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Last night when I got home drunk, and wrote up a post that probably didn’t make sense to everyone, and this wasn’t the worst thing that happened. I’ll brief the actual night until the big screw up, and the big screw up will be another post.

The night went well, and I didn’t even nap as a warm up to it.

I got to see a bunch of people that I hadn’t seen in years, some with new fiancee’s and such.

A good portion of our crowd was drinking double fisted, literally.

I got to see one of my childhood friends out a the bar, he just happened to be there, and it was honestly the first time we ever were at a bar together, which is odd considering we grew up together, and still live in the same neighborhood.

I got to see the large crowd for the going away guy get drunker as the night progressed, and as I was leaving someone in our group had just dropped his drink all over the floor, so he went to the bar and bought two more - they were all “sex on the beach”.

Then came the drunk post.

The “Daria” person that I was writing about, was in reference to my none stop laughter at seeing this guy who I’m calling “Daria” on here to protect his identity.

See, I first meet Daria when I was 16, and he was 20. He was big into skateboarding, didn’t have a job, and spent all of his time tagging up all over the city while getting drunk and high if not skateboarding.

He even had a life plan that involved enlisting into the army or navy to play on their football team, and because he knew he was “so good” he would get drafted into he NFL, and be out of the armed services. When he found out that this wasn’t how people played for the army or navy football teams he was crushed.

This guy was a complete burnout.

He finally ended up going back to college, and he even got a steady job - as a officer in the NYPD. That’s right, Daria the burnout, is a cop!

So when he showed up last night I couldn’t contain my smiles and laughter at this. I wasn’t making fun of his, I just couldn’t get over the fact that this guy who is still on the far opposite end is being the best or the brightest, is now a cop.

It’s just funny to envision him wearing the uniform, gun in hand, and trying to respectfully contain any sort of situation.

Scene: Three armed men just robbed a bank, they are all holding hostages, they have just killed Daria’s partner, and there is no backup on the way.

Daria: Yo! (Yes, he says Yo! alot) that’s not cool, yo!

Armed Robber #1: Die copper!

Daria: Seriously, what did you do that for?

Armed Robber #1 shoots at Daria, all the bullets fly overhead, then something catches Daria’s eye. It’s an old tag of his.

Daria: Dude! (giggling) I wrote that, yo!

Anyways, Daria is now a 30 year old cop, and I really just found it to be a barrel of laughs, okay? And I figured that any typo that I had would be just as funny as picturing him apprehend a criminal.

Stupid thing post to come.

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Drunk blogging with the Cheese laughing behind me on the Tony Bennett Room’s loveseat. Yeup, tonight wasn’t bad at all, all the worrying for nothing. Four drinks later and I’m still up without a nap, and now, off the bed, and I’m not talking about the sleeping kind.

*Wink Wink.

P.S. I think my alcohol filled mind has spelled checked this entie post, so, if it is not, I’ll laugh about it in the morning as if is is “Daria” the male burnout NYPD cop.

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I must begin by informing you that your current lack of readership is concerning me, it’s been disconcerting all week, and most of all it has been a daily disappointment. All of you have allowed your personal lives to take precedence over the reading of my little blog on even a weekly basis.

To this, I say, hogwash…HOGWASH!

You’ve become so careless that you’ve allowed Canada to out read you, and I’m pretty sure that they are just looking at pictures.

This is for you, my Canadian readers.

Due to your readership base in the China homeland declining in such a tech boom fallout I have given some serious thought to ending this weekly segment of mine that addresses the friendships that both of our countries need to build, and instead post pictures for those fine Canadians.

Here you go, Canadians.

At this point in time as much as I want to give up on all of you readers in China, I know that right now isn’t the proper time. We need each other.

Without my being here to allow both of our countries to understand one another just a little better, I fear that I would be doing a disservice to the world, and that we might not survive in a world without a mutual understanding of one another.

Canada, once again, for you.

So, China readers, ole’ buddies of mine, do us all the favor and return to the place where you’re always welcome, my blog.

China, this youtube video is for you.

Let’s be friends like these nice children.

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WARNING: Lame Neurotic Blog Post Below…

This weekend I have plans, and lots of them. I am usually one that enjoys going through life without having plans on the goings-on of my weekends.

This weekend is the complete opposite of my normal routine of just seeing where the world takes me, and as it goes it has me all anxious to get it all over with this was I could go back to doing whatever I want to do unplanned – even though I do want to do all of these things. It’s just not the same when things have been planned out weeks in advance.

Tonight is a going away drinking fest for a friend of mine who is moving to Texas. This event is appearing as though it will be packed with native Brooklynites, and as such, I’m expecting to be hearing lots of the letter “r” being pronounced as a “y” with the letter “e” becoming either an “a” or an “er”, or vise versa, dropping letters to words, and the “s’s” will contain multiple “ssss”. I’m sure that I will take part in this annunciating as well.

Wire – Whyer
Square – SSSquyer
Florida – Florider
And - An

I’m slightly worried about this event, as I am with all of my events.

See, my usual Friday nights have consisted of being in bed around the 11 or 12 o’clock hour for the past many months – because I’m an old man at heart, and this shindig doesn’t even officially begin (wristband unlimited booze) until 11PM, with plans for after hours bars, I don’t think I can make it the entire night.

So like the geek that I am when I get home from work this evening I need to add a nap or two to my list of preparations for what I can foresee as an extended amount of drinking.

This extended hours of drinking worries me too, since as of late I have been very well buzzed on two drinks, and even slow talking while nursing my third – and I know that at least one person will announce shots of tequila, simply because they want to hear about everyone’s going downhill after tequila the next day, and more so than that, the man of the hour is a fan of Dr. Pepper bombs (similar to sake bombs, only with harsher booze and they taste like Dr. Pepper).

Saturday is a Housewarming party of the other Cheese – no, I don’t have another g/f, it’s just someone with the same name, Cheese. This will mean that I’m going to be around a bunch of people that I don’t know all that well, and will be more on the quiet side. When this happens I internalize my not talking too much, and need to find an excuse to why I am so quiet.

The excuse that I normally find to justify my not talking (even though nobody is noticing my lack of conversing) is that I’m too busy drinking. “Sorry I couldn’t add a comment to that conversation, I was sipping this Stella.”

This usually finds me buzzed too quickly, and is how at one of my sister’s bbq’s a few years back I ended up laughing until tears ran down my face at nothing to due with the conversation that I was “in”. See there was in a conversation that I wasn’t adding to, while it was going on her dog was humping the neighbors dog, and as I saw it my brain exploded and it looked to be the funniest thing I ever witnessed.

That’s two nights in a row of boozefesting for a guy that normally doesn’t drink, but likes his well to keep flowing when he does. So come Sunday morning I am almost certain that I will be feeling the aftermath of lack of sleep with my body aching, and Sunday morning is when the last planned event that I have this weekend takes place.

Sunday is forsythia day at the bbg, so of course I need to go there, bright and early to pick up my free forsythia, and buy some new shrubs to take the place of some pussy willows that I chopped down in my backyard last week.

I need to go worry about this unnecessarily, while working away from my desk for most of the day.

Sorry all that I could give the two of you reading this was a brief view into my neurosis.

Don’t worry; I’ll try to get out my post to China as well.

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A couple of years ago craigslist burst into my world as a place that magic could happen. It was a place that I could get just about anything I wanted, should I really really want it. It seemed as though everyone was secretly using it without ever daring admit it in public, for fear of shame being cast down upon them – it was most everyone’s dirty little secret.

Now that CL is no longer the newest thing since sliced bread and since I have a steady Cheese and we’re in an ltr, CL is completely not appealing anymore for certain things that I may or may not have used it for in the past - I’m talking tail here, folks.

Anyways, people who used CL were able to find tail at all hours of the day, and be able to make plans to meet within minutes.

I know this to be true based on this particular true-life experience.

See, my friend who I need to call “Jenny” in this read to protect her identity had two dates lined up for one weekend a couple of years ago. One was a date with a dude, and one was with a hot lipstick lesbian, both were with people that she plucked and planned with off of the glorious CL website while she was wasting time at her day job.

Her dude date was for a Saturday night, and it didn’t go well. The two of them just didn’t click; he was too awkward for her to deal with, so she ended up going home alone that night.

This didn’t seem so bad to her at the time because she was highly anticipating her Sunday afternoon date with that hot lipstick lesbian.

Doesn’t that sound good? It just rolls of the tongue - hot lipstick lesbian.

Anyways, her CL female date ended up calling her and canceling that Sunday morning.

Jenny was bummed out at the prospect of her weekend appearing as though it would end up being a bust, and she text messaged me to say how bad it sucked.

I ended up calling her up to cheer her up, and thought she should place a new add up on CL to find some new easy tail. To this, she informed me that she only had access to the internet at her day job.

I wasn’t going to allow my friends internet access situation keep her down. So, while on the phone with her, and without her knowledge I placed an ad up on CL’s “Casual Encounters” which at the time was like a bucket of horned up bunny rabbits overflowing - I imagine that it still is.

The ads title was “My Friend Jenny Needs To Get Laid!!!!”

And the content of the ad basically gave no knowledge of her as a person, other than she had one bad date the night before, had a late cancellation to her afternoon date, and well, that she really want lots of sex before the weekend was up.

After it was placed, I informed Jenny of what I had done, and was curious to see if she was game for my judgment on which anonymous person would be a good match for her. She laughed and was game for it in a heartbeat.

Within ten minutes I had over 70 emails from men, women, and couples that were very interested in Jenny.

Most people sent photos; it was this day that I realized that lots of men think that sending a pic of their manhood is a great way for them to land a date, even if the ad specifically said that I was a dude helping out my female friend.

Some of the men and couples looked promising (she was not interested in dealing with another woman that day after the late cancellation) and I emailed them back while describing them to Jenny.

Keep in mind that I did not have a photo of Jenny to show anyone, so it’s fair for me to assume that all of these people that responded were ready to have sex with a wooden chair if I placed a wig and a dress on it while calling it Jenny - I mean they were really horned up, and this gave me a weird vibe from most of them.

Then I came across a guy who didn’t send a photo, and wrote only something along the lines of “Hi, my name is John, I’m 28, and I have a 14 inch johnson.”

That was all that he wrote, and for some reason this short email without a photo seemed to speak volumes of truth to me - despite this nearly mythic touting of his having a 14-inch member.

I told Jenny about the good feeling in the hunch that I had about this 14-inch guy, and she asked for more about him. A few emails later Jenny was telling me to send him her phone number.

Within 30 seconds of sending it, I heard Jenny’s landline ringing, and she muffled her cell that had me on, this way she could keep her pre-coital conversing a mystery to me.

After nearly ten minutes of me desperately trying to hear their conversation Jenny came back on my line, she told me that the guy didn’t seem crazy, and that she had set up a date for 4PM at the Sketchers store in Times Square.

I let her get off the phone to prep for her “date”, wished her luck, and reminded her to stay safe.

The next day at work I got a thank you email from her, which informed me that she had a great time with the guy. I had to call her to get the details of her date, and see if he was telling the truth about the 14 inches.

The summation of her date to me was something along the lines of:

“He was waiting in the store for me, we walked around pretending to be looking at sneakers, and then after 20 minutes we got on the subway and went back to Queens and did lots of sexin in my bed.”

Her statement immediately left my question open, so I excitedly asked, and her response was, “I didn’t measure it, but it was huge, and I am no longer afraid of having sex with a black man, or “Macho Ralph”. Macho Ralph was a guy that she took home twice before but couldn’t go all the way with him out of fear of his huge size.

This made me shriek with laughter, and I was very happy that it all worked out for her, and it made me even more happy knowing that my intuition on a one sentence email sans photo would be a good match for my friend Jenny.

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I used to work at a discount store in Brooklyn – cause that’s how Brooklyn I am. It was/is a small mom and pop type of place that sells pretty much everything that you’d find in a Duane Reade or Rite Aid, only without a pharmacist.

The stores customer base was/is mainly local residents, and people that moved away but still drove an hour to do all of their shopping in Bay Ridge, freaks. Given that, if you work there long enough you recognize many of the regular faces easily.

One familiar customer face in particular was a white man in his 60s, soft-spoken, and always polite without being overly friendly in an annoying sort of way – let’s call him Mr. F.

Mr. F. enjoyed doing all of his shopping on Saturday afternoons around 5PM, or Sunday afternoons around 3PM – yes, I worked there a long time.

One particular Sunday in the heat of one particular steamy, hot, August, Mr. F. came in with a whole laundry list of things that he needed. These were all things that he didn’t normally purchase, and he asked for my help in making sure that he got all of the exact things written on his paper since all of the items were “doctor recommended” as he said.

At the top of Mr. F’s list I was able to see that there were instructions on prepping the body for a colonoscopy. With the list below consisting of exact quantities needed of the following Fleet Enemas, Glycerin Suppositories, Phospho-Soda, and Pain Relief Pre-Moistened Anorectal Pads.

Mr. F. got all of the required written items, then stood there for a moment thinking to himself, and then took an extra twin pack of enemas, he said, “Just in case.” As if this amount of internal combustion materials being bought by one person for his or her single usage was a normal thing (it wasn’t normal).

Ewww…

In case you don’t know what all of the above items are, they are over the counter products that help you get lots of bowel a flowing, except for the wipes. The wipes are to try and keep your anus from getting hurt or sore on all of the toilet paper you would have to use when taking any one of those products.

Then after his basket was nearly overflowing with Fleet products, he informed me that he had a colonoscopy scheduled for the upcoming Tuesday, and that he needed to “clear himself out” prior to this appointment.

A week went by, I hadn’t seen Mr. F. since he was normally a weekend shopper, but I had thought about how many times he must have had to race to a restroom from all of the over the counter junk that he had to ingest, or squirt, and or place with effort inside his body. To this I giggled to no end about.

Then the very next Sunday Mr. F. came in, and asked me if we had a particular Biore scrub – sadly, he didn’t mention how his colonoscopy went, even sadder he didn’t mention what all of the Fleet products did to his stomach or his toilet.

Back to this Biore product, I knew exactly what he was looking for, and knew the exact shape and design of this product. I walked him over to the fourth aisle, to show him this product, that’s when I ran into a problem – we had just rearranged almost the entire fourth aisle’s product placement, and I couldn’t find the Biore tube.

As we stood there by ourselves looking for this product I was overcome by a retched, awful, nasty smell of a fart that seemed to be able to burn my retina’s and peel the paint off of the ceiling at the same time.

Mr. F. and I were the only two people out in the store on the floor, and since it wasn’t me, it had to be him.

I momentarily tried to pretend that I didn’t notice his flatulence, while I kept looking for the Biore with one held breathe, and at this exact time Mr. F. took seven giant spaces backwards away from me. Then, he said in the most calm and serious of all manners, this,

“I just farted…”

I didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, so I didn’t laugh in his face, and I couldn’t breathe much longer so my reply was,

“Heeeey, no problem, it happens to all of us” and then attempted to change the subject with “Now I know the Biore should be over here…..???”

Mr. F. didn’t want to hear any of it, and politely asked, and I swear to God these were his exact words here,

“Could you please leave? I need to do some more.”

W…T…F?!?!?!

I couldn’t dare laugh in his face, because he had always been so respectful and a nice guy to all of us that worked in the store, so I told him, “okay” and went to go behind the counter to tell the cashiers and the manager what just happened so we could all laugh together behind his back.

As I walked down the third aisle towards the counter, he called me back to his location, and when I got there again he said, “Please, don’t tell anyone about this.”

I flat out lied to his face with, “Oh, I won’t tell anyone about this.” Then proceeded back to the counter with a huge grin and a barely contained laugh.

When I got behind the counter I had to sit down and whispered the entire story to everyone, then we all laughed, and laughed, and laughed until we cried – Mr. F. was none the wiser, and kept shopping there on a regular basis until he informed us that he was retiring down to Florida a couple of years later.

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1) Getting a phone call from anyone telling you to turn on the Today Show.

2) You wake up from an announcement that the N train you have been riding is at the last stop in Coney Island, when you live off the R line.

3) There is a garbage truck picking up three tons of garbage up off the curb from the restaurant below some chicks bedroom that you had drunkenly accepted the offer into the night before.

4) A bird is sitting outside your bedroom window chirping “THREE! THREE! THREE! THREE! THREE!” none stop for ten minutes. (This one has gotten me three days in a row now.)

5) The police are knocking on your apartment door to see if the woman without identification who just beat up a woman in her 50s directly in front of the local city councilman’s office is indeed your 83-year old grandmother.

6) You awake from a massive amount of horniness building in your shorts and find yourself in an empty bed.

7) Due to his lack of memory, your other boss calls you worried because you didn’t show up to work that day, this, after you already spoke with him two hours earlier to inform him that you were “too sick” (glug glug) to go into work that day.

Your fat neighbor is boasting in an extremely loud fashion to his wife that he “looks so good and fit after losing only five pounds” bleeds through the walls of your bedroom.

9) Your stomach decides to tell you at 4AM that the buffalo chicken wings you ate during a few drinks seven hours earlier was not a good idea.

10) A middle aged Trinidadian woman slips a piece of paper in your mouth while asleep on the D train during an evening commute home.

11) You find that you’re in your cubicle or windowless office, and it’s only 10:45AM.

12) Your dates drunken fumbling with their bedroom doorknob awakes you in time to watch her give up on her attempts of opening the door, and then actively decides that their bedroom floor is just as good as a toilet.

13) You fall out of bed like a four year old.

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Today, right before lunchtime one of the admins on my floor was trying to peek into the large conference room that I knew for a fact to be empty. She had a meeting in less than five minutes and needed to get in. I offered up my knowledge that it was indeed empty (despite her firm belief that someone was locked inside napping) and informed her who had the key to let her in.

She asked if I could keep an eye on her meetings materials, and left it on top of a wooden lock box that collects the floors confidential papers to be shredded. She asked with the firm statement of “Please do not let anyone dump my papers inside the shred box.”

I obliged.

Then I heard an unfamiliar voice come from near where the admin left all of her paperwork saying, “Oh, is all this paperwork to be shredded?”

My initial comment was going to be an “Absolutely not!” and as the “absolutely” was coming out of my mouth I saw that it was creepy Missouri girl asking in a joking manner, so I changed my “not” into a “go for it”, and then we had a short smile laugh.

It was the first time she ever spoke to me other than her quiet monotone “excuse me” she’d say if I was in her way by a set of cabinets, despite that we are cube neighbors – never once a hello.

I would never have been able to tell from her monotone voice that she had been joking, thankfully I saw that she had a big grin on her face, it was a laughing grin, so I knew that she had to be joking.

Needless to say, she broke out her Fire Marshall Bill face, since that’s exactly what and whom she looks like when laughing.

This marks the second time I’ve seen her make this face, and I think it’s just great.

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While I do enjoy trying new things when eating out, trying an entire whole plate of new foods is a daunting task for me to handle. Most times that I go out to eat I try to find something on the menu that is familiar to my pallet, rarely straying, choosing the familiarity with what I am pretty sure I would enjoy eating.

Most times after my food is in my tummy, I am happy as can be, knowing that I got what I ordered.

Then there are the times that I order something, expect one thing, and get something completely different, simply because, how should I put it…I’m a fool when it comes to ordering in a restaurant.

If a waiter or waitress begins to say the specials I have to try hard as can be not to laugh in their face. I’m in no way trying to be rude to the wait staff while they are only trying to make a living, and yet something internally inside me finds someone rolling off five complicated detailed meals off the top of their head as though they went to school to annunciate each word impeccably incredibly funny.

This concentration on not laughing usually causes me to lose all train of thought, and the use of any other parts of my brain cease to exist. Then the waiter or waitress walks away, and I am left with absolutely no idea what the specials of the day are.

Or, if a menu contains the word “penne” I laugh to myself, or if I’m with one of my sister’s we laugh together aloud, because “penne” was what we called a penis growing up.

Back to the wrongly ordering things, at one of my sister’s weddings, I ended up ordering the filet minion, because I was in the mood for fish.

The way my brain works is that if you filet anything, it must be fish, so when a huge steak came out and placed before me to eat, I turned to my date and said, “Didn’t I order the filet minion? Is this your steak?”

This is just the tip of the iceberg as far as my not knowing how to order anything. Nowadays if I am out to eat, I’m usually with the Cheese, and it consists of me asking what the things on the menu are, and then ordering something familiar.

This past Saturday we were starving, and finally found a place to eat in Brooklyn Heights after finding out the original choice on University Place was now under construction to become a condo.

I was in the mood for something big, warm, and tasty. The specials were clearly printed and placed inside the normal menu. I decided to go with the lamb with the side of goat cheese ravioli. I even asked the Cheese about the serving size of the pasta dishes at this particular place, and I felt confident in my choice of food.

When the waitress came out with our food she asked who ordered the lamb, and when I said I did, she proceeded to place on big leg of cooked meat and something that didn’t look like any sort of ravioli I’d ever seen down in front of me.

“I thought I ordered lamb?” I said.

Cheese, “Umm, babe, that is lamb.”

Another unexpected twist to my eating out experiences, as it turns out that the lamb was still on the bone, and ravioli was apparently some other type of ravioli that I did not know existed.

I always think of meats as being cut into flat pieces or chunks, never round and oblong.

Food made me a fool once again, and it was delicious.

Food: 2
Beehive: 0

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So I went out and purchased a new laptop this evening, and besides the hit to my credit card, I am taking a hit to my brain.

For instance, where the hell are the buttons that allow me to use the features that I know for a fact to be in this notebook?

With all of the manuals consisting of either a) troubleshooting notes on things that would make me want to pour gasoline on the notebook, or b) contain advertisements of things that I would never in my life buy. The only things that I seem to find are the easily displayed “uninstall” buttons, which ever so eaily delete all of the beautiful features that I just purchased.

Maybe it’s because I have been living happily at home with my 1999 Compaq Presario, where everything definately ran slowly, however, at least it was all clearly labeled.

Even the control panel is conpletely different.

What happened to everything in this world.

I now know what “Brooks” from the Shawshank Redemption must have gone through when he left prison and went to live in that halfway house.

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I caught the Don Cheadle movie over the weekend with the Cheese. I call it a Don Cheadle movie simply because saying that a good drama is an Adam Sandler movie sounds like an oxymoron to me.

Go see this movie, great storyline, great acting, and it is by far the best movie to feature NYC as the background in a very long time, quite possibly the best ever.

It could be one those out of the blue released at a weird time Oscar movie type of movie, but I doubt that it would get a nomination for two reasons, a) due to its release time, and b) Adam Sandler is a lead.

Don’t get me wrong, Sandler does great in this movie, and will shock most people after seeing this movie. He’s come a long way from Billy Madison.

I’d say more, but I wouldn’t want to be a spoiler, so let me leave you with this about Reign Over Me - I can only hope that I one day write something as good as this script.

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I wasn’t expecting to get the call, so when the phone rang right after I got out of the shower early this morning around 7:15AM, I was shocked. It was urgent, and the person on the other end informed me that I am needed to report down to the New York Mets spring training camp in Port St. Lucie, Florida - promptly at 8AM tomorrow. I already have a 2 O’clock flight booked.

I haven’t played since little league, so this call was a real shock, and I think the call had something to do with my making a great play when I was 12 years old, playing for the Falcons, and it made the local free neighborhood paper.

I’ll be playing 3rd base, filling in for David Wright, who was injured when he broke his hand in a bar fight last night – KIDDING! Wright’s actually the newest POW in what is only the latest skirmish in the demilitarized zone separating both North and South Korea.

Pardon the pun, but let’s just say that Wright’s going to be a little tied up to be playing 3rd base this year.

Seriously, I got a call from my mother saying that she had completely forgotten about alternate side of the street parking today, that she was up at my sister’s house, and her car was on the wrong side of the street. As such she inquired if I could move her car to a “safe” side of a street.

My mother is ten times more neurotic than I am, and was noticeably nervous in her voice at the thought of me driving her car, even if it was only across the street, I know this based on her babbling the same things over and over five times before I cut her off. She had been explaining on how “alternate side of the street parking works” despite my having spent my entire life seeing how the process works.

She even still uses the “Club” to ward off potential car thieves, despite the fact that the lock doesn’t work anymore, so it is really just for show, the same thing as someone placing an “ADT” protection sign in their front lawn and hope for the best, but enough about her.

For those who aren’t familiar with my driving record, I drove last summer for the first time in eight years. If you want you can read all about it in this here post, and at no point during that driving experience had I parallel parked, which is the only way to park legally on the streets of my neighborhood.

This meant that I would have to attempt my first parallel parking job since 1998, I vaguely remember being instructed on how to go about this back then, and haven’t used it since I never had an opportunity to.

I was up for the challenge, got dressed, moseyed on over to my mom’s place, picked up the keys, found her car, got in, and then couldn’t figure out how to get the windshield washers to work – the windows were all full of morning dew.

After three minutes that seemed like life sentences in jail of me feeling more lost than a person from Kentucky straight off a bus in Times Square, I gave up and tried to call someone for help. The phone began to ring, and then magically, I flipped the stick on the right hand side of the steering column, and the windshield washers magically moved, cleaning off the morning due.

I was so happy that I honked the horn in victory.

I placed the car in reverse, backed up a bit, then drive and got out in one clean shot. I began to drive up the street, until I became annoyed at some loud ringing sound. I looked around and found a red flashing light on the console.

“What the hell is that blinking?” I thought. The blinking red light looked like something I would find on clothing, and it appeared as though the car was telling me to wash it in luke warm water, and then press it off using the iron on its steam setting.

Why don’t cars just speak English?

Then realized that I don’t really know how to drive, since I didn’t take off the brake in between the two front seats, which was the cause of the blinking red light, and annoying beeping. I’m not even sure what this brake is actually used for, other than to make people feel stupid for not knowing about its existence until after they drive100 feet.

None of the GTA games have this unneeded brake in their cars, because it is a pointless brake, and so I simply didn’t know that it existed in real life.

I made a right turn and ended up at a stoplight. My driving was anything but a smooth journey up until this point – it was very jerky, and a little bit swervy.

At this same light, there was a NYPD van facing me. I got worried that I would get pulled over for driving dangerously, and have the cops expecting a 14 year old kid to be the one who was driving, then laugh at me when they saw how pathetic it was for a man who’s had a license for eight years to still drives like it’s his first time.

I played it cool, and by cool, I mean I sweated like a marathon runner.

This sweating technique of mine worked to a tee, and I was able to slip away from the cops unnoticed.

Another right turn of a poorly judged 90-degree angle, and I crawled in the car looking for a spot. I knew that I would have to take the first spot I saw, and keep attempting to park the car until I ran out of gas, or got it in the spot.

Nothing on the first block, so I went down another block, where I found an open spot.

It was the Cadillac of parking spots, having a double driveway in front of it, leaving roughly 25 feet for me to maneuver the car parallel to the sidewalk, and then into the spot.

Five minutes, and a half a gallon of sweat later I thought was in. I got out to inspect my beautiful handiwork and found that I was still four feet into a driveway.

This must have been God’s vengeful nature on me for all those times that I laughed at out of towners struggling to get into any parking spot in the city.

Two minutes late I found myself up in the spot, but up on the curb, I couldn’t live with this. Two more minutes of finagling the car forward and reverse and I was spent.

If this was last year when I was unemployed, my driving two blocks would have been all that I could have done in one day, and the rest of my day would have consisted of naps to build up my strength again so that maybe I would be able to go out to the post office the next day, instead I’m at work today.

Happy Monday – I need a shower!

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Where have you been all week? Only one of you stopped by, is there a widespread flu that has kept most of you from coming on? Gosh I hope not.

You know what happens when you don’t swing by much for a week, right? No? Okay, well it gives the Canadians time and room to grow in their loyal readership.

Maybe I should start writing Friday afternoon blogs to help promote good friendships between the U.S. and Canada soon, after all, the Canadian readership consists of all two households in Canada that have internet access having been consistently loyal to this very blog.

With this in mind, China readers, this guy busking for money is doing a great job, and I think that our two nations could learn a lot from him.

What do you guys think?

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Last night as I waited inside my local pizzeria for my cheese calzone, that semi new to within the past four months Dixie Chicks song that goes something like “I’m not ready to back down, I’m not ready to give up”, or something like that, came on the radio inside the pizza place, and I found myself internally sings what I think were the words to this song.

Not only was I internally singing it, but I was finding the song to be really really beautiful, it was very simple, without too much complications to be meaningless. This had me thinking that I really must like the Dixie Chicks, and I don’t care if they’re labeled into the Country genre, I really like them.

Then the pizza guy said $12.50 (I was getting more than a calzone) and I was in such my own world from this song it took him saying $12.50 three times for me to understand what it was he was talking about.

Yeup, the Dixie Chicks they’ll do that to you when you’re on their cloud, they rock.

P.S. I never said that I had the greatest taste in music.

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We decided to go on a daylong kayak trip down the Delaware River. It was through a group thing, that just about anyone could go with, as long as they paid the required money. So the Cheese, Cheese’s sister, the Brit, and myself went, along with two full vans worth of people that we didn’t know, so I’m guessing that there were around 30 to 35 people in total there, one of which was a guy that had three thumbs that we could stop looking at –THREE THUMBS!

It was a warm sunny day in the summer, once we got through the river I realized that it was not as scary as I thought it would be, and that I would definitely do it again.

Our group of four were the first to finish the river because it turns out that the Cheese’s sister hates kayaking, and only found this out once she got on the river, and the three that enjoyed kayaking didn’t enjoy being around the rest of the group that we quietly referred to as “weirdos” so we paddled faster down the river than everyone else.

As we waited on the shore for our driver to arrive so that we could change and get back to the city, everyone straggled in – some in better shape than others. One particular out of it person was a gal in her 20s, she had big boobs, yet was wearing a bikini instead of a full swimsuit.

I’m all for wearing whatever you want, but when you’re going down a river with some rapids you need to be covered, otherwise you will pop out. So as she came out of the river, I could hear the three girls were gasping at her, but didn’t see what the problem was until I turned around and saw that the river moved those big boobs around inside the bikini top, and they appeared as though instead of only being two boobs, there were now four boobs, and we now sticking out a few inches below her bikini top. It looked crazy, and I immediately gasped an “Oh, dear lord” as she walked by me, and we all laughed, which was an innocent statement, but it was just too funny.

After everyone landed safely on shore the guy running the group broke out the coolers full of soda, chips, and beer.

As I fiddled around with my bag in a trunk, the Cheese came over and asked if I would like a beer, to which I replied with a big yes. The Cheese walked away from my back left side towards my right to go get us beers.

When I was finished in the trunk with my bag, I turned around to my right side to go meet up with the Cheese where I thought she’d be. I saw her through my “party on the inside sunglasses” with her blonde hair, beer in hand, talking with a group of people that I didn’t recognize, so walked over and hugged her from behind.

As I began to hug her she drank from her beer, and I for some reason felt the need to pet her butt, as I asked if she got me one.

The Cheese turned her head slightly and asked “What?”

“Did you get me a beer?” I asked.

“No” She said, as I continued to pet and squeeze her butt gently.

The Cheese seemed different at my doing this for some reason, she sort of felt different too, and turned around saying things that didn’t sound familiar to me, which left me in a confused way.

I looked at the Cheese’s face under the long blonde hair and sunglasses and realized that the woman that I had just been caressing was not my girlfriend, Cheese.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry, so so sorry. I thought you were my girlfriend.” I pleaded confused, hoping that the woman didn’t hit me, or call the police due to a completely innocent mix up.

I frantically looked around and saw the Cheese standing over with two familiar faces, smiling at me.

“I thought you were her.” Pointing at the Cheese, apologized quickly again, and then bolted over to the Cheese with complete embarrassment.

The real Cheese asked what was up, and I informed her how I just fondled a woman that I thought was her, to which everyone laughed at me for being a fool.

In all fairness to me, they both had on similar black swimsuits, long blonde hair, similar builds, sunglasses on, and the other woman was in the area that I last saw the Cheese walking to – how was I to know that there was a Cheese look-alike in the group, she wasn’t in the vehicle we rode up in.

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