Papa's So Proud

Papa is so proud of his little boy. He's a little blogger already! Check him out regularly at:

Diaperlogue.BlogSpot.com

Welcome, Son

Welcome to the world, son.

If you thought today was rough, just wait until junior high school.

Religious Observance Gone Totally Wrong

From The New York Times
Megachurches Closed for Christmas

This is unbelievable. Churches closing in observance of Christmas! The hypocrisy is positively mind bending. I guess they figure everyone just spent all their money on presents, so passing the plate won't make it profitable to stay open Christmas day.

I can only imagine a sign hanging on a synagogue door readying, "Sorry, closed in observance of Yom Kippur."

'Going Postal'

When I arrived at my local post office this morning, there was quite a long line. I was in a hurry and was dreading the long wait to mail my package. There were at least a dozen people in line in front of me. After about ten minutes, I had moved near the front of the line. There were only three people ahead of me now. They included

• A short Asian woman with two kids tugging at her pant-legs and a third napping in a stroller. She was there to mail a birthday present to her niece.
  
• A young blonde woman in a long, fitted cashmere coat and lambskin gloves who was there to purchase stamps for her wedding invitations.
  
• And a frazzled old woman in a velvet running suit and Velcro sneakers hoping to buy sheets of stamps for her grandson.
  

None of them would be a match for the woman working the postal desk this day.

Betty had a bad hair weave and a gold tooth. A blue USPS cardigan hung over her gaunt shoulders. She was curt, mean and efficient. With a line stretching out the door, she was hell bent on keeping that line moving.

“Next in line!”

The short Asian women with kids approached the counter in hopes of mailing her niece’s birthday gift. She shows Betty a 16” commemorative Anastasia princess doll. It’s in its original packaging, unwrapped and in no way ready to be mailed.

“Can you help me mail this?”

Betty glances at the line now stretching into the next ZIP code.

“No.”

“It’s for my niece. Can you put this in a box and mail it for me?”

“No.”

“How do I send this?”

“You can’t mail it like that and I ain’t not Mailboxes, etc. Please step aside so I can help the next person.” Betty pushes the woman to the side with her arm and waves to the next person in line.

“Next!”

The Asian woman persists. “How can I box this and send it?”

Betty gives her a look that only a disgruntled postal employee can give. “There are boxes over on that rack. I recommend you find the right size and package it up yourself before I get ugly with you. Please step aside.”

The young blonde woman steps up to the counter and asks for a sheet of flower stamps for her wedding invitations. Betty presents the two sheets of stamps requested. The blonde woman takes several moments to examine the stamps. Betty stares her down, licking her chops.

“Do you have anything more spring-like?” Betty pulls out two more sheets of stamps and slaps them on the counter.

“Look at these you just tell me when you’ve made up your pretty little mind. Now please step aside. Next!”

The blonde woman looks up in dismay and is quickly bumped aside by the older woman in front of me in line. I can only smirk. I’m in a rush and Betty is making quick work of these morons. This is making my day.

The older woman faces the counter and asks for three sheets of stamps. Betty grabs them from the drawer and tosses them on the counter.

The woman looks at the stamps and tries to flatten them on the counter with her hands.

“Ma’am, can I have fresh sheets that aren’t wrinkled?”

Betty reaches into the drawer, grabs three more sheets of stamps and throws them on the counter.

“Ma’am, can you please not wrinkle the sheets of stamps? They’re for my grandson and they can’t be folded.”

“There’s nothing wrong with those. That will be $22.20.”

Continuing to flatten the sheets on the counter, the older woman hands Betty the money and says, “You know you don’t have to be so rude about it.”

“What?!” Betty says.

“You’re really being mean to everyone here, and I’m telling you I don’t like it.” Oh, no she did not… She did not just talk to Betty that way.

Betty rears back. “Sometimes it’s the people that come in here that do it.” (She has a legitimate point). Betty continues, “And I’ve been here since five in the morning so don’t start with me.”

Unfazed, the woman responds, “Well now I know not to come back to this post office again.”

“Lady, we all make choices in life.”

The yelling escalates and the insults begin to fly. Amid the flurry of expletives the woman exclaims, “Can I just have my change?”

Betty slaps the change on the counter. The woman looks at the change it’s clearly not enough. She glances quickly at Betty, avoids eye contact and turns to leave.

“Have a blessed day and may God bless you!” the woman sarcastically calls out as she walks away from the counter.

“Yeah, you bless this,” Betty mutters to herself. “Next in line!”

It’s finally my turn. I step toward the counter and place my package in front of Betty.

She looks at the box to make sure it is sealed and properly addressed. It’s like your teacher examining your homework in front of the entire class.

“How would you like to send this?”

It passed the test. Phew.

“Um, it just needs to be there by Friday,” my voices crackles out.

Betty flips the package onto the scale, slaps a sticker on it and throws it onto a conveyer belt behind her. The box teeters on the edge of the belt, spins and falls hard onto the floor with a crunch.

My voice quivers. “Um, a sheet of flag stamps please.”

Betty slaps a wadded sheet of stamps on the counter. I pay for the stamps, step to my left and leave.

Despite the long line still reaching out the door, I’m in and out in less than fifteen minutes.

Thank you, Betty. God Bless you and keep up the good work.

Eschatology Shmeschatology, Oy!

mood: Penitent
music: Jars of Clay

BOYCOTT SONY PICTURES
SONY Pictures Entertainment has put up big bucks to produce films of the "Left Behind" series of books. If you're not familiar with these xenophobic, anti-semitic, radical right-wing pulps, Michelle Goldberg of Salon.com provides a critical and thoughtful examination of this hatred-filled shit.

In short, the "Left Behind" anthology is a collection of best-selling titles geared toward kind, decent, god-fearing, Jew-Catholic-Arab-haters. The books are your run of the mill Antichrist, end-of-the-world thrillers filled with predictable plot twists -- you know, like when all the Jews realize their error and convert to Christianity before being tossed into Hell. Like we didn't see that coming...

Now you can see it all depicted in widescreen technicolor in feature films starring Kirk Cameron, Lou Gossett, Jr. and million-dollar CGI effects. Coming to a church near you! There's even a children's series of books. Nothing gets kids more inspired than a few stories about rapture. I can't wait for the animated series.

Some leaders in the Jewish community had issues with Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ for it's portrayal of Jews as the gang-bangers of the Notorious J.H.C. But the "Left Behind" series doesn't just damn the Jews. The Antichrist bares striking similarity to the Pope and Arab nations get their asses kicked by Jews who eventually convert to Christianity to save their souls. Did I mention a Democratic American president is also in cahoots with the Antichrist? Let's not forget about those hedonistic liberals. They can go to Hell, too.

Many readers of the "Left Behind" series believe that the end really is near. Violent weather, floods and terrorism are just a few of the signs pointing to the impending Tribulation. Forget about deregulation of environmental protections, destruction of wetlands and conflagratory foreign policy. It's definitely the gays and family planning centers causing record numbers of hurricanes. I'm a believer in chaos theory and all, but that seems a bit far-fetched. If a drag queen flaps his wings in Miami Beach, will it rain in Salt Lake City?

SONY is clearly exploiting the Evangelical market in producing these films. Let's face it, there's big money here. Just think of the merchandising opportunities. Antichrist Christmas ornaments and Fire-and-Brimstone Yulelogs are already available for pre-order at the online store. For the time being these films will only be played in churches, but I can only assume that these pictures are soon destined for mainstream theaters.

I thought I would funnel my rage by encouraging a boycott of SONY. So I did a quick Google for "SONY boycott" in hopes of finding others already united in my cause. Turns out a lot of people are already pissed at SONY.

Like this guy who's ticked because his SONY playstation never worked right. Or this guy who just wanted to post a blog about Ken Jennings. This activist is upset about emulation suppression, whatever the hell that is. And these homeys are furious that SONY stole Rolando's track. Those bastards.

OK, maybe it's a weak coalition for now. But I think it's a start. Meanwhile, the next time Growing Pains or Iron Eagle is on, I beg you to please change the channel.

Dial "L" for Life Sucks

I’m lucky to have a relatively comfortable office at work with a few windows and enough sunlight to grow a couple neglected plants. Whenever possible, I leave my door open so that co-workers can drift in with a friendly “hello,” a “quick question” or the occasional “did you jam the printer and walk away, again?”

The only real downside to my office – besides the daily deposits of mouse droppings on my keyboard – is its location. Just feet from my chair, the building’s reception desk rests directly outside my door. A constant din of ringing phones, buzzing doors and colliding delivery carts punctuates my workday. Add to that a steady flow of conversation and gossiping and it often feels like I’m working in the downtown bus terminal. Despite all this ruckus, our veteran receptionist has kept everything in the building running smoothly for nearly 32 years.

Our receptionist is a round, friendly woman in her 60s. She has a kind, patient demeanor and a subtle authority in her voice that politely alerts you she aint gonna take shit from nobody. For over three decades, she has been the first person everyone met when they came into the building and the last person they said goodbye to when they left. Because she was the company’s receptionist before the current offices were built, I’m convinced the masonry was erected around her. If people could be load-bearing walls, she’d be 12-inch cement block.

She has been a matriarch to many of us – inviting us to her home for holiday dinners, sharing advice on career and family and bringing in freshly baked cookies every Monday morning. She has always remembered everyone's birthday, selecting the perfect card and getting it signed by everyone in the office. And when you weren't looking, she has been there at her desk taking care of the little things that no one else bothered to notice.

She’s always been fully aware of everything and everyone in the building – seeing who came in late and who left early or intercepting calls from flirtatious interns trying to reach married executives. Watching the outside video monitor she has observed the kind of behavior that people only exhibit when they think they’re out of sight. In short, she has seen where all the bodies are buried. Her presence has been omniscient. That is until this past Friday.

At 4:30 on Friday afternoon, our loyal receptionist was called into the executive offices. She sat down and they informed her that layoffs were being implemented. As had been standard procedure in the past, she assumed they were about to inform her of the individuals that were being laid-off and that she should no longer buzz them in or transfer their calls.

Instead, they told her that in addition to the several positions being eliminated, she was also being let go. The company would go without a receptionist. (Ironically, without a receptionist absolutely no one can get buzzed in or have their calls transferred – not even the people that supposedly still work there.)

I can only imagine her shock. In 30-plus years she had undoubtedly seen countless rounds of layoffs. But she had dodged them all. Now, mere months from her retirement, she had become expendable.

She was asked to turn in her key and handset and told to leave the building immediately. A folding cardboard banker’s box was conveniently waiting at her desk when she returned. (Some folding and assembly was required. Those boxes are hard enough to put together as it is. Imagine trying to figure it out as your mind races, moments after losing your job.)

None of us saw this one coming. Before we could react to the news, she was gone.

The next day I came into work to see her cubicle was dark and her chair was empty. The phone rang unanswered. Taped to her window was a paper sign that read: “Welcome! Please use the phone to your right to call the party you are visiting.” There was a clipart graphic of a ringing phone and everything. It took someone at least two minutes to make it – ten if you count the time it took them to clear the paper jam I left in the printer.

Just one sheet of letter-size paper is all that was needed to replace an entire person – her self-worth and sense of purpose. It was a Hammermill tombstone to human dignity.

I can only assume that someday my career and personal dedication to the company will be conveniently replaced by a slip of paper taped to my door. Hopefully that’s a little further into the future. Maybe by then, we’ll be able to reduce people to just an index card. In the meantime, I can’t help but wonder what clipart they’d use for me.

Drive Safe!

It poured all weekend. The rain was relentless and driving was a nightmare. There was torrential rain, blinding road spray, localized flooding and the occasional biblical deluge. But I drove back and forth to both DC and Philadelphia this weekend without incident -- thank God. There is no doubt I owe great thanks not only to my Maker, but also to all my well wishers: "Drive safe!"

I must have heard it a hundred times this weekend from friends, my parents, co-workers and even my parole officer. "Drive safe!" they'd say. I even caught myself saying it to other departing drivers.

"I was just out there and the roads are pretty bad. So drive safe!" I'd caution.

Does such a warning really have an impact on other drivers? Does a concerned "drive safe" really impact my driving? As I'm weaving down I-95 at 80 mph on the shoulder does my co-worker Jerry's voice resonate in my head? "Jerry said to 'drive safe.' Maybe I should slow down now and take it easy. I wouldn't want to disappoint Jerry."

Why do we do this? Why do we say "drive safe"? If I got into an accident, would Jerry stand by the water cooler Monday morning shake his head and say, "I told him to drive safe. I really wish he'd have listened."

Well get this Jerry. No one cares more about my safe driving than me. No one could possibly care about the well-being of my body and my car than me. So zip it granny and worry about your own safe driving so you don't crash into me!

And to Mom and Dad: We made it home safe, so stop worrying already!

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da

PHOOEY

In May, when my hometown Philadelphia Phillies came to Baltimore, I tried rooting for the Orioles. It didn't come naturally, but I wanted to give it a shot. The Orioles were currently in first place while the Phillies already floundered below .500 in the young season. I wasn't shifting my loyalties. I just knew as a lifelong Phillies fan that they weren't going anywhere this year. I thought my energies could be better focused on a first-place team with a shot at the post-season.

Now I know, of course, that my instincts about the Phillies were exactly right. They would be destined for yet another dead-end season. (So would the Orioles. Oops!) But this year was a little different, in that the Phillies were able to hang on and tease their fans for another few months. By August they were back in the race. And until the last day of the season, they were flirting with a late-season miracle.

That miracle never came. Had the season ended at 3:45pm this afternoon, with the Phils leading the Nationals and the Cubs leading the Astros, that miracle might still have happened. But the season ended about an hour later in the usual disappointment.

The Phillies missed a National League Wild Card berth by one game and the Eastern Division by two. That's a pretty narrow margin. So narrow, you could probably identify the single factor that separated this team from it's post-season fate. Which leads me to the question of who to blame? (Or in Philadelphia terms, who to boo the loudest when starting lineups are announced at Opening Day 2006.)

One could easily blame beleaguered reliever Tim Worrell, who blew several games early in the season before taking leave for "personal issues." I have to wonder if his "personal issues" was his own difficulty in confronting his own suckiness.

One could surely blame manager Charlie Manuel. It's always the manager's fault.

One could blame without question thirdbasemen David Bell. On September 7, in the heat of the Wild Card race, with 2 outs in the ninth inning, he booted a routine grounder that would have ended the game. Instead, his error led to the go-ahead run that gave the Houston Astros the win. That one play represented a two-game swing in the standings with the team that would eventually keep them out of the post-season.

But I'm going to blame Bill Dancy. Bill Dancy is the Phils' thirdbase coach. My brother doesn't like him and I don't blame him. First of all, Dancy doesn't wear the uniform well. The pinstripes accentuate the sag in his pants. Secondly, he sucks as a thirdbase coach. He got more runners thrown out at home than any coach since Brady "Shakes" Calhoun for the 1887 New York Metropolitans. Thirdly, he's a good a target as anyone else, I guess. And I'll proudly be the one guy in fans booing him mercilessly next season during the pre-game announcements.

But I guess the only person I should really blame for the disappointment is myself. I should have known better. But come next April, I'll be the same idiot rooting for the Phils. No doubt.

IT'S NOT JUST A GROCERY STORE
On a brighter note, the Hunt Valley Wegmans opened today north of Baltimore. If you're not familiar with Wegmans grocery stores, I have no need for you here. Please leave.

This afternoon, I donned my University of Rochester t-shirt and dug out the Wegmans shoppers card I signed up for as a freshman in college 10 years ago. It hadn't been used since the last millennium. My wife and I hopped in the car and drove to Wegmans for the first time as a married couple (we've been married over four years).

The place was mobbed. And I mean mobbed. You'd think there was a snow storm coming and they were giving away free toilet paper. The store was a gridlock of shopping carts and screaming children. It was heaven. In preparation for the big opening, Wegmans had added hundreds of employees and for the day became one of the largest employers in Maryland.

While walking the oddly-decorated aisles, I overheard one man saying to his wife, "It's not Disney World, it's just a grocery store." Just a grocery store? I quickly spun around and responded, "Go the hell back to Shopper's Food Warehouse, you troglodyte!" Danny Wegman would have been proud

The store was everything we hoped it would be. Great selection. Friendly help. And despite the 14,000 eager shoppers, there was no wait at the checkout. All that, and it's only 15 minutes from home. Welcome to the neighborhood Wegmans. I'm glad you're back in my life.

Relive and Relieve 3

Once again, I'm hoping that by exposing my most painful life experiences here in this blog, they will become a lesser part of my daily burden of stress, anxiety and self-doubt. Complex emotional issues aside, I'm grateful to at least have my health. But it came at a cost several years ago, when I found myself hospitalized following a car accident.

When I tell people that I spent the better part of two weeks hospitalized following an automobile accident, images of overturned cars, bloody asphalt, a medical helicopter transport and a full body cast come to mind. I was neither that lucky nor unlucky. The accident appeared to be a minor fender-bender on the Capital Beltway but unfortunately left me with a mysterious medical condition.

Gory details aside, I essentially had a kinked vein in my shoulder which led to bizarre swelling, deep pain and an unnatural skin hue in my arm. Doctors didn't really know what to do with me other than stick me with lots of needles. A crack team of doctors at a county hospital were split on whether or not I'd be "up and about in no time" or if my arm was to soon "shrivel up and rot like fresh fruit on a hot day."

I eventually wound up at Johns Hopkins Hospital. They're consistently rated one of the top medical campuses in the world and they're not shy about reminding you constantly. In fact, the sense from the doctors there is, "you're lucky that you're sick, because you got to come to our great hospital." The sense one gets from the nurses is more like, "we're understaffed, underpaid and the doctors treat us like crap. If you squeeze that call button, you better be dead."

The Hopkins doctors determined the only way to fix this problem with my arm was to strap it to a board (which in turn was strapped to the side of my body) and feed catheters into my arm until they came out my ass -- and subsequently fed back into my arm again. If this wasn't successful, they'd try cutting me open even further.

I was rolled into the Intensive Care Unit of Johns Hopkins Hospital following a lengthy catheterization procedure during which I had been only mildly sedated. A bed in the ICU at Hopkins Hospital is, needless to say, a step down from a suite at the Ritz Carlton. In fact, it's even a few steps further down from a cot in that little room at the end of the hall that has the trash chute and dirty mops in it.

A bed at the ICU is exactly that: a hospital bed surrounded by a shower curtain enclosure just big enough to fit the exact dimensions of your bed. And the curtain is just opaque enough as to only allow the passing silouehettes of nurses and doctors. The room is filled with a constant din of beeping, buzzing, groaning and the occasional "code." My neighbor, just a few inches to my right, had just had a triple hip replacement. He screamed in constant agony. "Kill me, please," came bellowing from his distressed voice 73 times per hour for 18 hours straight. He was sobbing only about half the time, though. Knowing that surgery was likely in my near future, this was not a comforting experience. I had tried to convince myself that surgery really can't be that bad and that pain medications will take care of everything. My bed-neighbor but those delusions quickly to rest.

I meanwhile lie in my hospital bed, arm strapped to a board, strapped to my side, unable to move. The ICU does not allow visitors. The nurses for some reason took kindly to me and allowed my fiancee to come visit for a little while. She convinced them to roll a TV into my curtained area. The TV made the curtain bulge out and it was struck throughout the night by passing "crash carts" and gurneys. The TV was eventually taken away and I was left to watch the shadows pass along the curtain.

I think was there for the better part of two days before I was finally taken to an intermediate care unit. Here I at least had a large room to share with only one other dieing person. This was an 87-year-old man without a lower jaw. I couldn't imagine what had just happened to him. I couldn't even bare to look at him. He probably thought the same things about me.

Since my condition was not improving, I was scheduled for surgery. In preparation for surgery, the doctors ordered a chest X-ray -- because nothing cures you faster than a dose of radiation delivered directly to your vital organs. A few moments later, in rolls the portable chest X-ray machine. But they go straight to my roommate. He's completely out of it as they prepare to "take some pictures." Only, I notice the technician is referring to him by my name after each shot. I finally call across the room and ask the tech to make sure he's got the right patient. Recognizing his mistake, he gets the pictures of me they need. I can only wonder what the doctors would have done to me had they seen the X-rays of my 87-year-old roommate, thinking they were mine.

Early the next morning, I'm awakened at some ungodly hour to be prepped for surgery. I'm rolled into the OR and surrounded by nurses. As they begin to administer the anesthesia, I'm told to count backwards from 10. I remember getting to 9.

I woke up from surgery with my father at my bedside. It was eerily reminiscent of all those mornings in high school he'd come to my room to drag me out of bed. Only this time he wasn't screaming at me and I was quite thrilled to be awake. He had a look of serious concern, since the doctors had said the surgery was not successful. I was soon taken away for another short procedure, after which the doctors were now more confident in saying I'd be "up and around in no time."

I was now due for another stint in the ICU. This time, my neighboring bedfellow was an elderly woman named Mrs. Norris. Mrs. Norris had just had her gall bladder, two kidney stones and Adam's apple removed. She was much quieter (or more nearly dead?) than my previous neighbor. The nurses seemed to be having difficulty waking her up.

"Mrs. Norris, can you hear me?" the nurses would shout at her.

"Muhh..." replied Mrs. Norris.

"Mrs. Norris, do you know where you are?"

"Muhh..."

"Do you know where you are, Mrs. Norris?" the nurses persisted in louder and louder tones.

"Mrs. Norris, are you awake? Mrs. Norris, who's the president? Do you know where you are, Mrs. Norris?"

This series of questions were repeated every five minutes until she started to come around.

She finally answered their questions: "Yes," "Taft," and "Cupcake," respectively.

I soon was transferred from the ICU to a semi-private room. Let me just say this. A semi-private room is the furthest thing from private. It is the most un-private place imaginable. So un-private that you get to hear every single bit of medical history about your roommate -- and vice versa.

My first roommate was a middle-aged African-American man. He looked pretty normal, but had just received news of his terminal condition. The doctors came in to talk to him about his situation. They drew the soundproof sheer curtain between our beds when they came in to ask him some additional questions about his bowels and sexual history. The questions consisted of various combinations of the words, "bleeding," "rectum" and "intercourse." His answers to these questions were positively astounding. No matter how much I turned up the volume on my TV, nothing could drown out this line of questioning.

The worst moment came a couple nights after my surgery when I was woken up by what was nothing short of an explosion. My roommate had soiled his bed. And by soiled, I literally mean some ungodly foul shit. The nurses rushed in, followed by a team of orderlies and the 3rd Armed Infantry. The orderlies donned their hazmat suits and made quick work of removing my roommate's sheets and gown and incinerating them.

I wasn't in great shape myself. In order to prevent blood clots in my legs after being in bed for so long, I was fitted with a pair of inflatable pants. These weren't like MC Hammer pants. These were essentially plastic bags attached to a leaf blower. Every two minutes the blower would kick on for a few seconds and the bags would inflate, squeezing my legs. At night, I woke up every two minutes thinking someone was sitting on me.

I'd now like to take this opportunity to point out that morphine doesn't do crap. The excruciating pain of post-surgery was no match for narcotics. You get a little button to press whenever you feel pain. Pressing the button releases a specified dose of morphine. I pushed that button so many times, you'd think I was playing Space Invaders. None the less, I was really pissed when they took it away and made me get out of bed.

Walking sucked at first. I had all kinds of things hooked up to me and hanging off my body. But being young and quick to heal, I was moving little by little after a couple days. Since I was receiving medication that required constant monitoring, I spent an additional week in the hospital after my surgery. By the end of that week, I was walking pretty well. At no point during this ordeal, did I ever really lose my faculties. I had been fully aware of everything that had been going on. And I was now completely aware of the fact that I was stuck in that goddam hospital with no where to go. I'd take my little IV pole, make sure my gown was tied securely behind my rear, and go for walks around the ward. I'd do laps. Nurses would give me strange looks after passing their station for the 35th time. Eventually they'd ask me to make runs to the vending machine, deliver mail and take vital signs from another patient.

During the course of those several days walking the wards, I'd peek into rooms and see truly tragic cases. Johns Hopkins Hospital gets some of the sickest and most desperate patients. I now realize that Mr. Triple-Hip-Replacement, Mr. No-Jaw and Mr. Explosive-Defecator are probably no longer with us. (I hear Mrs. Norris is doing great, however.) While this ordeal really sucked for me, I was able to walk out on my own power. No matter how bad you think you've got it, a place like Johns Hopkins Hospital will remind you that there's always someone else that has it worse. And that all the other stresses of life are minor in comparisson.

Relive and Relieve 2

Again, I return to reliving some of the more stressful moments of my life here in this blog in the hopes I can return to a more normal-functioning lifestyle. With a child on the way, I'm confronted with new concerns about how I will protect and provide for my growing family. Luckily I've rarely found myself or loved-ones in harm's way. But I always thought I would be able to act bravely and calmly in the face of adversity. That belief would be tested in one particular instance about a year ago.

Heading North on I-95 through New Jersey, with my wife in the car, I decided to stop and grab a coke to keep me alert for the rest of the drive. It was about 12:30 am, so I thought caffeine would be a smart choice. As it turns out, my decision to pull into this particular road-side rest along I-95 would be my first mistake.

The rest area was the kind centered between the northbound and southbound side of the highway. Pulling in, I saw a rare open space right in front of the building, next to a handicapped space and directly facing a shiny, illuminated Coke machine. I scraped $1.50 in change from the coin holder in my car (sparing the state quarters I don't already have in my collection), and quickly hopped out of the car toward the Coke machine. After feeding the machine my less-desirable specie and retrieving my 16-ounce beverage from the dispenser, I jumped back into my car. Without thinking, I quickly twisted the cap off the bottle. That was my second mistake. The rapid hissing and bubbling from the bottle immediately reminded me of some simple laws of physics. Seconds later, my steering wheel, dashboard and imitation wood paneling are drenched in syrupy high-fructose corn syrup.

My wife valiantly jumps out of the car and ran inside to get some wet paper towels. I, in the meantime, grabbed some extra napkins I have in the car and started tidying up. With the driver’s door open, one leg dangling out of the car, I attempted to reach the deep recesses of the dashboard that only an exploding carbonated beverage could reach. As I busily wiped away, I was approached by the kind of character you’d only expect to see roaming a highway rest stop at 12:30 am.

“Hey, man, can you give me money for gas?” he asked. “I’ve been here for hours and really need money.”

“No, I’m sorry.” I responded curtly. Was I wrong not to give him a dollar? With the price of gas these days, it wouldn’t have gotten him very far. None-the-less, mistake number three.

He came back a minute later.

“Look man, I just want some money for gas to get out of here.” He implored in a slightly more psychotic tone.

“No. Sorry,” I said as I swung my leg back in the car and closed the door. The guy slinked back into the shadows of the parking lot.

A few minutes later, my wife returned to the car with the damp paper towels. Lord knows what took her so long. We spent a few more minutes wiping down the car. Before we left, I quickly ran inside to wash the diluted Coke and Armor-All off my hands. My wife stayed behind to continue cleaning up. Mistake number four.

I rushed into the restroom, toke care of all the necessary business and hustled back out the door to the car. As I stepped outside, I am shocked to see that my parking space, the one next to the handicap spot, in front of the soda machine, is now empty. The car is gone. Only an oily stain remains.

“Okay, she moved the car, right?” I thought rapidly to myself. I looked across the aisle, down the row, but I didn’t see her. I spun 360 degrees. After 15 or 20 seconds, a mild panic began to brew.

“Maybe she moved the car to get away from that creepy guy,” I mulled in my head. “Or worse yet, maybe he forced her into the car and is taking her god knows where.”

Now the worst possible scenarios are racing through my mind as a rush of adrenaline washes my body. “Fuck, why didn’t I warn her about the creepy guy before I left her alone?” (Please refer to mistakes four and five.)

I now realized that my wallet, cell phone and keys were all in the car. I can’t even call her to find out what the hell is going on. Another mistake.

A half minute has passed by now. It’s felt like an hour. My heart was pumping and my vision focused down to a tunnel. I looked around to see who might have witnessed anything. I looked again at the empty parking space, the handicap space and the Coke machine. Complete panic consumed me.

I whirled around and headed inside for help. As I charged back into the rest stop, the first thing I notice is a large sign hanging above the doors across the lobby. The sign reads “SOUTHBOUND.” I spun around and look at the wording above the door I just entered: “NORTHBOUND.” The ultimate blunder!

I ran across the lobby and blasted through the doors to the northbound side of the building. As I stepped outside, I realized I’d been roaming a parallel universe. Here, next to an identical handicapped parking space and Coke machine clone is my car, with my wife sitting inside, still wiping the Coke from every crevasse of the dashboard that only a carbonated beverage could find.

Opening the door, I slinked back into my seat. I grabbed my wife’s hand and breathe a sigh of relief. My wife gave me a confused look. Reaching out to close the door behind me, a voice called out.

“Hey, man, can you help me with some gas money?!”

Relive and Relieve 1

My therapist says I have "a lot garbage in the basement." I hope he wasn't referring to the size of my ass.

This probably comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me well, but this "garbage" has seemingly accumulated over the years and is adding to my daily "baseline of stress." This baseline, according to him, grows and grows until I become the human equivalent of an M-80. He contends the only way to eliminate some of this garbage is to haul it out of the basement and spread it across the dining room table during Thanksgiving dinner. It sounds pretty convincing coming from a professional, even though this "therapist" is actually my "hair stylist." But he's as close to my head as anyone else, so I think I'll go with it.

Anyway, I thought I would heed his advice and take space in this blog to "relive and relieve" some of the more stressful things I've had to endure in my short and uneventful life -- hopefully putting them in front of me once and for all. Call them rants. Call them unforgiving negative attacks. Call them poor writing. But please don't call them petty. Here goes...

Relive and Relieve 1: My Freshman Roommate
Daniel weighed 98 pounds after a large, heavy meal. He had an affinity for Magic cards and sorted through them incessantly. Daniel had odd hygiene habits. No, strike that. Daniel had a surprising lack of hygiene habits altogether. Daniel showered but once a week, every Sunday morning before church. I guess he wanted to be sure he was clean for god.

Daniel read his bible every night. He often took to reading his bible atop the heating register, after turning the heat up full blast. I would walk into the room to find Daniel perched on the radiator which would be cranking out heat at a toasty 87 degrees, spreading his stink all over the room. I'd ask him to turn it down. He'd flip open the door on the heater and pretend to turn it down, then continue reading his bible.

Daniel slept in a sleeping bag every night. He would lay the sleeping bag out on his bare mattress and sleep in it. In the entire first semester, he never washed that sleeping bag. After a couple weeks I was afraid to be alone in the room with it. Come to mention it, Daniel never did any laundry that I knew of. He wore the same clothes every day: a white BugleBoy sweatshirt and white jeans. If you don't do laundry often (read: ever) white is color you should probably avoid.

We originally had our beds bunked, his on top. He would always dismount from his top bunk by jumping straight down onto the floor with a loud thump. This would of course wake me up every morning by scaring the living bejeezers out of me. Then, every single night the bed would shake in a way that left little to my imagination. Eventually I decided (unilaterally) that we had to de-bunk the beds. I should have asked him first. Instead, my friends came in and hoisted around the furniture while Daniel was out. Daniel came home later that night to find his bed relocated to the other side of the room. He asked me why I had done this. I said it was for religious reasons. He didn't find it very convincing or funny.

With his bed now on the floor, the sleeping bag was much more visible and eminently more aromatic -- a consequence I had foolishly not foreseen. But l deserved it, given what I had just done. What I also now noticed, was a piece of paper, folded in half, that Daniel had taped to the cinder block wall above where his pillow now lay. I asked him what it was. Daniel said it was the program from the funeral of his best friend from high school who had died the year before. Okay then... I asked if he had a picture of his friend that might serve as a better reminder of their friendship. He said he didn't have any pictures of him. It was clear Daniel found much more comfort in the wrinkled funereal program.

From this point on, instead of sitting on the heater, he would now sit on his bed facing that program while he read his bible. Was I wrong to be totally creeped out? Either way, I was completely and utterly weirded out by this. Not to mention he continued to turn the heater on full-blast. And there's nothing worse than being creeped out AND hot in your own room. To boot, I was now left with someone who probably came to hate my guts even more than I hated his. But at least I had clean sheets on my bed.

We Are Sick, Sick, Sick

So what am I doing during my summer vacation? Not much really. Catching a few rays. Catching some Zs. Catching fireflies. And catching up on my blog, of course.

One activity I'm ashamed to fess up to, is that I'm also catching up on recent episodes of MTV's Real World Austin. I watched every episode of the original Real World in New York, which first aired like 15 years ago. This was before reality television and Richard Hatch had really hit it big. I've only caught a few episodes of other "Real Worlds" over the years -- Real World San Deigo, Real World Philly, Real World Boise -- but not of them seemed to have the energy of the original.

The most-recent cast based in Austin, TX doesn't seem to be any different. The whole concept is basically the same -- pitting differing cultures and values against each other in an over-modulated and artificial microcosom. There's always the innocent country girl who's never left her home town and the slutty sexpot. There's a "playa" and an angry blackman. And of course a gay or lesbian or both. Except this cast is surprisingly lacking the token homosexual. (The last group of seven, living in Philadelphia, had two!) Perhaps by the end of the season, someone will come out of the closet for some added "reality."

The show has gotten into some pretty heavy issues before. There was once a cast member living with AIDS. And probably more than half of the Real Worlders have had to struggle with some sort of alcohol-related addiction. But this past week, MTV presented what I think is the most powerful moment of "reality" TV I'd ever seen.

MTV had been using this moment of drama as a teaser in ads for months. One of the roommates is seen crying on the phone. He's gotten some bad news. Had he gotten a call from an ex-girlfriend? Was his dog hit by a car? Did he learn the spoiler of the new Harry Potter book by accident?

No.

One of the roommates, a dude named Danny, got a call from his father. Danny's mother had died.

The camera drew in close. Danny sat in stunned silence. Fade to commercial.

After 4 minutes of commercials for acne wash, diet vanilla cherry Dr. Pepper (Mahna Mahna) and Tampax, we return to "the worst moment in Danny's life already in progress."

The power of this scene was truly moving. Watching a young man receive word that his mother had died was unbearable to watch. He sobbed. He spoke of regret and guilt. (And of course had a cute blonde's shoulder to cry on.)

In the midst of all this powerful drama -- a young man mourning the news of his mother's sudden death -- MTV actually ran a pop-up ad in the corner of the screen. It was a flashing ad for another of their hit reality shows. It was an ad for "Date My Mom." This is no joke. While a character on The Real World was mourning the death of his mother, MTV is simultaneously showing an ad for "Date My Mom." This is sick, sick, sick.

It's not just the poor timing of the ad that is sick. It's the whole thing. When Danny signed his release waiver, little did he know the worst moment of his life was going to be captured and replayed over and over and over again. Worse yet, it will be replayed over and over again in teaser ads and among commercials for The Dukes of Hazzard.

The producers of the show surely knew this news was coming. Danny's father had been trying to reach him all day. So when he came back to the house the shots were all lined up, ready to catch the big moment. And after watching it myself, I just feel sick. I feel sick and sad. And by watching it, I'm no better than the network execs who thought it would be appropriate to put this on the air.

I thought I reached my limit with reality TV when I saw the Osmonds on Celebrity Fear Factor. But this is a new low. It really makes me want to...

Wait.

Hang on, I got distracted. The newest episode of Surreal Life 7 is on and Omarosa looks pissed! Gotta run!!

Oh, Boy!

Yes, it's a boy!! The Kievitz family name will carry on!

Now accepting recommendations for first and middle names! Winner gets a free tattoo.

(Don't) Give That Fan a Contract

In my 28 years, I would hazard to guess that I've attended upwards of 120 professional baseball games. I've saved every ticket stub from every game I've ever gone to. So I could count them all up to give a more precise number. But that's not really why I save the stubs.

I've sat in nearly every corner of a dozen or so diffent major and minor league parks -- in the upper deck behind the foul pole, in the third row behind home plate, even once in an owner's box. I've seen walk-off homeruns in extra innings of a World Series game. I've seen near no-hitters. I've seen comebacks, blowouts and rainouts. But one experience is still missing.

I've never caught a ball.

A few years ago, I was seated in the left field seats of Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia when Mike Lieberthal launched what would be the game-winning homerun into the air. As it approached, I could start to see the seams of the ball spinning by. I stood, leaned forward and braced my palms for impact. At that moment, a man with a glove reached back a picked it cleany from the air. But that's about as close as I've ever come to catching anything.

As an adult, I've never believed in bringing a glove to a game. I can't remember who said it first, but it's true that a grown man should never bring a glove to a game unless: 1) You're with a young child and so close to the field of play that the glove serves as protection; or 2) Someone in the game is poised to hit a momentus homerun and the ball will be worth six-figures if caught.

So tonight, when I attended the Yankees-Orioles game at Camden Yards, I was true to my principles and went bare-handed. (I was also coming from work, and I don't usually keep a spare mitt in my desk drawer. Although I do keep an extra athletic cup in there. You never know...)

When mitt-less at a game, you always fear the line-drive foul ball. "Would I have the courage to stick out my fleshy palms and take the full force of the ball and all that spin?" You hope that if a foul ball comes to, you can pick it cleanly out of the air, right at the apex of it's arc. All gain and no pain.

Tonight, in the first inning of the game, with Yankee's second baseman Robinson Cano at the plate, this is exactly what happened -- to the fan just above me. Cano lofted a weak foul-pop to the left side. It drifted back toward the upper deck. An eager fan reached out. It slapped against his fingers, then quickly it spilled out and began to drop. Looking up and back, I saw the ball falling right from his hands and into mine. I saw the label on the ball spinning right toward me. I reached up. And it was gone.

For some reason, the ball spun right off one finger tip and into the hands of a Yankee fan two rows down. What happened? How did I miss that? It was coming right to me. I waited my whole life for that moment and I blew it.

Perhaps it was the angle. Maybe it was the lights. Was it just an optical illusion?

Either way, I left yet another game without a souvenir. And it will likely be another 28 years before another one comes even half as close. Had I caught it, I'm convinced I would have had the valor to give the ball to the cute youngster three seats down with ice cream all over his face and glove. Instead that lousy Yankee fan stuck it right in his pocket.

I can't end this entry sounding completely unappreciative. Earlier this year, I attended a Washington Nationals game at RFK. They were playing my hometown team, the Philadelphia Phillies. I showed up early for batting practice. From the outfield seats, I shouted a friendly word of support to a Phillies player shagging flies. To my surprise, he turned around, and tossed me a ball. I didn't catch it. But I was able to scrounge beneath the seats through the week-old peanut shells and beer cups to retreive it. Now that ball has personal value, because it was meant for me. It hadn't just dropped randomly out of the sky. That one I wasn't going to give away. It was mine to keep.

Sure, it's just a ball. But it's also a connection. It's a real connection to a memory. Holding a ball from a game takes you instantly back to that moment. It's the closest thing I know to time travel. But for tonight's game, I'll have to settle for the ticket stub.

F*ck Speed Bumps

Is there anything more universally annoying than speed bumps? I think even aliens visiting Earth for the first time would quickly come to loathe these things (not that their flying saucers wouldn't just hover right over them. Alas, I digress).

What exactly is the point of them anyway? Yes, they make you slow down, but only for 10 feet at a time. For people like me, a speed bump means you floor it and go as fast as you can for 50 yards, then slam on the brakes until your front tires hit the bump, then floor it again.

They're probably kept around by the powerful car dealership lobby. They just want people to blow out their suspension, drop a transmission or accidentally deploy an airbag, as they run over one inadvertently. This then results in expensive repairs they can rape you up the ass on.

I know snow plow drivers hate them. Imagine their surprise when their plow hits one of those things! With any luck, the plow will rip the fucking thing right out.

The only good thing about speed bumps, is that sometimes they're referred to as "speed humps." There's nothing like a big "SPEED HUMP AHEAD" sign to make me chuckle and brighten my day.

Better than Snood

I spent the most productive hours of my college years sitting in front my computer playing Snood. If you're unfamiliar with it, Snood is a cross between Space Invaders and Tetris -- only more addictive. I'd sit there for hours on end, up way later than I should have been, playing this mindless little game. Given the fact that my GPA missed high honors by only a few hundredths of a percentage point, I can single handedly blame Snood on my mediocre success in career and family and for my poor personal hygeine.

Its been years since I've played Snood. I thought I'd grown beyond such petty addictions. Until I stumbled upon a new vice. Internet Poker.

Unlike Snood, or computer solitaire, internet poker involves other presumably live human beings sitting alone in front their computers all around the world. And for the past week, I've been completely hooked. I've played hundreds of hands of Texas Hold'em Poker and turned $1,000 in play money into $120,000 (still in play money).

It's easy to multitask, tracking the rounds of betting while watching Baseball Tonight or having a conversation with the spouse. But there's also the small box at the bottom of the poker table where you can chat with your competitors.

I've never been into Instant Messaging, so I've had a bit of lingo and shorthand to learn. I felt silly asking, "What's 'lol'?" Or trying to figure out how to make funny faces like >:P

But in addition to my improved poker skills, I feel I've truly shined in an entirely realm: The realm of trash talk.

This trash talk is as important to the game as the cards you get. Getting under a guy's skin by making fun of his sccreen name, where he's from or simply egging him on to bet seems to be quite effective in getting great results. Plus, you're completely anonymous and can say whatever you want. It's a great feeling. When was the last time you actually offered someone "a cool refreshing glass of shut the fuck up?" There's nothing like coming home after a long day and razzing someone for half an hour because his nickname is "SyracuseStu." It's truly liberating.

Well, no more time to blog tonight. I'm off to another poker table to talk a bit more smack and make some more fake money.

HF and GL, u DC!

Review: Revenge of the Sith

See it. It's really, really good. Not like Episodes I and II that were total crap and had hardly anything to do with the original trilogy. This one is the bomb. Even though you know what happens at the end, it's still very suspenseful. Seeing Darth Vader put on the helmet for the first time (and take his first infamous breath) is worth the 28-year wait. Too bad his final line almost ruins the entire film.

However, the very last line of dialogue is saved for Anthony Daniels (C-3PO) who also has the first line in the original Star Wars. The whole film is filled with nice touches like that.

Now that the film cycle is complete, is childhood over for an entire generation of X's and Y's? Do we now all put our Star Wars figures and matching sheets on Ebay and move on?

40 Weeks

Yes, Mrs. Ethos is with child (hopefully mine). If this is news to you, perhaps you should call more often. And I'm sorrry you had to read about it on a blog page. That's incredibly lame.

This impending miracle will surely be a limitless source of cute stories, embarassing parenting missteps and humorous visits from zany social workers. But you will read none of that here. OK, never say never. But here's my guarantee:

This blog will remain 68.29% baby-free.

If ever you are dissatisfied with the level of non-baby material being posted, please reprimand me in the comments area. However, pot-shots at my wife or child will not be tolerated. You may instead make fun of my growing "sympathy belly."

If you're concerned that my soon-to-be fatherhood will limit my free time to hang out, remember that between my work schedule and my penchant for hookers, you probably haven't seen much of me in the last five years anyway. So I'll still be totally available to hang out -- just as soon as I get the diaper genie emptied, the stroller fixed and the baby fed and put down for a nap.

You probably have many other questions, so to save us all some time, below is the baby FAQ section:

When is she due?
-What is she a goddamn library book or something? Do I get charged a nickel for everyday she's late? OK, December 8 (2005).

How is she feeling?
-Hell if I know. Every time we start talking, she runs off to pee or falls asleep.

Was this planned?
-None of your fucking business. And Yes.

Are you going to find out if it's a boy or a girl?
-I certainly hope so. I know I have zero experience with babies, but that much I should be able to figure out.

Do you have names picked out yet?
-Yes. But my wife hasn't agreed to them yet.

Will your wife get the Down Syndrome screening?
-I'm pretty sure she doesn't have Down Syndrome. But I guess it wouldn't hurt to be doubly sure.

Will you raise it to be a Phillies fan or an Orioles fan?
-Orioles. Cmon, the kid's gonna have enough problems already.

LO3B

Looking at a baseball box score you can virtually reconstruct the entire game. It's a thing of beauty, I think. The information is dense and cryptic. But if you know what you're looking at, you see exactly who came up big and who let the team down.

There are the runs batted in, the homeruns, the extra base hits, the sacrifices and the 2-out RBI, just to name a few badges of honor. Then they indicate who made errors, who grounded into a double play and who left men in scoring position with two outs. These are the dubious honors. I'd like to propose one more. This one I think should be pointed out as it is even more egregious: runners left at third base with less than two outs.

When a runner is at third with less than two men out, simply putting the ball in play will usually score the run. A fly ball to the outfield. A well placed ground-ball. A hit. All will score the run easiliy. Striking out or popping up in this situation is a complete embarassment and should be indicated in the box score.

If you're going to single out batters who are unable to place a clutch hit to score a runner from second base with two outs, surely we can point out hitters who can't even move a runner 90 feet with no outs or only one out.

Let the tallying begin!

Viva Las Grand Canyon (PART II)

OK, so after the Grand Canyon, it was back to Las Vegas.

On Easter Sunday I woke up unusually early, as I still hadn’t fully adjusted to Pacific time. At around 8 am, I left the little lady asleep in the room and headed down to the casino. Besides the few dollars we had flushed into the slots earlier in the week, I had never really gambled before. I looked at the Blackjack tables, but didn’t know exactly to play. I contemplated roulette, but even with my C-minus in statistics, I could see that was pretty ridiculous. Then, I found myself standing at the threshold of the poker room.

I figured that the hours of watching Celebrity Poker on Bravo had more than prepared me for what lay inside. I sucked up my courage and walked in.

I bought into a game of Texas Hold ‘Em for $60. It seemed like low enough stakes with a maximum $8 bet. You can cash your chips in at any time. But once you’re out of chips, you’re done (unless you buy in again). There were already seven guys sitting at the table, drinking at this hour of the morning. There was an empty seat for me. The usher showed me in.

I took my little tray of chips, swung my leg awkwardly over the chair, and sat down. In my nervous attempt to look cool and confident, I managed to spill my chips on the floor and knocked over a drink. For that moment, I was Peter Sellars. But I collected myself, took a deep breath and focused on the game at hand.

Having never played at a real poker table, I wasn’t sure what was going on at first. I folded the first half-a-dozen hands until I could figure out how everything worked. The fact that the hands totally sucked didn’t exactly make these difficult decisions, either.

As the action moved around the table, I casually checked out each of my competitors. The cast was just as you would expect. To my immediate left was an older looking gentleman wearing a denim LA Looks baseball cap tipped slightly to one side and a pair of round-rimmed sunglasses that barely concealed the crows feet around his eyes. His T-shirt hung loosely off his gaunt shoulders. His well-worn leather jacket was draped over the back of his chair. I noticed, as he continually ran his fingers around the rim of his whiskey glass that he wore several rings. He never played a hand. He would look at his cards, thrust out his stubbly chin, and toss the cards in without ever looking up.

Next to him was a heavier man who sat high and upright in his chair. He wore a white polo shirt with a brown horizontal stripe that stretched tightly across his midsection. Someone needs to tell this guy horizontal stripes are not his look. His wide fingers shook each time he reached down for his chips. I was glad to see I wasn’t the only one with nerves at the table. He had an obvious tell. He’d run his hand across his head, slicking down his comb-over. He’d do this over and over until he’d fold. Sitting behind a meager stack of chips, it was obvious he was not having a good morning.

On the other side of the dealer was a thin Korean man in his 50s. His jowls hung motionless from his stoic face. His thick, over-sized glasses reminded me of something you’d see sorting through the lost-and-found of a dinner theater. He was a careful player who always managed to win split pots. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but his words were sharp.

To my right was a young guy with a goatee and backwards baseball cap (Cleveland Indians, I think.) He knew all the little tricks you can do with your poker chips. He shuffled them with his fingers. He spun them out on the table so they would roll back into his hand. We would swallow and regurgitate them. It was mildly impressive. Too bad his playing didn’t really back it up. Plus, he was sitting backwards on his chair, and these chairs really weren’t designed to be sat on backwards. Instead of looking relaxed, he just looked ridiculous.

To his right, was an uptight little guy with a neat haircut and a tucked-in button-down shirt. He had a little good-luck gold token he kept on top of his cards. He also had a very small stack of chips. But every time he went all in, he’d win the pot. He had a silly little laugh and an aw-shucks way about him. But he was completely out of place. He looked better suited to be a salesman in the men’s department of JC Penny, to tell you the truth.

Then, there was the other end of the table. The far end was occupied by two slightly more intimidating characters. One of them was very shifty looking. This guy hid behind an enormous stack of chips. Keeping in mind that this was a low-stakes game, he must have had at least $5,000 in $1 dollar chips teetering all around him. I didn’t quite understand this. Is this supposed to scare the competition? Or does it keep foreign objects from falling you’re your drink. No matter what the reason, everyone found an opportunity to razz him about it – right before he’d take their money. He had really messy blonde hair and probably hadn’t slept in days. He talked to himself constantly in a language I’m not sure was English.

Then there was George. George was a round fellow wearing a bright yellow Seattle Supersonics jersey. He wore two thick gold chains around his neck. It isn’t immediately clear what race he is, but you know he’s a NYAWG (Not Your Average White Guy).

George talked a lot. I mean, a lot. George knew every dealer and attendant by name. And they knew him. George took almost every pot he played. Everyone at the table with half a brain knew not to go into a hand against George.

Then, there was me. I must have looked like a little kid lost on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. I sat motionless with a confused look upon my face as money flowed from one side of the table to the other, and then back again.

Finally, after getting in the grove of the game, I was dealt an ace and queen. I went in for my first raise. My bowels went into spasm at this moment.

“Don’t you know what you can buy with those $2?” I asked myself.

As the flop came out, I immediately had two pair, aces and queens. As the betting went around the table, I kept my eyes focused squarely on the green felt in front of me. If the look of terror makes for a good poker face, I was in the money.

As the rest of the cards came out on the table, I had a full house. I kept raising and most of the players folded. Then at the end of the hand, only one player was left – Mr. Horizontal Stripe. We showed our cards. I turned over my full house, still doubting what I really had.

“Ooh, full house,” says George. “Who’s the big dog?”

Mr. Stripe had a pair of aces. The pot was mine. The dealer pushed the pile of chips in my direction. I leaned over and scooped the bounty to my side of the table. I casually tossed the dealer two chips. This was a courtesy I had quickly picked up on. I felt big. But my nervous fingers shook as I fumbled the rest of the chips into a pile, knocked them over and had to start all over again. I was tempted to just leave them in a messy pile in front of me, but this apparently will get you beat up. I wish someone would please explain this to me.

Over the next 90 minutes, I cruised along and won a few more pots. I was actually up about $30. Not bad for a first time out in a low-stakes game. I was ready for ESPN2. Of course, the thought of cashing out never crossed my mind. Surely if I were to walk away with $30 in winnings, I’d immediately go out and spend $40 of it. Instead, I stayed in my seat and confidently marched ahead.

Then the tide turned. Quickly.

I went in on a couple losing hands. And after 30 minutes my $30 surplus was gone and I was down to about $20. But I was looking at a great hand. I had two pair, Hooks and Ladies (jacks and queens in more common parlance). The pot piled up. Then, I went all in and everyone folded. Except for the creepy guy hiding behind his fort of chips. George sat back in his chair and started jawing at me. Something about my nuts, or being nuts. It all became a blurry pastiche of swirling cards, faces and voices.

I was all in. My hand was unbeatable. We both showed our hands. I moved in to scoop up my chips. Except that I failed to notice the straight sitting on the table. Oops. (If you’re not up on the rules of poker, a straight beats two pair. Every time.) I slumped back into the chair. The dealer quickly pushed the pot over to Creepy McCreeperson.

“Oh, snap!” George exclaimed.

“Nice hand,” Mr. McCreeperson said. “I got lucky.”

I got up from my chair in a stunned fog. George encouraged me to go buy more chips and keep playing. This could be translated into, “Go get more chips so we can take them from you even more quickly.”

I muttered something about having to meet my wife and slinked out of the room. I was proud of myself for not getting wrapped up in the adrenaline rush to gamble even more. Otherwise, I knew that by noon my car keys, the deed to my house and my marriage certificate would be on the table. I had to walk through the casino floor on the way back to my hotel room, as you are forced to. With blur of what had just happened and the extremely confusing layout of the casino, it was twenty minutes before I realized I was walking in circles.

The whole experience ate at me for the rest of the day. All I could think about was going back, buying more chips and getting back what I’d lost. My chips and my dignity.

But I resisted. I was just amazed at how quickly I had gone from being up to being down. It was easy to see. I was playing with found money. I was loose and it was gone. I’ve always thought of myself as an intelligent, well-disciplined person. It was now clear to me how people get so addicted to this.

To take my mind off things, my wife and I went that night to see the Blueman Gruop at the Luxor. If you’re not familiar with them, I’d liken them to a cross between the Crash Test Dummies (not the band, but the automobile safety spokesmen) and the Smurfs. Their deadpan comedy combines performance art and music. The show is hilarious and brilliantly crafted. It was better than Cats and I would recommend it to all my friends.

The next morning we got up early and headed to the airport. Passing through the terminal, I stopped at the slot machines. I had one last dime in my pocket. I’d be damned if I’m going to have that rolling out of my pocket the whole flight. So, I tossed in the dime, pulled the lever and watched the wheels spin.

I wasn't, I swear!

I wasn't staring at your breasts. I swear. That meeting this afternoon was so boring, I was looking for anything to keep my mind occupied. But after I dropped my straightened paperclip on the floor for the third time and it bounced out of reach, I had to find a new diversion. Glancing around, my eyes happened upon the odd-looking inscription on your coffee mug. You had it turned so I couldn't make out the first couple letters. Something - Something - R - A - C - L - E ? What the heck is that word? I casually craned my neck to see the rest of the message, only to realize the mug was directly in the line of sight of your breasts. And you had a button loose on your blouse to boot.

I wonder how long you saw me staring and how big of a creep you think I am. Judging by the brief eye contact we made and the hurried realization that your blouse was unbuttoned, I assume there is now a warrant out for my arrest. Or at the very least a restraining order. Now that I think of it, a restraining order would be quite welcome if it prevented me from attending such boring meetings in the future.

I must have looked terribly guilty at the moment, but I swear I wasn't staring at your breasts. I'd apologize, but for what? I did nothing wrong! Perhaps I could try to explain myself. And in explaining myself, I'd ask if I could read the rest of your coffee mug, to know exactly what's going on there. "Oh, Monday's Miracle!" I'd exclaim. "That's cute!" And you'd apologize for ever thinking me such a low life. We'd hug. But then I'd run the risk of hugging inappropriately and you'd think I'm an even bigger creep-o-rama. Nevermind.

What I can't believe is that you're so self-absorbed, that you'd think I would be so enamored at YOUR breasts. Believe you me, there were much better breasts in that room. But you seem to think yours take the cake. Not to mention you are significantly older than I am. And you've had children. Gross. Now I just feel sceevy.

Any by the way. I'm married. Not that I let that prevent me from enjoying a passing glance every now and then. But my standards are a little higher. And based on what I've heard around the water cooler, higher than yours, that's for sure.

Death and the Media
There seem to be no qualms about showing the lifeless body of an arena football player being carted off the field. They'll even replay the hit that killed him. We've all seen the dead body of the Pope paraded around repeatedly. But we still haven't even seen anything in the mainstream media displaying injured or killed American soldiers or Iraqi civilians. Not even a flag draped coffin. Can someone explain this to me?

Ode to the Phillies Bullpen Pitchers

You suck.
You suck.
You suck.
You suck.
You suck.
You suck.
You suck.

Pope's Got it Right

By having his funeral at four o'clock in the morning, the Pope got it right. Personally, I've always wanted my funeral at some ungodly hour like 4 am. Why? A couple of reasons:

First of all, if you hold your funeral at such an hour, only your true friends will show up. No fake mourners scrounging for free bagels and lox that early in the morning.

Secondly, I hate how funeral processions tie up traffic. The last thing I want to be remembered for was a traffic jam. At 4 am, this is most certainly not an issue.

Viva Las Grand Canyon (PART I)

Over the Easter break, Mrs. Kievitz and I made a trip to the great American southwest. We took a flight into Las Vegas and spent some time there before renting a car and driving to the Grand Canyon. I wasn't sure if I was planning to gaze at the casinos and throw my money into the canyon or if it should be the other way around. As I soon learned, it wouldn’t make much difference.

Arriving at the Las Vegas airport is a lot like walking through a portal into a parallel universe. Only this parallel universe is filled with slot machines, flashing video screens and shiny ads for escort services. Really, if all you want to do is gamble, you don't even have to leave the airport or get a hotel room. You can play the slots right there in the terminal and hop back on the next flight home. Then again, it is a convenient way to get rid of all that pocket change that annoyingly rolled out of your pocket every ten minutes during the flight.

We stayed at the Tropicana on the south end of Las Vegas Boulevard for one night before leaving for Arizona. (You'll notice from here on out that I do not refer to this stretch of road as "The Strip.") The Tropicana is one of the classic properties in town. And by classic, I mean aging, dim and musty. But thanks to a local connection, we were upgraded to a Jacuzzi suite for the same price as a modest room at a Super-8 Motel in Wichita. The Jacuzzi was wonderful, but I could have done without the full wrap around wall-of-mirrors. The visual distraction kind of ruins the soothing sensation of easing yourself into the warm bubbly water. Once in the tub, however, being able to look across the room and gaze out of our 22nd-floor window at backdrop of hotels and mountains seemed to be a classic high-roller experience.

Walking Las Vegas Boulevard the following morning was probably the most touristy thing I have ever done. Well, that and buying a bumper sticker at "South of the Border" along I-95. Most of the hotels look the same. Large lobbies filled with beeping, blinking, bleeping, blaring, slot machines and gaming tables. A few of the hotels, however, definitely stand out.

As cynical as I am when it comes to commercialism and grandeur, the Bellagio was pretty impressive. The dancing fountains are admittedly cool. Although, watching a large mist of water spray 300 feet into the air, you have to wonder why they complain about water rights. The shopping in the Bellagio is impressive as well. The large indoor mall contains famously upscale stores selling luxury items at prices you can't imagine. I really enjoyed the Armani shop, and the misses was most intrigued by the Gucci store. I even caught her eyeing their items for baby known as the "Guccci-Gucci-Goo Collection." Caesar's Palace and the Venetian each have their own gimmicks, but they pretty much look the same after five minutes of walking around. So after a bit more walking, we thought it was time to split town.

The next day we rented a car from the airport (after stopping off to play a few slots in the terminal) and headed for Arizona. Along the way we stopped at the Hoover Dam. We each got to make one "dam" joke before agreeing to a moratorium for the rest of the trip. The misses walked up to the edge and predictably yelled, "Day-yam, girlfriend!" I dropped my camera accidentally and yelled, "Dammit!" wasting my only opportunity to make a cute pun for the rest of the week.

The drive from Vegas to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon takes about five hours. It's a wonderful drive. I love those kinds of roads -- straight and flat. I set the cruise control on 85, let go of the steering wheel and took a nap. Occasionally I would awake and gaze across vast swaths of desert, picking out specs of tiny trailer homes on the horizon. About 15 miles past Chloride, Arizona, I spotted the perfect place to retire on a peaceful 10-acre cactus farm.

We arrived at the Grand Canyon after dark. We were staying in an inn right on the south rim of the canyon. We caught a quick glimpse of the canyon in the clouded moonlight. It was difficult to comprehend any details, but the scale of the place was immediate. With jaw agape, the misses simply (and predictably) exclaimed, "Day-yam, girlfriend!" We were both completely blown away.

Our room at the inn was about as close to camping as I will ever get. The accommodations were meager. No Jacuzzi. No television. No mirrored ceiling. It was the kind of room where you "shit, sleep and shave" and get the hell out. But when you do get out, the view is unbeatable.

Standing right on the rim of the canyon, you can see for miles. Everyone says that nothing can prepare you for the size of this place. They're right. Pictures do no justice. But I took a couple hundred pictures anyway.

I was not prepared for the elevation there. The South Rim is at an elevation of 7,200 feet above sea level. Because of the elevation, the first day we were there, several early spring snow storms blew down the canyon. You could see them coming from miles away. Like white sheets dancing between the canyon walls, the storms would race in and create near white-out conditions. Only to quickly clear, leaving bright sunshine and a dusting of beautiful white snow on the red cliffs. Oh, and did I mention it was fucking cold, too? Yeah, desert my ass.

That night, the clouds cleared and a brilliant full moon rose over the landscape. The moonlight lit up every feature of the canyon. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The misses adroitly pointed out why the canyon seemed so much more beautiful in the moonlight.

"You're not distracted by all the details," she said. "All you see is the scope of the entire thing. It's tranquil, calm and beautiful." Then someone’s car alarm went off.

The next day was clear and crisp. The views were even more beautiful than the day before. We drove the rim of the canyon, walked a few trails and spent the better part of an hour just sitting and staring the vastness. This was the one trip I had always wanted to make, and it was well worth the wait.

I told “enchanted_pants” I was going to see the Grand Canyon.

“What for?” he asked.

“I just want to sit there, gaze out at the world, and feel insignificant,” I said.

His reply: “Come over to my place. I’ll make you feel insignificant and save you the airfare.”

Well, “enchanted_pants,” your verbal assaults are just no comparison. I’m still glad I made the trip.

I also took a short hike below the rim of the canyon on the Bright Angel Trail. This is a wide, well-graded trail that is build up by several thick layers of compacted mule shit. The mules use this trail to schlep overweight tourists into the inner reaches of the canyon, leaving their voluminous droppings along the way (the mules, not the tourists).

Walking down the trail was pretty easy. Walking up was not. The altitude, combined with my lack of physical fitness, made for a slow climb. Crawling my way back up, I noticed the great diversity of world cultures represented in the tourist population there. I was most impressed by the three elderly Indian women, dressed in full traditional Indian garb and sandals -- passing me on the trail!

Now fully demoralized, we felt it was time to leave and head back to Las Vegas. Upon arrival, we checked back into the Tropicana and got our same Jacuzzi suite on the 22nd floor with the full wrap-around mirrors.

MORE TO COME!

I Can Die Now...

WARNING: THIS ENTRY CONTAINS TASTELESS JOKES ABOUT REPUBLICANS AND THE MEDIA

I think given the recent coverage of the Terry Schiavo case [pronounced SHAI-vuh by Tom Delay], the phrase "persistent vegetative state" has replaced "weapons of mass destruction" as the media catch phrase of the year. The pervasiveness of the story has caused many of us to think about our own mortality and how we'd want to be treated in such a situation -- especially since watching the C-SPAN coverage of the Congressional debate on this issue can bring you perilously close to a temporary, if not persistent, vegetative state of your own.

Watching the debate last night, it does make me wonder why the Republican Party is so concerned with this one Florida woman. The president even cut short his vacation at the "Waco White House" to sign the legislation in Washington. Looks like maybe the Republican Party owes her something. Perhaps it's because she voted for Bush in 2000 -- three times.

I guess a lot of lawyers will be having a good month, helping people write their living wills. I don't have a living a will. So if anything happens to me, and there's a question as to whether or not to keep me alive, this blog entry will have to do my talking for me. That being said, if I'm in a persistent vegetative state, I don't want to live. Plain and simple.

But what if it's not that simple? Sometimes things can be a bit grey. Each case is unique and one can never plan for every contingency. What if I can drool, but not swallow? What if I can respond to painful stimuli, but can't pass gas on my own? What if I can't blink voluntarily, but involuntarily laugh while watching reruns of Seventh Heaven? These are tough questions. So what to do?

Well, here's the one rule that I want observed when it comes to keeping me alive:

No matter how alert or responsive I may seem, if I can't fully comprehend and appreciate a Philadelphia sports championship, kill me. If an Eagles Super Bowl win doesn't generate any reaction, pull the cheesesteak puree from my feeding tube. If you think shouting the words, "The Phillies won the World Series!" would mean nothing to me, smother me with a rally towel.

Here's the catch. You really won't be able to tell for sure whether or not to pull my plug until a Philadelphia team actually wins a championship. So, I figure this should buy me at least a few more decades. And who knows, maybe in that time they can find a cure for my sorry condition. Until then, good luck with Congress.

Hello

There is a Starburst commercial that is currently running that plays off the famously cheesy Lionel Richie video, "Hello." The commercial makes me laugh every time I see it. Perhaps it's the thought that every time it airs, Lionel Richie gets another royalty check, which he then passes on to his "daughter," Nicole, who turns around and spends it on booze and eye makeup.

I haven't seen the actual video in probably 15 years. So I went in search online. It didn't take very long to find this web site that has a link to an .mpg version of the complete video. Ah, the memories came flooding back to when MTV actually showed videos. Remember that?

When you visit this site, you may notice it's actually about a dude who tried to make his own "Lionel Richie" head. The whole thing is pretty sad and marginally amusing. No less, I thought I'd share. Enjoy.

http://www.macalester.edu/~fines/lionel/

I Must Be Sexist

Allow me to be a man (read: sexist) for a moment. I'm all for women's rights, like equal pay, suffrage and having driver's licenses. But the women's sports thing is getting a little silly. Women can play tennis or field hockey, and the cute little skirts don't hurt neither. Golf and softball are okay, too. But that's abou tit.

I tried watching some NCAA Women's Basketball and it's just far too distracting. It's impossible to watch these young, well-toned girls run around on a court while the commentators talk about "penetration," "ball handling" or "getting physical inside." I can't help but chuckle, continuously commenting to myself, "That's what she said!"

And have you ever watched the women's professional pool tournaments on ESPN2 at 3am? It's just one punchline after another. "I hope she doesn't scratch!"

While I'm at it...

There's a commercial running at the moment for which Julia Roberts does the voice over. Anyone else find this a complete waste?

I'd Like to Thank...

Watching the Oscars, we all imagine what it would be like to stand up there in front of god and everyone, statuette in hand, and give the speech of our lives. Being a self-proclaimed neurotic, I imagine myself tripping up the stairs, arriving at the podium with my tie crooked, stammering over my words, forgetting to thank my wife and getting cut off by the swell of the pit orchestra. It's the most embarrassing moment of my life and one I would replay in my mind forever. What could I have done differently? Where did I go wrong?

The bigger question lingers. Is my life better off without that moment ever happening?

There is great truth to the adage, "the bigger they are, the harder they fall." The greater the heights you achieve, the greater the distance to the bottom. At the Oscars, for example, there's no greater height. Wear the wrong dress or say the wrong thing in your speech. and the next morning you can find yourself 30 stories below street level. Soaring highs bring even deeper lows.

So is it worth it? We all experience such highs and lows. They may not be an appearance at the Oscars, but weddings, children, job promotions, you name it. With all of these things, comes greater risk. Much of that risk is actually learning what your limitations are. And are you prepared to face them? The challenge is learning to face whatever shortcomings that surface and looking beyond to what are your gifts and blessings.

In the end, complete and utter disaster is always worth the risk. Otherwise, what is the point of living? At least that's how we comfort ourselves in a valley of despair and loss. You can try to escape to an ashram or kibbutz and never have to face the real world. But life will find you there, too. The best option is to always face every challenge and take every risk, even if it means teetering on an even deeper abyss.

Now, I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my mom and dad, my lawyer, all the people at livejournal, my six grade teacher Mrs. Sterling, and my three cats, Emma, Gracie and Bea and most of all my beautiful and supportive ... [music].

Arrested Development Jumps the Shark?

If you're an "Arrested Development" fan like me, you're not just a fan, but a cult member. The cult requires you to clap your hands and dance like a chicken (even though chicken don't clap), wear cutoff jeans under your clothes and make the occasional reference to a stair-car. The news of the show's second season getting cut short early came hard, too. FOX's pledge to keep the show on the air was of little consolation. Based on last night's episode, perhaps FOX is more prescient than given credit for.

The struggling ensemble comedy has always been a bit quirky and off the wall. But last night's "Arrested" was completely off everything. If this is the direction the show's creator, Mitchell Hurwitz, plans to take, I can't blame FOX for pulling the plug.

Martin Short appeared in the episode as the Bluth family's estranged Uncle Jack (although he's not really related) who is crippled and has to be carried around by a deaf giant because he refuses to use a wheelchair -- not the giant, but Uncle Jack. At one point, the giant accidentally shakes Short's character to point that he throws up on himself -- again, not the giant, but Uncle Jack. The whole concept was stupid, crass and unfunny. I credit the writers of the show for really trying to stretch the boundaries. But the show already does that on an average day. Now I'm angry at them for not only taking the show too far, but also for digging an even bigger hole for the show to climb out of.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a huge fan of Martin Short. And that's not at all colored by the fact I spent a week working closely with Marty during which time he affectionately nicknamed me "kid." He's a genuine guy and a true Hollywood insider, but he doesn't show it. He flaunts it. Unfortunately, this character, "Uncle Jack," really doesn't work at all. Even worse, it looks like "Uncle Jack" will be returning for a few more episodes. I only hope Arrested Development and Martin Short in the arms of a giant, haven't jumped the shark already.

Shingles Revisited

Exactly a year ago, I was cut down by the ravages of shingles -- a horrible affliction that cripples you for several weeks. I would say that the worst thing about the shingles is being stuck at home to watch daytime television day after day. But I managed to switch off the TV and get out of bed long enough to scratch out a little ode to my shingles. Enjoy this anniversary retrospective of my shingles, written a year ago today...

My Shingles

It began as an itch near the center of my breast
That seemed a harmless but pesky guest.
It announced its arrival as a tiny red rash
That I marked up to smoking too much cheap hash.

Then not too soon after my chest got an ache
An ache so intense my knees got to quake.
Those rashes grew bigger and deeper dark red,
And all I could do was lie there in bed.

I writhed and I moaned and I cried for my mommy
On the phone I told her, "Gee, mom, I feel crummy."
She told me to rest "it will all be okay."
"See Dr. Margolis and be on your way."

So I rang up the doc and told him the news.
He said to me, "Son, it's only the blues."
"Remember to sleep eight hours per night,
Get some life counseling and you'll be alright."

So I looked to my shrink in continued duress
Who informed me, "Young man, you've got too much stress."
"I think what you need is to quit your new job,
Do something today, don't sit there and sob."

So I went to the phone and I got up the nerve
To call up my boss with vigor and verve.
But when I told them stick it "you know where,"
I hung up the phone and the pain was still there.

So I gathered my strength and I went online
To search out exactly what's afflicting my spine.
I searched and I searched for a description or match
For this bright red rash I continued to scratch.

Neither Lupus nor asthma nor venal stenosis,
Nor pinkeye nor bird flu nor fecal mytosis,
Explained why my torso continued to tingle,
Until I discovered an ailment named shingles.

Once I discovered the affliction I had
I thought to myself, "Hey, it can't be that bad."
But this misery lasts for three weeks or more
With an ache so intense it rattles your core.

The pain can't be told in a cutsie short rhyme,
And you'll know what I mean if it comes in your time.
It's like double the worst pain you've had in your life,
Plus ten thousand hornets on the point of a knife.

I continued to writhe in unbearable pain
Leaving my sheets an unfortunate stain.
The pain was like lightning only twenty times worse
And I found myself praying for my own private hearse.

Percoset blunts the pain you endure
But I wouldn't exactly call it a cure.
All you can do is sit there and wait
And hope that this virus soon will abate.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger,"
But I can't bare to take this much longer.
When the angel of death was soon to appear
I felt the drugs had kicked into gear.

I sat up and stretched feeling airy and light
Only to remember it'd be weeks 'til I'm right.
'Cause shingles don't leave for any good reason.
They linger around for most of the season.

Where Are My Glasses? [Part IV]

Until now, I had only bought a couple of items off ebay -- new camera equipment mostly. These were not items I bid on. I got them at the “Buy Now” price. (If you are unfamiliar with how ebay works, I am not going to explain it here. Go to the site and see for yourself. Just try to not get ripped off.) Previously, I had neither the courage to go through the bidding process nor the patience to wait until the auctions expired (in “8d, 11h, 32m”).

Sporting a mild buzz from two White Russians and woozy from the persistent carbon-monoxide leak in our apartment, I settled in behind the keyboard of my laptop to dip my toe in the dark wold of ebay. I searched the site for matching sets of the Crown Royal glasses I now had to have. It's such a bizarre thing to want to collect, but I had to have more. I wanted all of my friends and guests to experience the same peaceful serenity I had the first moment I raised that glass.

After a quick search, I realized that these glasses were not only collectible, but also oddly plentiful on ebay. There, among the listings for neon Budweiser signs and Miller Girl blowup dolls, were dozens of sellers offering my treasured Crown Royal etched highball glasses. Let the bidding begin!

Over the next several days, I bid on multiple sets of glasses sold by seemingly reputable sellers. I entered what I thought was a pretty generous offer for what is really a cheap piece of glass. And ebay would cheerily inform me that "You are the current high bidder!" I would sit back, smugly cross my arms and wait for my bounty to arrive. But of course, It wasn't that easy.

Another member of the ebay community -- someone with the screen name "mcdoogie44" -- seemed to have a similar affinity for these glasses. And "mcdoogie44" had an obnoxious way of showing it. Moments before the auctions were to expire, "mcdoogie44" would sweep in and outbid me. Not only was I in disbelief that there are 43 other members with the screen name "mcdoogie" but that any one person would need so many matching glasses.

As "mcdoogie44" continued to steal away my precious glasses, each time at the very last second, I grew increasingly impudent. I’m not going to let this schmuck get my James-Bond-without-the-tuxedo-and-explosive-cufflinks etched highball drinking glasses. So I continued bidding on sets of these glasses, one after another, raising the price higher and higher. "mcdoogie44" was not deterred. "mcdoogie44" paid some outrageous amounts for these glasses. I garnered great satisfaction knowing that I was making this person pay more and more for his addiction to cheap barware.

Now, with toxic blend of ire and free time, I looked up "mcdoogie44" on the ebay listings to see what I could learn about my nemesis. What ebay allows you to do is look at every member's activities -- what they've bought, how much they paid for them and how they bid. I scroll through the list of items recently purchased by "mcdoogie44." At the top of the list are the glasses. My glasses. Further down are Hummel figurines. And then more figurines. Dozens of them. If you don’t know, Hummel figurines are these shitty little European-made statues, each about four inches high, depicting stupid little scenes of Aryan kids playing the piano, sledding down a hill or being toilet-trained. The list goes on and on displaying more and more figurines. Who is this freak -- an alcoholic with an obsession for whiskey and small Scandanavian children? And how close am I to becoming this guy myself?

Creeped out by the whole experience, I eventually give up altogether. I savor the two beautiful Crown Royal etched highball glasses I have and move on with my life.

A couple of weeks later, beckoned by my own sulking ego, I go back on ebay and search for my favorite collectible. Oddly, at this moment there is only one set of glasses currently being offered. I smirk and type in the lowest possible bid. I submit my bid and wait. The auction ends in nine days, four hours and three minutes.

You may be asking yourself, "Why don't you just wait until the last minute of the auction and then enter your bid, in hopes that you'll outsmart 'mcdoogie44' ? " Answer: I have a wife and job. And keeping up with this blog is hard enough.

I had completely forgotten about my bid until I got an e-mail in my box nine days later. It was from ebay. I open it expecting the usual message. (You've been outbid! Find similar items by clicking here!") But not this time. The message surprisingly tells me that I won the auction. Finally, the glasses are mine! I was the only bidder with no sign of "mcdoogie44." I've made off with the greatest bargain ever.

While I enjoy the rush of my victory, I do wonder what happened to "mcdoogie44." Did he drink himself to death? Was he picked up on charges of child molestation? Did he sell his Hummel collection and retire to Aruba? Visiting his list of most-recently purchased items, It seems "mcdoogie44" had not moved to Aruba. He had moved on to Hallmark Christmas ornaments. With "mcdoogie44" seemingly now out of the picture, I could now have all the Crown Royal etched highball glasses I wanted. But I had all I needed. Several days later, my glasses arrived, packed neatly in bubble wrap. Each one was, as advertised, in mint condition. They looked pretty, but the moment had passed. It was just kind of a disappointment.

I washed all the glasses, stacked them neatly one on top of another and stored them in the back of the bookshelves. Most likely they'll be forgotten back there. I can only hope that I remember to take them with us when we move.

Moral of the story: Don't forget to look underneath the kitchen drawers before you buy a new home.

Where Are My Glasses? [Part IV]

Until now, I had only bought a couple of items off ebay -- new camera equipment mostly. These were not items I bid on. I got them at the “Buy Now” price. (If you are unfamiliar with how ebay works, I am not going to explain it here. Go to the site and see for yourself. Just try to not get ripped off.) Previously, I had neither the courage to go through the bidding process nor the patience to wait until the auctions expired (in “8d, 11h, 32m”).

Sporting a mild buzz from two White Russians and woozy from the persistent carbon-monoxide leak in our apartment, I settled in behind the keyboard of my laptop to dip my toe in the dark wold of ebay. I searched the site for matching sets of the Crown Royal glasses I now had to have. It's such a bizarre thing to want to collect, but I had to have more. I wanted all of my friends and guests to experience the same peaceful serenity I had the first moment I raised that glass.

After a quick search, I realized that these glasses were not only collectible, but also oddly plentiful on ebay. There, among the listings for neon Budweiser signs and Miller Girl blowup dolls, were dozens of sellers offering my treasured Crown Royal etched highball glasses. Let the bidding begin!

Over the next several days, I bid on multiple sets of glasses sold by seemingly reputable sellers. I entered what I thought was a pretty generous offer for what is really a cheap piece of glass. And ebay would cheerily inform me that "You are the current high bidder!" I would sit back, smugly cross my arms and wait for my bounty to arrive. But of course, It wasn't that easy.

Another member of the ebay community -- someone with the screen name "mcdoogie44" -- seemed to have a similar affinity for these glasses. And "mcdoogie44" had an obnoxious way of showing it. Moments before the auctions were to expire, "mcdoogie44" would sweep in and outbid me. Not only was I in disbelief that there are 43 other members with the screen name "mcdoogie" but that any one person would need so many matching glasses.

As "mcdoogie44" continued to steal away my precious glasses, each time at the very last second, I grew increasingly impudent. I’m not going to let this schmuck get my James-Bond-without-the-tuxedo-and-explosive-cufflinks etched highball drinking glasses. So I continued bidding on sets of these glasses, one after another, raising the price higher and higher. "mcdoogie44" was not deterred. "mcdoogie44" paid some outrageous amounts for these glasses. I garnered great satisfaction knowing that I was making this person pay more and more for his addiction to cheap barware.

Now, with toxic blend of ire and free time, I looked up "mcdoogie44" on the ebay listings to see what I could learn about my nemesis. What ebay allows you to do is look at every member's activities -- what they've bought, how much they paid for them and how they bid. I scroll through the list of items recently purchased by "mcdoogie44." At the top of the list are the glasses. My glasses. Further down are Hummel figurines. And then more figurines. Dozens of them. If you don’t know, Hummel figurines are these shitty little European-made statues, each about four inches high, depicting stupid little scenes of Aryan kids playing the piano, sledding down a hill or being toilet-trained. The list goes on and on displaying more and more figurines. Who is this freak -- an alcoholic with an obsession for whiskey and small Scandanavian children? And how close am I to becoming this guy myself?

Creeped out by the whole experience, I eventually give up altogether. I savor the two beautiful Crown Royal etched highball glasses I have and move on with my life.

A couple of weeks later, beckoned by my own sulking ego, I go back on ebay and search for my favorite collectible. Oddly, at this moment there is only one set of glasses currently being offered. I smirk and type in the lowest possible bid. I submit my bid and wait. The auction ends in nine days, four hours and three minutes.

You may be asking yourself, "Why don't you just wait until the last minute of the auction and then enter your bid, in hopes that you'll outsmart 'mcdoogie44' ? " Answer: I have a wife and job. And keeping up with this blog is hard enough.

I had completely forgotten about my bid until I got an e-mail in my box nine days later. It was from ebay. I open it expecting the usual message. (You've been outbid! Find similar items by clicking here!") But not this time. The message surprisingly tells me that I won the auction. Finally, the glasses are mine! I was the only bidder with no sign of "mcdoogie44." I've made off with the greatest bargain ever.

While I enjoy the rush of my victory, I do wonder what happened to "mcdoogie44." Did he drink himself to death? Was he picked up on charges of child molestation? Did he sell his Hummel collection and retire to Aruba? Visiting his list of most-recently purchased items, It seems "mcdoogie44" had not moved to Aruba. He had moved on to Hallmark Christmas ornaments. With "mcdoogie44" seemingly now out of the picture, I could now have all the Crown Royal etched highball glasses I wanted. But I had all I needed. Several days later, my glasses arrived, packed neatly in bubble wrap. Each one was, as advertised, in mint condition. They looked pretty, but the moment had passed. It was just kind of a disappointment.

I washed all the glasses, stacked them neatly one on top of another and stored them in the back of the bookshelves. Most likely they'll be forgotten back there. I can only hope that I remember to take them with us when we move.

Moral of the story: Don't forget to look underneath the kitchen drawers before you buy a new home.