequency, you know that star first baseman and Viagra pitchman Rafael Palmeiro tested positive for steroids back in May, although he wasn't suspended until after he notched his 3,000th career hit in August. When I first heard about it, I was just stunned. I spent my adolescent years claiming him as my favorite player, and was glad to see him return to the Orioles at the end of his career, at a time when he was setting records and cementing his place in the Hall of Fame. I defended and trusted him in March, as he pointed defiantly, stared down a Congressional panel and declared that he had "never used steroids...period". I wanted to believe that it was a technicality or a misunderstanding, even as Raffy made flimsy excuses about confidentiality agreements and mistaken ingredients in health supplements. I held on to my last shreds of hope as he said, amid wild speculation, that the truth would come out soon. In the end, that was all I wanted. Even if he was guilty, I would have forgiven him - most people would have - if he had just spoken candidly, honestly. No rehearsed written statements, "no comments", or flimsy lawyerese and double-talk. But I'm still waiting. Meanwhile, he just keeps digging himself deeper, attracting more scorn and jokes by resorting to earplugs to block out the jeers of a relatively sparse and apathetic Toronto crowd...the only road fans he faced before shutting down for the season with a knee injury. Is it his knee that is hurting, or his fragile ego? Well, you know what the public is going to say. I can't say I disagree with them. Rafael Palmeiro is out of second chances with me.

However, ol' Raffy is a boy scout compared to the flushed, bloated nightmare that is Sidney Ponson. The Orioles signed the righty pitcher as a seventeen year old in his native Aruba, and stuck by him for ten years as he struggled to develop into a major league quality pitcher. They didn't even give up in 1996, when he collected his first DUI while pitching for their minor league team in Frederick. So when all of that patience seemed to pay off with a 17-win season in 2003, the Birds rewarded Ponson with a three-year contract worth over 22 million dollars. They were confident that he would finally be the star pitcher to take the team to the next level. How did he respond to this newfound responsibility? Simple. He showed up in the spring weighing in at 260 pounds, and sputtered his way to an abysmal 3 win, 12 loss first half of 2004. He turned things around in the second half, winning 8 of 11 decisions, but it was too little, too late. The O's were way out of contention. Still, it seemed to set the right tone for 2005.

However, 2005 began with the Sidster in an Aruban prison after he caused a drunken ruckus on a beach and ended up punching a judge. If you haven't noticed yet, Sidney likes his beer. A lot. It seems to cause all of his problems; it's funny how that works. Ponson was apologetic, and he and the team did their best to put the incident behind them...for a few weeks, until he hurt his pitching hand in an altercation with a rowdy fan in a Fort Lauderdale restaurant. To Sid's credit, he was not the aggressor, but he still had to realize that he was under a microscope more than ever. With this in mind, he went out at got pulled over for his second DUI, which was also his second criminal offense in a month. Maybe you can see where this is going. As the Orioles went from first to worst, the constant was horrible, embarrassing pitching from Sidney Ponson. It was no wonder...his alcohol-fueled exploits were common knowledge to Baltimoreans. I myself was regaled with one such tale from my high school English teacher, a fierce party animal of a woman who apparently got into a shouting match with Sir Sidney in a local bar. "I no talk to you no more!", she kept telling us in her best Aruban accent. Class act, that Sidney.

So what is a baseball club to do? To their credit, they tried to make him someone else's problem...and came tantalizingly close. A potential trade to the San Diego Padres was vetoed by the other man in the deal, Padres veteran Phil Nevin. Don't get me started on that. Instead, Sid was still our problem as a calf injury mercifully landed him on the disabled list. Without his pesky pitching dates to worry about, our hero had ample time to get pulled over on I-95 just outside of Baltimore at 2 A.M. for his second DUI this year. That's three strikes overall, if you're counting. Well, fool me...umm...I won't get fooled again. The Baltimore Orioles at long last invoked the little-used morals clause in the standard player contract to void the remaining year and 13 million dollars left on Ponson's deal. We are free...sort of.

You see, the Players' Association has filed a grievance, claiming that the Orioles released Big Boy without "just cause". The sickening thing is that they will win the grievance. No one has ever successfully used the morals clause - it's been tried in reaction to players with cocaine addictions, a healthy appetite for prostitutes, you name it. Their union is just too powerful. You would think that endangering his own life and the lives of others and being a public nuisance and a criminal, and an embarrassment to a proud organization and city, as well as drinking himself into terrible shape for an athlete, would be "just cause". It's always good to know where the priorities of the MLBPA lie. No wonder my uncle has given up on baseball.
Maybe I should, too.

But there is a light at the end of the tunnel for me. I am not nearly cool or masculine enough to deny that I watch reality television. The show that captivates me these days is Rock Star INXS, where some ghoulish washed-up Aussie rockers set about the task of replacing their lead singer on worldwide television, seeing as how he only committed suicide last DECADE. But I just can't get enough of these cutting-edge twentysomethings and thirtysomethings performing glorified karaoke of rock's greatest hits, from the Rolling Stones to Foreigner to the Killers. There's one contestant in particular who...how can I say this...

I'm in love. Her name is Suzie McNeil, and she's an adorable blond pixie from Toronto. She has battled all the way to the final four, and is unquestionably the underdog, considering where she started in the competition. At one point, she was finishing on the outskirts of the fan voting so often that she fashioned herself a nifty hat that read, "Queen of the Bottom Three". But in recent weeks she has vaulted to the forefront with energetic renditions of "Start Me Up" and "Bohemian Rhapsody". So really, what more do you need? All I have to do is figure out how to get her to marry me. It's a perfect scenario, really. She is cute, has a great sense of her own fashion (complete with nose ring), and can serenade me with REM and Queen. Plus, my sister approves of her. Best of all, I could finally take asylum in beautiful, Bushless Canada. What more could you want?

See, I've got plenty of good ideas. It's just my execution that is lacking...

Current Music: Suzie McNeil - Losing My Religion

Where am I?

I had a pretty restful, enjoyable weekend in the balmy resort locale of Chestertown. Good people, great weather, good eats, good watchin'. I wouldn't exactly recommend The Brothers Grimm, unless watching children being devoured by spider-horses and Ginger-mud men is your idea of fun. If so, I won't dare judge you. Freak. It's good to see that some things never change. Michael Moore is still holding down the fort, Dale hasn't aged, the dining hall is full of barely edible tripe. Most importantly, I'm still squatting in Middle Hall. No one bats an eyelash any more.
I also realized a few things this weekend. Most prominently, I really take my car for granted. I've only been a motorist for twenty months or so, but I really have taken a shine to the notion of controlling my own destiny...in the Mid-Atlantic, when I can spare the gas money. However, gas money being an obvious concern this weekend, I clung to the undercarriage of Mikey's Corolla Love Wagon and rode it across the Bay Bridge. It seemed like a good idea until I started jonesing for some Subway and had no means of obtaining it. I wasn't crazy about walking to Proc's or Arby's either. That's right...I was so hungry, I ate at ARBY'S. So expenses be damned, next time I will take my rickety golden steed by the reins and ride that nag until it drops. I'll hit up O'Connor's, too, and visit my friend Bob Mooney, a.k.a. Javier Lopez.
Realization the second is that I am still in a constant state of flux and transition in my life. This is nothing new, really. I have been out of college for a year and a half, but I'm still finding my way back there a lot. It's a place of comfort for me, with all its memories and familiarities, but I go back to see the people. Although it's sobering to realize that of my closest friends, only three are left at WAC, they are still important enough to me to justify going back on free weekends. At the same time, I still feel strong ties to home as well. Obviously, my grandmother's condition is a major factor. It's also that I just don't like being alone. This condo is almost always empty on the weekends, and I'll be damned if I'm staying here and throwing myself a Lord of the Rings Trilogy Party. So, this essentially means that I'm living in one place, but spending most weekends in one of two other places. Everyone I really care about is scattered across Maryland, and essentially, so am I. Nothing about my life feels settled, which is exactly where I was in January...August of '04...you get the idea. I'm sure it's not just me. The mid-twenties (ack) suck for most people, right?
So what do I do to battle the melancholy? Write, dammit. Dale commissioned me to write a short scene for his Duchamp Redux performances, and it was a great sort of feeling. I've been pretty lacking in self-motivation, so it was a novel sort of surprise to be challenged: "Write something." It was what I needed. So if finally plopping down and churning out a new play means that I have to be horse-whipped by a good friend, I hope one or more of you won't mind picking up the slack. If you want to see my short play "Hyperbole", though, you will just have to come down to C-town and check out Duchamp Redux, September 29-30 and October 1. All proceeds go to the Red Cross, so it's even serving a humanitarian purpose. And who knows? Maybe I've got something else up my sleeve. Wink wink.

Current Music: Brad - The Day Brings

Go blog yourself.

That's right; I'm writing a blog entry to complain about blogs. Figure that out. Look, I have no problems with blogs in and of themselves. I think it's great that anyone and everyone can get their own digital soapbox to talk about whatever happens to be on their minds. Politics, sports, pop culture, that fried egg you had for breakfast...it's your prerogative. If you're someone who fashions yourself to be a writer, as I am, there are few better resources available to get instant feedback, even if it is from a handful of friends. It can be a different way to stay in touch with your buddies and/or family members, or to just get a good discussion going. That's wonderful. Express yourself however you like. Express...hmm.

Speaking of Express, as I just did in a completely accidental-at-first-but-now-it's-just-terrible transition, this summer the Washington Post Express started running a "Blog Log" in its LookOut section. For those fortunate enough to not slog through the Metro area each day, the Express is a free mini-paper that is published on weekdays by the Washington Post. LookOut is an Entertainment section of sorts, with comics, celebrity fooferaw, fashion tips, and more. So now you know, and knowing is half the battle. The "Blog Log", as you might imagine, scours blogs all across the Internet and mines them for a half-dozen or so quote-worthy snippets to be published daily. How do you get that kind of job, I wonder? And can it possibly pay any less than my current one? Chances are, it does. This is professional writing we're talking about.

Anyhow, many of these quotes are innocuous, and some are even worth a chuckle. There's nothing about a snarky pot-shot at Tom Cruise or a cynical shake of the head at "Borf", the local graffiti virtuoso, that is going to get a rise out of me. But more and more, the sentences that are published seem designed to be incendiary. It's showcasing the worst of blogging; ill-informed, mouthy yahoos who will say anything to get a reaction. A few weeks back, Express published a quote from a blogger who suggested that Cindy Sheehan should be violently attacked. As if that wasn't enough, it turned out the blogger in question was fifteen years old! Way to do your homework, guys. A minor, someone who isn't even old enough to go to war, suggests that a grieving mother who is searching for honest answers and a peaceful resolution should meet a gruesome demise...what good can come from publishing this garbage to a wide audience? It just blows my mind that a nationally known newspaper, or a branch of it, would publish the dribblings of the masses, particularly in cases when it serves little purpose other than fanning the flames of hatred, intolerance, and ignorance.

Ultimately, I have no problems with freedom of speech, not even as it runs rampant on the World Wide Web. The really great thing about blogs, above and beyond everything I've already mentioned, is that I don't have to read anything that Johnny Blogger in Stone Mountain, Georgia says. It's just floating out there, being ignored by me, just like my entries about drinking Jagermeister and missing my train are free to be ignored by Johnny. The Express is just taking this crap and throwing it in my face, pretending that it's something that is worth repeating and pondering. You all know the old saying about opinions and assholes, so there's no need to repeat it. I just wish we didn't have to be reminded in the first place.

Current Music: Weird Al Yankovic - Everything You Know Is Wrong

Adventures in Transit Retardation!

I mentioned previously in this space that I had decided to spend this past weekend at home with my parents in east Baltimore County. What I neglected to mention was how it was that I got there. Hoo boy. You see, on my average workday, I drive to the MARC Train park and ride in beautiful, horribly designed Historic Downtown Laurel. When my day is over, I take the 5:51 train from Washington, DC back to Laurel, which puts me in my car at 6:15 and home by 6:40. Wanting to save myself needless miles on the car, as well as some extra time to my evening, I packed my car on Friday morning with the intention of driving straight to Baltimore from the park and ride, with an ETA of 7:00 P.M. Without hotshot history teacher Michael Meagher to slow me down, I made ripping good time to Union Station, and found myself waiting in the station for the train to arrive and the track number to be posted. By 5:30, I'd say, the little LCD numbers popped up and I bolted for the tracks...I was a little too eager, it seems. By the time I got to the tracks, I had already forgotten where my train was. No worries, though. I glanced up at the information screens at the end of each track and found the one for me. I was still unsure of myself, for some reason...even more so when I saw an unfamiliar train attendant waiting next to my usual car. The tall, gray-haired man with the sunglasses and the easygoing demeanor was nowhere to be seen. I should've asked the attendant in his stead if I was getting on the train bound for Laurel. But, I didn't, and God knows why. I was listening to my DJ at the time; perhaps I was rocking out to a particularly "rad tune", as the children say. You know, the 35-year-old ones. So I jammed my silly little way right onto that train car.

As soon as I was in the car, I glanced around, looking for some of the usual passengers. No one seemed particularly familiar, but I haven't paid close attention to my co-commuters in Laurel, really. I still haven't rode alone very often, and I only recognize really remarkable faces, like the guy who looks like Michael Gross, the dad from Family Ties. So to reiterate, no Michael Gross. Oh well. I settled into a seat near the front of the car and called my friend Dot on my Motorola Crapmaster phone. I wanted to let her know I would be in town for the weekend, and to see if we could make plans. I heard the conductor make an announcement about the train route over the PA, but it was more garbled than Marlon Brando portraying a stroke victim in a radio show that was broadcast from a Chinese buffet over CB radio. As I caught Dot up on the news of my life, the train started rolling. Sure, NOW I noticed something was definitely wrong. I checked my watch - 5:37. I was on the wrong train, headed on the wrong route.

Five minutes later, the attendant came by to check tickets. I asked him as nonchalantly as possible how close the train would come to Laurel. He said that my best bet would be Odenton, or "OdINGton", as he called it, because no one in Baltimore speaks the King's English. Then I placed a semi-panicked call to my father, who after much groaning, sighing, and blustering, agreed to pick me up in Odenton. By the time I had arranged my ride, I was almost there. I disembarked from the train at 6:05, and waited. And waited. And waited. After reading much of the Washington Post Express and about half of Flannery O'Connor's "Everything That Rises Must Converge", I saw my dad pull up in his clattering 1993 Saturn, the one with an interior that looks like the dumpster behind an art gallery. It was after 7:00, and I hadn't had dinner yet, much less made it to Laurel.

With my half-assed grasp of Howard County, it took me nearly a half an hour to direct my dad to Main Street Laurel. As we manuevered along the "quaint" street with its half-blind motorists and logic-defying traffic light patterns, he turned to me and said, "THIS is the way you get to the train every day? No wonder it takes you so damn long!" Short, sweet, and to the point. That's Terry for you. Of course, after all that trouble, the 45-minute drive up I-95 was a cake walk...we'll just pretend it was, anyway. Final time of arrival at the Brotzman home: 8:30 PM.

What have we learned?

A) I am retarded.

B) Mass transit is the devil.

C) I will continue to curse the name of Odenton all my days. ODENTOOOOOOONNNNNN!!!!!

My next job will be to pluck the weeds in the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, thankyouverymuch.

Current Music: Free - All Right Now

My life is an open book...read it, suckas!

Hey, I'm home for the weekend in the BC...so I actually *have* Internet. Here's the deal. After six weeks of no Internet connection with Comcast, and no set timetable for when they would actually repair our cable line, I reached my boiling point. So I marched out to their main office in White Marsh today and handed in the modem, cords, and all and canceled the account. To my shock, they actually credited the Internet charges back to my account, and now it is officially as though my time as a Comcast Internet customer never existed. Let us never speak of it again.

As a quick Boots update, she was moved to the hospital last night and found to have a skin infection as well as a knee infection. She was put on some serious antibiotics and by all accounts is doing much better. I saw for myself tonight...she isn't hearing very well right now, but she was alert and responsive. I fed her a giant Klondike ice cream sandwich, and she ate it all - she still has her priorities, lol. They pay so much attention to her in the hospital, and take thorough care of her; the difference between the hospital and the care center is night and day. I still felt depressed when I left, but I know that she is in good hands for now, and that's the best than I can expect.

Wow, so my first actual post in this blog, and it's a silly survey. What can you do? Let's roll.

1. Initials: KMB. Same as Mate Mernstein, for those in the know. *taps side of nose conspiratorially*

2. Name someone with the same birthday as you: Neil "Screw You Buzz Aldrin" Armstrong, August Fifth

3. Where was your first kiss? On the lips, I think

4. For or against same sex marriages? Well, put it this way. Has Jerry Falwell ever steered us wrong? If hating Teletubbies is wrong, I don't wanna be right. Um, I mean...for 'em.

5. Are you homophobic? What a gay question

6. Are you bisexual? Nope, lesbian all the way

7. Do you believe in God? Yes

8. How many US states have you been to? Molly's list puts mine to shame. Maryland, Pennsylvania, Delaware, New York, New Jersey, Ohio, Virginia, West Virginia. Eight? Eight. I do have standing invitations to California and Louisiana, if I can scrap the cash together.

9. How many of the US states have you lived in? Just the Maryland one. Boo.

10. Have you ever lived outside the US? Not until I convince Columbia to secede

11. Name something you like physically about yourself: I still have shapely runners' calves.

12. Name something non physical you like about yourself: My sense of humor. Everybody loves a clown, so why don't you?

13. Where do you want to go to college? Washington College. Underclassmen, heed my words: STAY THERE. STAY AS LONG AS YOU CAN. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CHERISH IT.

14. What is your dream car? Let's see. I own a 1996 Camry with 218,000 miles on the ticker. My Check Engine light never goes off. Just today I discovered a leaky tire and a hole in the muffler. So yeah, any other car.

15. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go? Well I've never been to Spain, but I kinda like the music.

16. Have you ever had someone of the opposite sex over at your house while your parents were gone? Pfft, no. I am lame. Lame, I tells ya.

17. How many concerts have you gone to? Well, countless DHX shows. And of course, three HFStivals. So I've seen Green Day, the Offspring, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Foo Fighters, Live, Scott Weiland, Goo Goo Dolls, B-52s, Harvey Danger, Fastball, Mighty Mighty Bosstones...I forget the rest. Oh, and I worked crew at a Counting Crows concert at WAC and was up front for the whole show. Adam Duritz is a sweaty, sweaty, man.

18. Do you download music? I agree with Molly...arr, matey! I be one step ahead of the law at all times! Long live Warez.

19. How many illegal things have you done? Public nudity, underage drinking, the piracy...other than that, nothing comes to mind.

20. Where would you want to go on a first date? Wrestlemania. Okay, just kidding. I would say a moderately priced restaurant, but it's probably best that the girl's first impression not be watching me eat. I really don't know.

21. Describe your perfect date: When I was in Ocean City last month, I had a notion that it would be really great to meet someone there, and to be able to get to know them in an atmosphere where you are already relaxed and enjoying yourself. We could walk along the beach at night (I know, long walks on the beach, it's not my fault society as a whole ran it into the ground), ocean breeze blowing on our faces and through our hair...

22. Has anyone sang or played for you personally? Mike Duck once played "I Will Survive" at my own personal request. That rocked my socks.

23. Ever been kissed under fireworks? At commencement weekend last year, I did caress Ridgaway softly under fireworks, but that's it.

24. Have you ever had sex with more than one person at a time? Oh, go to hell.

25. Do you like President Bush? As I just said to Boothe, we're talking about someone whose favorite book is a novelization of the music video "Du Hast". So we'll say no.

26. Have you ever bungee jumped? You'd think so, but not really.

27. Have your ever white-water rafted? Nay.

28. Have you ever crashed a car? Nothing more than a light tap on the rear bumper of a BMW. I still got taken to the cleaners. Cars suck sometimes.

29. Has anyone more than 10 years older than you hit on you? Wait, how old was Libby? Probably.

30. Have you ever met a real redneck? I've worked in the tool department of a Sears. How's that for an answer?

31. Are you interested in anyone right now? Mig from Rock Star: INXS. His kisses are dreamy.

What the hell happened to #32?

33. What is your current favorite song? Man, do I love "Red Mosquito" by Pearl Jam, off the No Code album.

34. What was the last movie you watched? Anchorman. So much funnier than I would have expected. "It's damn hot today...milk was a bad choice."

35. Who was the last person you said you loved? My momma

36. Where was the last place you went besides your house? Sears, just because I don't have to work there any more. (And I was already in the area)

37. Have you ever seriously vandalized someone else's property? I did befoul Mikey's bedroom carpet the other day, but I have apologized several times already.

38. Have you ever hit someone of the opposite sex? I can't say that I have, thank God. For Fuddy Meers, I had to grab Siobhain and throttle her a bit. Maybe I hit my sister once or twice, but she hits way harder, and she usually starts it.

39. Have you ever sang in front of a large number of people? Haha, ohh. I got my Dreamcoat on in high school, and even had a solo ("Potiphar"). The cows stopped giving milk shortly thereafter.

40. What's the first thing you notice about the opposite sex? A lot of it is in the eyes. That's pretty ironic, really, because I am terrible about making eye contact in conversation. But from a distance, I like to see where their eyes are going.

41. What really turns you on? Laughter, softness, a slow burn.

42. What do you usually order from starbucks? Nnnnope. I brew my own tea, dammit. Bigelow Plantation Mint.

43. What is your biggest mistake? Ever? Hum. I got way too involved with someone who wasn't good for me. But it was many years ago, and I hope I learned from it.

44. Have you ever hurt yourself on purpose? Nah, usually just impulsive, stupid acts of frustration.

45. Say something totally random about you? I have a brown birthmark next to my navel.

46. Do you have an iPod? Nope, I stand by my Dell DJ 20. Four months, and it still hasn't caught fire, populated itself with Wham! songs, or told me to kill.

47. Has anyone ever said you looked like a celebrity? Here's a random list: Tim Mahoney of 311, Dave Matthews, Matthew Broderick, Lou Diamond Phillips

48. Do you still watch kiddy movies or tv shows? I LOOOOVE Fairly Oddparents

49. Do you have braces? Used to, and for what? I still have a huge gap in my front teeth.

50. Are you comfortable with your height? Yes. I don't have to worry about many girls being taller than me, and my long legs come in handy when I'm in a hurry. If I was shorter, I'd probably be fat as hell.

Or #51, for that matter?

52. Do you speak any other languages besides English? Broken conversational Spanish. Did you know that limpiar para brisas is Spanish for windshield wipers? Huh, didja?

53. Have you ever been to a tanning salon? Is that like code for a KFC?

54. What magazines do you read? None, really. Yes, I work for U.S.News and World Report. What's your point?

55. Do you think these surveys are stupid? If I admit that I do, what does that say for me? And why do I keep answering questions with more questions? Is anybody still reading this?

56. Do you have a hidden talent? My stomach-churning double jointed arms

57. Have you gone further than kissing? OooooooooOOOOOOHHHHHhhhHHHHH! How'd that studio audience get in here? Um, yeah.

58. Have you ever ridden in a limo? Yes, but I haven't had liquor in one, so I haven't had the full experience.

59. Has anyone you were really close with passed away? Two friends, a former teacher, and my grandparents on my dad's side.

60. Do you watch MTV? Your mother.

61. What's something that really annoys you? I would say the price of gas, but that is more accurately described as a raw, guttural hatred.

62. What's something you really like? My friends.

63. Do you like michael jackson? I will broadly interpret this question, and say that yes, I have fond memories of former Ravens wide receiver Michael Jackson. But he didn't have much staying power.

64. Can you dance? I'm going to need a lot more to drink.

65. Have you ever surfed? Surfed, impaled myself on a boogie board, it's all the same.

66. Do you know how to pump gas? You know, you don't so much do the pumping. You stick it in, squeeze the trigger, and the pump does the rest. You know, just like sex. At least, that's what Ridgaway tells me.

Seriously, what's going on? Did this person just never learn how to count?

68. What's the latest you have ever stayed up? It amazes me that I have ever pulled all-nighters (not since middle school, probably). Now, if I get any less than 5 hours of sleep, I get sick as hell. I had a couple of nights in college that I was up writing papers until 6 AM. Wacky.

69. Have you ever though that you were honestly going to die? Sure! The one that comes readily to mind was getting trapped under a giant raft in an in-ground pool when I was ten. My sister was on the raft, and thought I was playing when I was pushing on the bottom of it. I was short of air, and panicked. Whew.

70. Ever been rushed by ambulance to emergency? I broke my arm in two places when I was five, but my parents rushed me to the hospital in our van.

71. Have you ever been dared to do something you didn't want to do? Hm, I didn't particularly want to jog a lap around my friend's back yard with my swimsuit around my ankles.

72. Did you do it? It was a dare, I had to.

What an odd place to stop. Oh well. You're the boss, faceless survey purveyor.

Current Music: Big Audio Dynamite - Rush