I know, I know.

Yeah, yeah, I know I haven't posted in a while. There's been a ton of shit going on. I'll get something up this week I promise. Until then, Happy Easter.

Hope this tides you over, Sylvia.

Until next time...

R

Sorry... hope this amuses.

Well, my loyal readers, I know it's been a while since my last post, and for that I apologize. It's not really a good time in Rychkid world, but I won't get into that right now. I'll save it for another time when I'm feeling really jaded. Now that I've gotten that out of the way, I'll write something.

Turns out I've been officially blown off, so in the last few weeks I've compiled a short list, and made it into a top 10. So, now, for the first time in the corner apartment, here is the premiere. And yes, before I get the slew of emails, these have all happened.

Top Ten Signs You're Not Doing Well With A Girl In A Bar:

10. You ask her to dance and she says that she's allergic.
9. You ask if you can buy her a drink, and she says, "no, but I'll buy you one... how about a nice glass of 'get the fuck away from me?'"
8. You say that you'd like to take her to dinner sometime and she says, "sorry, my doctor has put me on a 'no-annoying-drunken-asshole diet.'" (That one hurt.)
7. You tell her that she looks great and she says, "thanks, but this thong really hurts my balls."
6. She asks you if you have any cuter, more interesting friends.
5. She asks you to turn around because she wants to check her makeup and the glare from the back of your head provides great reflective properties.
4. She hands you her phone number on a folded up napkin. You leave the bar, open it up, and the number is 585-FUCK-YOU.
3. You overhear her say to her friends, "watch this" as she proceeds to inadvertently dump a beer, glass of red wine, Long Island Iced Tea and entire dish of cherries onto your lap, and follow it up with an, "oops, my bad. Sorry."
2. She tells you that your breath smells like you just went down on a water buffalo with a skin condition, and that she's going to invest in Altoids stock after she calls the company and gives them your phone number and physical description.
1. She asks for your number, you give it to her, and then she hands it to the drag queen that's been checking you out all night. (We're not dating anymore.)

Well, that's going to be it for now. I've got bigger fish to fry, and more pickup lines to polish. Going to try to be cuter and more interesting tonight.

In case you were wondering, she didn't call.

Until next time...

R

Maybe...

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I've done it. I've pulled the trigger. By the time you read this, I'll be... uploading more stuff on to my new 2GB black iPod Nano. Bet for a second there you thought that I was going to say something mildly moving like some sort of post-mortem, but blog-friendly suicide note. Nah, not this time. It'd give the people that hate me too much satisfaction. Any time I think about offing myself, even for a second, I think about the mindless dickheads in the insurance office that I worked in immediately following college, along with the loser that punched me in the face in high school while I was sitting in my parked Plymouth Horizon, and a few other choice douchebags in my checkered past, and there's no way that I would let them think for a second that they actually got to me. In case you haven't had that first few sips of liquid eye-opener that I like to call coffee, what I'm getting at here is that I bought an iPod. Yeah, it's one of the coolest things I own, and, as a matter of fact, I'm listening to it now. It took me a couple marathon sessions in front of the computer... but it's done. Every song that I want to listen to is on this thing. All that shit's really cool, but what's also great is that it matches my apartment... crucial, simply because I actually spend the majority of my day holding up random things in my apartment and deciding whether or not they match my decor. It was a pain in the ass when I had a roommate. He was a lot heavier than I expected, and it was a nightmare to see if he matched my four-foot vertical "Arts of Reform and Persuasion" print. His eyes were the wrong color anyway.

So, I once again digress into the portal that is the corner apartment. As I sit here at 10:18 PM on a Tuesday, listening to my newly acquired iPod, sipping a perfectly concocted Tangueray 10 martini (thanks, Darren) complete with blue cheese stuffed olives and taking a long, slow drag on a Marlboro Light from the Indian reservation just 40 short miles away (thanks again, Pataki), I write with a quiet contentment and subtle happiness. From where is my happiness derived, you may ask? Well, one of my best friends from my much maligned hometown of Jamestown, NY, Steve, called me this afternoon and told me that his lovely wife, Susan, gave birth to their second son, last night, around 3:30 AM. Steve had been up for about 18 hours, and they named him Noah. Perfect. If name is any indication of development, this kid is going to be a lady killer. For those of you that don't know, one of my best friends here in sunny Rochester, is named Noah. Yeah, I'll tell you right now, and I'm sure that Noah will thank me later... women love him. Again, he's my hero.

Sorry for that quick sidebar, but another one of my best friends is now married with 2 kids. While I was on the phone with Steve, going back and forth with the congratulations and all that stuff, he said something very poignant. He said, "can you believe I'm married with 2 kids?" My response was this; "uh, no... I never thought you'd make it past 30." Honestly, I didn't. I didn't think either of us would ascertain that life landmark. We were both a couple of rednecks from a redneck town in redneck Southwestern NY. We were hard-drinking, womanizing, getting-in-bar-fights-and-blaming-the-other-guy rednecks. I gotta say... Steve has turned into the family guy. No, I don't mean the TV show... I mean the wife, 2 kids, and stable job family guy. Kinda like my old man.

After hanging up the phone, I couldn't help but think that when my dad was my age, he was juggling a mortgage, 2 car payments, coaching my 13 year-old baseball team, paying for my sister's tap dance lessons, a wife, and a law practice. I'm 34. I can't juggle a job and a bowling league. Did I mention I shot a 300?

Regardless, I'll get this out of the way early in this post. Congratulations Steve and Susan, and welcome to the world Noah. Done.

Having said that, I'll get into the obligatory what-I-did-this-weekend post. Sorry, Chicago girls, it's not really that blog worthy... but I'll do it anyway. It leads me to another point. I'll get into that later.

So, there I was, Friday. I worked with the boss (which was less than a spectacular showing for the Rychkid, by the way), finished up around 3, and called Pat. After the standard, "what's going on?", I got a shocker. "Wanna go to the hockey game tonight?" I haven't hung out with Pat in about 2 months sans girlfriend. "Fuck yeah I do!" I was floored. He's been so wrapped up in hanging out with the girlfriend that we haven't had a beer together, much less been to a hockey game, in, well... let me just say that I had a lot more hair the last time we hung out. Kidding... I had a little more hair the last time we hung out.

Now, I know that Pat reads this thing, so I'll say this... and I say this with a staunch record of unblemished heterosexuality; I missed Pat. There. I think he'll be OK with that. Pat, along with Noah, are the two straightest guys that I know. They'd rather be circumcised by Stevie Wonder than see Brokeback Mountain. Moving on.

I got the tickets. Pat picked me up. We went to the game. Here's the good news; I got to wear my belt that has a flask for a belt buckle, and I did what anyone who owns a belt with a flask with a belt buckle would do; I filled it with Makers Mark. Pat made a good point; he said that most people would go into a store and see that belt and say, "that's pretty cool." I'm the only one that would actually buy it. I'm OK with that, and living by that type of virtue has served me well. So far, at least.

Well, three periods of hockey, a four minute overtime, a shootout, and three 16 ounce Budweiser plastic bottles later, we headed to our old stand-by; Johnny's. Again, for those of you that are not my loyal readers (damn you), it's about my favorite bar on the planet... Vegas bars excluded, of course. Regardless... decent band, but that's not what was great about heading there. I got to see a few people I haven't seen in a while... good stuff. Nancy... great to see you. You're hot. Bummer that we missed Meg.

After a few choice cocktails there, once again the move was to head to the Park Bench... on my beloved Park Avenue. By the way, I'll live here until I die... rent control and employment permitting. I do love that bar, mainly because it's a good cross-section of the populous of Rochester... young, old... whatever. I kind of hate like hell to go downtown because I'm at that stage in life when I look at a girl in the "hip" bars that are down there now, I can't help but think that one of these girls is the baby that my high school girlfriend gave up about a hundred years ago.

Here's a question for you; at what point do you just become too old to do the downtown bar scene? I'll tell you right now; I get annoyed really quickly in that whole area. I get bumped into about every other second, and invariably, one of my friends will return to our circle of friends with some girl that, one, needs a tanning intervention (it's Rochester, NY and the dead of winter for the love of God... you're not supposed to look like you're in the Bahamas), two, has the barest grasp of the English language, and three, although she may be well-versed in the intricacies of finding the perfect shade of lipstick that happens to be the same shade as her overly-tanned face, and how to be-dazzle a jean jacket, I'm looking for just a touch more intellectual stimulation. That's a great backpack, by the way.

Don't get me wrong... I don't think that 34 is old by any stretch of the imagination... it's really just a matter of being too old for that area. You don't want to be that "old guy" in the club. You know the guy that I'm talking about... not old, just a little too old to be in club. If I start wearing a Member's Only jacket, just tap me on the shoulder... I'll know what you mean, and I'll know what to do. I'll quietly leave, gather up the keys to my Camaro (or if it's winter, my Fiero), and take myself home to my single's gated community. I'll then throw a Tony's Pizza For One in the toaster oven, and sit down to finish reading "Dating for One" by Ted Kaczinski. It's a quick read.

Anyway, having said all that... my Saturday and Sunday were pretty uneventful... sorry to disappoint. Saturday I watched TV, and Sunday I watched the Super Bowl by myself. It was great. That's really all I've got at this point.

Am I wrong to think that I'm not at the place I should be in my life? Should I think about my friends being married and having 2 kids and think, "hey, maybe I need to settle down"? Maybe. Maybe I should be trying to settle down and having kids. Maybe I should go back to school and obtain a degree that would be worth a shitload of money to someone. Maybe I should shave my head. Maybe I should quit smoking. Maybe I should put that new David Powter song on my iPod. Maybe I should throw out the rest of this martini.

Nah... on all counts. Not just yet, at least.

Well, I've now been writing for over an hour... time flies when you know you really need to get some sleep. Funny... that made a lot more sense in my head than when I put it in print.

Having said that, I'm going to log off and get some sleep. My thoughts are all getting in the way of each other. Maybe I'm schizophrenic.

Regardless, I'm actually going to log off now. Gotta get some sleep before I go shopping for baby gifts and a new Member's Only jacket.

Maybe she'll call.

Until next time...

R

Papi Chulo and that freaking 6

Well, it just wouldn't be Monday if I didn't put together a good "here's-what-I-did-this-weekend" post, so in the interests of consistency; here you go.

Just as I sat down to write a little something other than what I'm about to write, I got the call from the 5 Dog. The first words out of his mouth were, "big money... can you believe that fucking 6?" The funny thing is I told this story once today to Janell, but again, in the interest of consistency, yada, yada, yada.

This past Saturday, I found myself in a limo with Noah and a few other friends. Now, I have to elaborate on the "few other friends" part of that. The limo was supposed to take me, Noah, and a few other guys up to Niagara Falls to the casino, and see the world renowned Canadian ballet. For those of you that aren't familiar with the ballet, ask someone. Actually, ask someone that was single when you met them, and then got married and hasn't left the house since. You'll soon see their eyes light up with the fond memories of glitter, neon, and eight dollar beers. You'll see them go back in time with their mind, and rewind that mental camcorder that we all store back in that place where our significant others dare not dwell. You'll see them cast their eyes skyward and think about their bachelor party with a limo full of drunken friends (at least one of whom vomited outside the amphitheatre of the aforementioned ballet), and being called upon to enter the stage themselves and revel in their last night of freedom. If you could crawl into that little space of cerebral consciousness and look over the valley that is, in fact, their life, you would be able to see where the wave finally broke, and then eased back into the dark reality of mowing the lawn, bringing your lunch to work instead of the afternoon matinee at Hooters, and Saturday trips to Bed, Bath & Beyond. They may even shed a little tear and say, "yeah (sniffle), I've been there... a long, long time ago." After that little interlude, you'll see them slowly turn, walk away, and wallow in a dark, shallow pond that is their life. But I digress.

Anyway, as we piled in the limo, I found myself surrounded by Noah, a couple other people I knew, and 5 other guys that were friends of a friend, to whom English was a second language. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous. For one, I don't know these guys. For two, I don't know what they're saying. And thirdly, because I don't know what they're saying, the suburban Park Avenue white boy is automatically thinking that they're talking about me and where no one will find my body. I must admit, and probably for the first time on this blog; I was dead wrong. There, I said it. Happy? Me too. Let's move on.

These guys were some of the nicest guys I have met in a while. Even though I was a total outsider, they completely accepted me, and embraced the Rychkid as one of their own. As a matter of fact, by the end of the night, they were jokingly calling me, "Papi Chulo." Which, as I understand it; Papi is daddy or big daddy, and chulo is the equivalent of if you were to call someone "big guy." Good stuff.

Anyway, after a couple hours at Niagara Falls's finest ballet, it was time to go. You're probably not going to believe what you read here, but I do not particularly enjoy the ballet. When I go out with my friends, it's for the camaraderie and the fact that I enjoy their company. The ballet is a little annoying in that you can't talk, you're constantly pestered by dancers that want to give you a dance to the tune of $20, and drink prices are outrageous. Anyway, as we were leaving, there was a minor altercation outside the club; not with me or any of my new amigos, but with a couple clowns outside that apparently were disgruntled with the doorman service. Wanna know how I found this out? Lemme tell ya. Let me preface this with the fact that I was wearing distressed DKNY jeans, HD biker boots, a white tab collar tuxedo shirt, and a black Hugo Boss blazer. The emphasis on that previous sentence should be "white tuxedo shirt." One, they're really white. Two, they're really expensive. Having said that; paragraph.

I walked out of the ballet and found myself face to face with some dude that just got popped square in the nose at a point-blank distance of about six inches. Now, bear in mind that I didn't go seek this dude out; I must have been looking elsewhere. Niagara Falls has beautiful scenery as I'm sure you know. Regardless, this poor guy's face looked like something that you would see in one of those post-mortem pictures on CSI. One of the bouncers had punched him in the face... hard. So here I stand, six inches from this guy, and my caring nature magically surfaces. I immediately find myself in my BA in Psychology mode. "Jesus, are you OK?" Now, here's where the really white and really expensive tuxedo shirt comes into play. "Yeah," he says. "One of these assholes just punched me in the face for no reason." He says this statement with emphasis on the word, "punched." Quick sidebar here; before you read on, take a big sip of that coffee or bottled water that you have sitting beside your monitor, leave a little on your lips, and say the word, "punched." Yeah, that's right. This clown's outstanding diction and my giving a shit about this random fine art fan resulted in a spewing of blood all over the front of my really white, really expensive tuxedo shirt. All I could do was look down, say, "ah shit," and slump my way back to the safe confines of the limo. I think I care too much. What a swell guy I am. My parents should be proud.

Well, after that little episode, off to the casino. Apparently we were in desperate need to hemorrhage additional money that night. Well, at least some of us. While Noah and I and a couple other guys headed in to play a little blackjack, the remainder of our party took a well-deserved nap in the aforementioned limo. In their state of mind, it was probably for the best. Besides the alcoholic influence that had overcome them, I don't think the pit boss would have let them sit at a table while they were as "aroused" as they were. Again, it's probably for the best that they stayed in the car. Sorry to paint that rather obscure mental image, but again, it's my blog, and I'll write what I want. So there.

Anyway, because neither Noah nor myself are independently wealthy (at least not until that rich, unknown billionaire relative dies and leaves me with a cattle ranch or oil rig somewhere), we went in search of a $15 blackjack table. We wound up finding one after we sat down at a $25 table, each lost the first hand, then asked the pit boss if they had any lower stakes tables open. Luckily, he pointed us toward a few, and we found one and sat down. Concentrate now, here's where the phone call comes in.

We played a few hands, and because there was an empty seat next to Noah, he was playing two hands at once. He wasn't doing badly at all. He and I pretty much know what we're doing on the felt, and we usually come out ahead... at least a little. Well, as we keep playing, the 5 Dog gets dealt the dream hand. The dealer has a 6 showing, and Noah has a 10 on one hand, and a pair of eights on the other. He doubles the 10 and gets a 6 (I think). Good there. He splits the eights. Good move. He gets 18 on one hand, and I can't remember what he got on the other... I think it was 17, but at that point the cards were getting a little blurry. So now, he's in good shape. One hand doubled with a 16, one hand with an 18, and one hand with a 17. The dealer has a 5 showing. He couldn't have played the hand more perfectly.

Let's remember here that blackjack is a game of odds and a game of chance. It is, however, the only game in the casino where a smart player has a mathematical advantage over the house of about 2%. The odds are definitely in his favor. The dealer complimented him on his play as she turned over her down card. Queen of diamonds. That I remember clearly, because at the moment of truth on that table, you become extremely focused... regardless of the 17 Budweisers you may have consumed at a ballet recital an hour prior. Back to the story. All we need is a 7 or higher and everyone at the table wins. My hero, the 5 Dog, at this point has $90 stacked up in $5 chips just drooling because he knows that he played it right and he's about to clean up on this one hand. I don't think that I even need to write another word to tell you what card came up and fucked us all. That's right... a 9, and we all won. I'm joking, you knuckleheads. If you didn't know that dealer pulled a 6 after the amount of buildup for that story, go find someone, anyone, and ask them to give you a good smack in the chops. A freaking 6. What are the odds. Well, I'll tell you. The odds of that are 13:1. Doesn't that just suck? Don't answer that. Yes, it does suck. That was rhetorical. I know I speak for all of us when I say that we hate to see our heroes fall. It was like watching Superman find a hotter Lois Lane than Margot Kidder and finding out that she has kryptonite fillings in her teeth... or something like that. Needless to say, we were personally offended and left the table. Well, actually, I played the next hand and won, and then left the table, but it was a bummer nonetheless. Another sidebar here... I wound up +$100 for the night... but I didn't feel good about it. Sorry, that was a lie. Thank God, I won some money.

Anyway, we piled back into the limo, and headed for sunny Rochester. We got back around 4:30 A.M., and after a quick stop to pick up a garbage plate at Gitsi's, I hopped in my minivan and headed for my beloved Park Avenue. As much fun as it was, it's always nice to come home to a couch that has my name written all over it. Thank God that there's a dry cleaner right up the street. My blazer smelled like stripper. "Yeah, uh, can you guys get this stripper smell out?" They assured me that they could. Again, it's not that I did, in fact, get a private dance from one of these entertainers... it's the fact that every freaking one of them had to come over and put their arm around me or sit on my lap and tell me how cute I am and that it's only $20 for a dance. Uh, yeah... I'm going to pass... and I'm sure you never, ever tell anyone else how cute they are. Next time I go to one of those joints, I'm going to not shower, dress and smell like a hippie, and chew garlic for the entire ride up there. Still think I'm cute, Destiny? I love stripper names. By the way, if you're with child, and you're kicking around names for your newborn (providing it's female, of course), I'd encourage you to stay away from Destiny, Diamond, Jade, Fantasy or Sweetness. Odds are that they're going to wind up wearing a g-sting with a few dollars crammed up the business side of that thing. But again, I digress.

I think that it goes without saying that I spent the majority of Sunday on the couch. After waking up around the crack of 2 P.M. and pretty much resigning myself to a prone position for the rest of the day, I finally roused myself just in time to check and respond to some emails and catch The Simpsons and Family Guy... two of the best shows on television. If you don't watch either, you're missing out. Just make sure that you change the channel after The Simpsons. Fox's new show, The War at Home, is about the worst thing on network television.

On that note, I hope you heed my advice and I'm going to log off. To be honest, there's a couple other things that I wanted to write about tonight... like how I've been blown off by someone, and at what point is the juice worth the squeeze, but those will both have to wait for another night. For now I'm going to log off. I've got some brushing up on my Spanish that I have to do. Anyone know what cerveza means?

Until next time...

R

Martinis, KISS, and the art of leverage.

Well, friends and neighbors, this weekend I was in the city that never sleeps. The city so nice they named it twice. The big apple. I'm talking, of course, about Omaha, Nebraska. Kidding, folks... I was actually in NYC. I don't know if you know this, but when it rains, New York makes it's own gravy. It's true. Very, very cool. Got some shopping done, went to the legendary CBGB, (for those of you that are unaware, it's the home of underground rock... The Ramones started there, Madonna, Talking heads, etc...), saw a fight that was over with in about four seconds, went to a bar that you need to have an appointment to get into, and had just about the best martini I've ever had in my life... although the martini wasn't at the bar.

I went down to see a couple friends of mine; Darren and Amy. These two are two of my favorite people in the world. Now that we're done with that, let me tell you about Saturday night.

We started out at CBGB... those two were nice enough to bring me down there just so that I could get a picture of the legendary awning. Very f'ing cool. Just think... Joey Ramone probably stood outside and smoked a cigarette (or something) here. Actually, don't bother thinking about that. When The Ramones played there, you could still smoke inside in New York State. Thanks, Pataki.

Regardless, after a four drink and $27 round, we headed off down the street looking for the next place to refresh ourselves with a delicious libation (that's "get a drink" for you non-literary types out there). We grabbed a cab, went a few blocks, and headed out. Wait a minute... I almost forgot. One of the bartenders at CBGB had a very interesting tattoo (among others), and I just had to ask her about it, and, yes, I did get a picture of it. Long story short, after a quick conversation... the nuts and bolts of it were that she said, "Kiss changed my life in 1982," after I asked her about one, well, two of her many body art indulgences, I asked her if she would mind if I snapped a quick picture. She approved. You have to appreciate the commitment and the fact that she's still really enthusiastic about the whole thing. I've got a Jimmy Buffett tattoo that I wish I could get rid of, to be honest. I still love Jimmy and he'll always be my fav, but I just wish that I didn't have the ink that I do. Regardless, you have to see this. Wait no longer... here you go.

Yes, the tattoos on her triceps are "Kiss," and "this." Again, you gotta respect the commitment. If you're ever at CBGB in NYC, check her out. She's very cool. Moving on... once again.

We got out on 3rd Avenue. Wanna know how I know that it was 3rd Avenue? Lemme tell ya. Read on.

After walking a couple blocks from where the cab let us off, we went into some bar that served liters of beer. Well, it was pretty packed and there was no place to sit, so we walked right back out and headed up the street. After walking about 20 yards, I heard the voice. What voice, you ask? The voice of drunk-black blazer-and-backward-baseball-hat-wearing-over-zealous-beer-muscle-boy... henceforth to be known, in the interest of brevity, drunk boy.

Drunk boy yelled, "sir... sir," so we all turned around to realize that he was, in fact, addressing us. He then yelled, "don't ever bump into me again!" We all pretty much said, "whatever," and turned around to continue our quest for a cocktail. Now, I can't remember exactly what was said by drunk boy next, but I distinctly remember Amy yelling something to the tune of "fuck you." Again, I don't recall the exact verbiage. Amy's not really one to keep her mouth shut in cases such as this.

Regardless, drunk boy took particular offense to this. After a little more verbal volleyball, drunk boy began aggressively walking towards us, shouting that he was going to, quote, "break you in half on 3rd Avenue," this statement being directed at Amy. Yeah, I know, real tough guy... gonna start a fight with a girl. Never mind the fact that Amy's about 100 lbs. soaking wet. Well, when this event starts to unfold, I'm not really sure that drunk boy weighed his options. It's him against a girl, but Darren and I are standing right there, and we're both sober. If the name didn't give it away, drunk boy had a couple cocktails in him. Now, granted, you know that I'm not the most physically imposing specimen in the world, but there's still two of me when you count the other guy that I was with, and I'm pretty sure he had my back. As luck would have it, the situation didn't really get that far. Read on.

Again, as you know, and as I've said many a time on this blog including the last paragraph, I'm not the most physically imposing individual on the planet. Darren isn't either, but he's bigger than me. I'm a little taller, but he's got about 25 lbs. on me. Together, we're a fighting machine. Well, I guess if you could somehow glue us together we'd be a fighting machine or something like that. Anyway, it didn't matter just then.

As I was saying, drunk boy was aggressively walking toward us, and Darren stepped in front of him and locked arms. I'll try my best to paint this mental picture for you. The two of them, Darren and drunk boy, were facing each other, and each had his hands under the other's arms. At this point, I was thinking that all Darren had to do was head-butt this clown, but I found out later why he did not, in fact, take this course of action. By the way, I'm to Darren's right at this point, and I'm hoping that I don't have to dot this guy's eye for him. I'd hate like hell to mess up my ring with some dude's incisor. Regardless, Darren put his foot on the outside of drunk boy's foot, and there's no other way to say this, tossed drunk boy sideways about 984 feet. To be honest, it was literally about 5 or 6 feet, but drunk boy caught a bunch of air and it looked like 984 feet. I will admit that 984 is just an estimate. I had unfortunately left my tape measure at CBGB for reasons that I cannot discuss on this blog. Suffice it to say that it's in the bathroom. Moving on.

Short story long, drunk boy landed on the pavement and stayed there... for about 15 seconds or so. We started walking, again in search of libations (see above). Drunk boy mustered the gumption to make it to his feet and commence to yelling, "come back here," and "we're gonna go!!!" We turned around again, saw drunk boy start to run toward us, and (lucky for him) a couple random people grabbed him and ceased the inevitable melee that would undoubtedly have ended in our favor. I'm pretty sure that a drunken four-year old with a lazy eye and bad case of narcolepsy could have KO'd this clown in a matter of seconds. Anyway, we continued our walk, and that was the end of the NYC drunk boy encounter. I think that the next morning when he woke up with pavement scars and bruises that Darren so eloquently administered with a simple knowledge of leverage was enough to curb his liquor-fueled-start-a-fight-with-a-bigger-guy's-wife-penchant for a while. If not, see you next time I'm in the city, loser.

Anyway, after we got liquored up at this place that you need to have an appointment for (I'm not sure if I'm supposed to talk about this or not, so I won't), we headed back to their apartment, at which point began the martini... the best one I've ever had. It was a martini with Tangueray 10, vermouth (obviously), and olives stuffed with blue cheese. Yeah, I know... it doesn't sound too appetizing, but it was awesome. I don't know if it was the perfect blend of top shelf gin and just the right amount of vermouth, but it was awesome. You ever get a drink where you think, "Jesus, if I could make this at home I'd never go out... all I need is to know how to make it"? Yeah? Me too. It was one of those drinks. You and I both know... we'd both still go out. Trust me. As a single guy in upstate NY, I don't really have a choice. Women don't arbitrarily just come to my apartment to see what I've done with two year's worth of wine corks. If they did, I'd either be married or single and really happy. As neither of those is the case, I'll continue to frequent the bar scene.

So that's my story for the weekend. I guess for now I'll log off. It feels like I've written a whole bunch. Whether or not I have done that... I guess I'll find out in the comments section or my email tomorrow. I must get to bed, though. I'm thinking about wandering Park Avenue and trying to bump into someone. I could use some work on my leverage and punching bag skills.

Until next time...

R

Welcome to NY, Johnny. Here's your T-shirt.

I gotta be honest here. When I first heard that the Yanks got Johnny Damon, I was a little skeptical. I mean, I've hated the guy for the last 3 or 4 years... how can I just turn my feelings on and off like that... especially about my beloved Yankees? Well, I guess the only thing to do is welcome Johnny with open arms. After all, he cut that mop of a haircut, shaved off that beard, and actually looks like a professional ball player. He's making the effort, so I guess I can too. As a matter of fact, I found a t-shirt that I just purchased in Johnny's honor. You can get yours here.

Ahhh... feel that? Just another way to stick it in and break it off, Red Sox fans. Good luck with that whole filling in the gaps in your lineup thing. As it stands now, the schlep roaming center field for the Red Sox is Adam Stern. Here's some quick stats on Mr. Stern. He was a standout player at the University of Nebraska, was 2nd team All-Big 12 in 2000, and Academic All-Big 12 in 2001. He hit .321 in 20 games on rehab assignment for Triple A Pawtucket. Sounds like some good stuff, right? By the way, he hit .133 for the Red Sox last year. Best wishes, kid.

Anyway, the more I think about it, the more I like Johnny Damon in the Yanks lineup. He seems like a good clubhouse guy. He's the one that came out and said, "hey, we're just a bunch of idiots." He's one of the best leadoff hitters in the game, and his addition certainly makes the Yanks the team to beat in the AL East.

Again, welcome to New York, Johnny. The new hairdo looks great.

Until next time...

R

Oh My God... It's Chocolatey!

Well, my loyal readers, tonight is going to be a very short post. One, I'm tired. Two, it's late. Three, I have to get up and re-write a bunch of freaking contracts tomorrow, so Daddy needs his sleep.

The thing that I'm really annoyed about today is the jerkoff mayor of New Orleans, The Honorable (I use that term loosely) Mayor Ray Nagin. Mayor Ray (as I like to call him... we're close) addressed New Orleans yesterday, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. He had a stunning address laced with racial epithets and prophesized as if he were the second coming. This jackass had the audacity to say that New Orleans will be a "chocolate" city again, and that the city will remain predominantly African-American because (get this) that's what God wants.

The beauty of this statement is that when he was done with his moronic rant, a CNN reporter got a chance to question him regarding his comments. You could tell that this reporter was absolutely drooling to get this jackass's response. Regardless, when he asked what the mayor meant by "chocolate" city, his honor responded with, "if you mix dark chocolate with white milk, you get a delicious drink." Yeah, O.K.... I'm sure that's exactly what you meant when you said that it would be a "chocolate" city and predominantly African-American. I know that every time I walk into a convenience store and buy a chocolate bar, I'm thinking that it's a wonderful blend of dark chocolate and white milk, that used to be a delicious drink, but has now been pasteurized and chemically enhanced to make chocolate. Yeah, and by the way, I have a bridge right on scenic 490 that I'd love to sell you. What an ass. It's funny that this jackass had to come up with something to say on national television, when he knew the minute that he stepped off the podium that he was coming off as a world class ass. Congratulations... mission accomplished.

Here's my big problem with this whole thing; Pat Robertson (another jackass that's now selling age-defying pancakes... honestly... look it up if you don't believe me) said that Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans because Ellen Degeneres, an openly gay person, danced there. Now, bear in mind, this is the same jackass that recently said that God is punishing Prime Minister Sharon with a brain hemorrhage. I'm just waiting for the day when good 'ol Pat's colostomy bag explodes on live television, and some other lunchbox says that God is punishing him for saying that God is punishing everyone else. I'll tell you this much... God is laughing his ass off at both of these elitist assholes.

Now, my question is this; which one of these jackasses has God on speed dial? You see, you can't have it both ways. Either God wants New Orleans to be predominantly African-American, or God is punishing New Orleans because Ellen Degeneres danced there. The thing here, jackasses, is that you can't have it both ways. The funny thing is this; which one is right? Who's to say that the jackass bigot of a mayor doesn't have God's personal cell phone number, and who's to say that Pat Robertson doesn't grab a quick 18 holes with The Almighty on Sundays before football? The answer is this; neither. Neither one of you assholes knows what God wants, and that's the beauty of religion and belief. It's called blind faith. The catch here is that if you believe that God is a vengeful God, then how long is it before he lays his vengeance upon thee, you jackasses. I'm sure that there's something that you've done that would piss God off. The whole "love thy neighbor" thing is pretty apparent to me right about now.

The trick here is that you have to be a little careful when you start throwing around accusations like, "God is punishing you for, insert whatever you'd like here." The reason that you have to be careful about that shit is that you simply do not know. Unless you've sat down and had a face to face with your maker, the rest is simply speculation. You may have your beliefs, and that's fine. As a matter of fact, that's wonderful... you should. But to go around saying shit like that is just blasphemous. Shame on both of you jackasses.

On that note, I have to get to bed. Like I said, there's way too much to do tomorrow, I need way too much sleep, and it's way too late. Therefore, I think I'd better get to bed. Maybe a nice cup of warm milk will do the trick... I hear it's good with dark chocolate.

Until next time...

R

The Goose, The Rose, and The Hall

Well, my loyal readers, tonight I must pose a question. Now that the holidays are finally behind us, who gave every retail store and shopping mall on the planet the green light to go ahead and start putting up Valentine's Day crap? For crying out loud, every store I've walked into since January 2nd is packed to the gills with red hearts, pounds of chocolate and cutesy little stuffed animals that make me want to start a shooting spree. Good God, people... give us a chance to unwind from the gala pageantry and festive lights that plagued us for the last two months of shopping in retail hell. Did Valentine's Day become part of the "holiday season?" If so, I must have missed a meeting somewhere. What a shame.

It's a shame because if there's any holiday that should be included in the "holiday season," it's St. Patrick's Day. The day in history when Saint Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland. My God, what a Freudian dream that was. Regardless, whenever there's a holiday that makes it the norm, rather the expected, to get hammered, I can get on board with that.

Anyway, the reason for the post today is that they announced the men that are going to be inducted into the baseball hall of fame today, and the lone inductee is Bruce Sutter. Rich "Goose" Gossage just missed, and I'm bummed about that. The Goose was pretty much the first closer in the history of baseball. He was the man. Back when closers had to get 3, 6, or 9 outs, the Goose was unhittable. Not to take anything away from the closers of today, like Mariano Rivera, but when the Goose got picked up in that Yankee golf cart and driven to the mound, just his sheer presence was enough to make the toughest hitters in the game piss their pants. Granted, he (and Mariano) was a Yankee, and I'm a little biased, but his becoming enshrined into the hall should be a no-brainer, and he's been eligible for 12 years now. But I digress.

The one thing that I found interesting is that Pete Rose, the all time hit leader, got 10 write-in votes. I have mixed feelings about this, and here's why.

One of my fondest childhood memories is sitting in the living room of our first house in Jamestown, NY, on an ottoman, next to my father, sitting in his recliner, drinking a Budweiser, and smoking Terryton cigarettes. It was the middle of summer on a Saturday, and the Yanks had a matinee game against the hated Boston Red Sox. I'm guessing it was 1978, because Ron "Louisiana Lightning" Guidry was on the hill, and in 1978 he was 25-3. Pretty ridiculous. Regardless, I remember my mother coming into the room and asking who was winning. My answer was "we are, 6-2." I can tell you pretty much the entire lineup from that year. Not so much that I watched the Yankees every possible minute, but when I was a kid, I never really had a lot of time with the old man. Hence, when the Yanks had a Saturday game, there I was, and I paid such close attention to the game that I can tell you every player at every position. Just for laughs, let's give it a shot. Catfish Hunter and Ron Guidry were starting pitchers. Goose Gossage was the closer. I won't go through the whole lineup, but with names like Mickey Rivers, Chris Chambliss, Thurman Munson, Roy White, Lou Pinella, and the hero of 1978 that virtually ended the Red Sox season that year, Bucky Dent... or as he's known in Boston, Bucky F'ing Dent, you'd be hard pressed to find a lineup to compare. Suck on that one, Boston.

No matter what was going on in our lives at the time, there was always baseball. It was a perfect game with perfect players on a perfect Saturday afternoon.

Anyway, back to the Pete Rose thing. A couple of years later, we had moved, and one summer my whole family took a trip to Cincinnati to see the relatives on my mom's side. By that time I was playing Little League, and was simply enamored of the game. My uncle had scored us tickets to the Reds/Astros game, so I wouldn't have to sit around with my two female cousins... one of whom used to beat the shit out of me, so I was glad to avoid the beatings for a few hours. Although our seats were in the nose bleeds, this was the era of Rose, Johnny Bench, and Tom Seaver. Seaver actually pitched the first inning and a half, but didn't have his stuff that day and got yanked. By the way, Seaver holds the record for most votes to be inducted into the hall of fame with 90%... just thought you'd like to know. The Reds went on to lose the game (I want to say 7-3, but I'm really not sure), but I remember that Johnny Bench was up in the bottom of the 9th, bases jammed, down 4, and struck out. Sorry Cinci.

For those of you that have been living under a rock for the last 15 or so years, the reason that Pete Rose isn't, and most likely won't be, in the hall is this; he bet on the game. He did the one thing that you can't do in professional baseball. It was a time when steroids weren't illegal, and Barry Bonds's head wasn't the size of a beach ball. As long as you went to practice, played your position, didn't kill anybody or bet on the game, you were going to stay in the show. Pete gambled, and lost in more than one way. Although you can go to the hall and see some of his memorabilia and the big poster of him getting his 3,000th hit, you can't go see his plaque; and that's the one that matters.

On the one hand, I get it. He bet. You're not allowed to bet. You don't get in the hall. I get it. I'm not stupid. On the other hand, it's always been my belief that what gets you into the hall is what you do between the lines. It's playing your hardest and using the gift that God gave you to be the best you can be. It's sacrificing your body. It's hours of BP and shagging fly balls. It's fielding hot ground balls that can take an unexpected hop and break your thumb. And lastly, but not least, it's going in head first to home plate for that much needed run, and it's earning the nickname, "Charlie Hustle."

Now, the fact that he bet is crucial here. The people that vote on who gets in are sports writers. They're pencil pushing geeks like me that love the game, but never had the gift to get in the show. They just don't get the game. They don't understand how anyone can just live and breathe the very essence of the game, and that's what's sad. If you've never played, there's no way I can explain it to you. It's something that gets in you, and you just can't shake it. Ask someone who played, and they'll tell you the same thing. However, some hack that was a guest on a local sports talk show said that it's not just based on what you do on the field. He said that it's now based on character, integrity, and essentially how you're viewed as a person. I think that's about the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard. If that were the case, Ty Cobb would never set foot in Cooperstown, and Barry Bonds will be bagging groceries in 3 years. Those two are about the biggest assholes that have ever picked up a bat, but Cobb is in, and that jerk Bonds will most likely be in on the first ballot. Can Bonds play the game? Absolutely. He's unbelievably talented. Is Cobb one of the best hitters ever? You bet. Are they assholes? Certainly.

Having said that, I have to believe that Pete Rose should be in the hall. It's called the Baseball Hall of Fame. It's not called the Baseball and Non-Betting Great Guys With Outstanding Character Hall of Super Nice Guys. If it was, I'd be in, and you could go pay $13 to see a plaque of my ugly mug in Cooperstown. On second thought, maybe not. I have been known to go to Vegas and place the occasional wager and drink the occasional beer and get thrown over the occasional table and occasionally dance with a beautiful blonde from California... so maybe I'm not the ideal candidate for the hall.

In short, if Pete Rose doesn't ever get into the hall, I'll just choose to remember his play as if I was still sitting on that ottoman, inhaling second-hand smoke and asking the old man if I can try a sip of his beer... with a perfect game and perfect players.

Anyway, I must be off. Gotta head out shopping and avoid the ultra-red glare of whatever the hell holiday is coming up in a couple of months. Maybe I'll buy a rose.

Until next time...

R

Just because you are a character, doesn't mean you have character.

Well, my loyal readers, it's come to my attention that there have been several requests for photos of the "new" corner apartment, so because I'm such a nice guy, I'm going to actually post a few. However, before I get into that, I just have to proclaim my love for Sirius Satellite Radio. It's just about the coolest thing I own (except for the cork things that I made). It's not only got Howard Stern starting on 1/9, but it also has about the best station on the planet; Radio Margaritaville. It makes my day SO much easier. If you don't have it, get it. You're missing out. I've heard people say, "you've got to be retarded to pay for radio." Just wondering, do you have cable TV? Yeah, thought so. Shut it.

Also, before I get into the pictures, I have to write a little something that I'm extremely happy about. Yesterday, Buffalo Bills owner Ralph Wilson announced that Marv Levy will be returning to the Bills organization in a GM capacity. Those of you that are Bills fans have to love this. In case you can't recall, Marv is the guy that coached us to four consecutive Super Bowls. Now, granted, we didn't win a one of them, but a tremendous feat nonetheless. The thing about Marv's appointment that I was really impressed with wasn't so much his sharpness and overall knowledge (the guy ran track at Harvard for crying out loud), but really what his vision was for the team. He said, "this team will be built on players with character. You can be extroverted, but still not have character. If you have ability but not character, you're going to lose." Guess we're not going to see the likes of Terrell Owens or Ray Carruth donning a Bills uniform any time soon. Not that the Bills have had problems with that in the past... well, I can think of one guy; he wore #32, graduated from USC, was the first NFL running back to gain 2000 yards in a season, and allegedly killed his ex-wife and a waiter that had a penchant for wearing a do-rag. Don't get me wrong, whenever I saw that picture of the waiter with the do-rag, I got a little annoyed at this pretty boy, but I don't think I could go O.J. on him. I'd like to smack that thing right off his head... Orenthal took another tact. Anyway, he played for the Niners after the Bills, so I'm going with that California air getting to him, and not the snow covered tundra of Western New York.

Regardless (I think I use that word too much on this thing), you gotta love a GM that puts character at the top of his list for players that will don his organization's colors. I think that's the kind of thing that gets overlooked way too much in sports, and really in anything today. I may not be the most beautiful thing in the world, but I am proud of my character. I don't cheat, I don't steal, I don't lie, and I don't screw people over. I have been known to bluff occasionally in poker, but of course there's usually a good chunk of money on the table. Character kind of goes by the wayside when I've got a boat with Aces over Kings.

Anyway, I'm sure you've heard/read enough about the importance of character, so without further adieu, here's the pics. See if you can see a color scheme here. It shouldn't be too hard.

So there you have it, and yes, I know it's 9:30 on a Friday night, and I'm home, and I'm typing, and I'm not out... but there is a reason. One, I have a bunch of work to do, and two, I think I have a tapeworm. Seriously.

The reason that I think that I have a tapeworm is because yesterday I couldn't stop eating and I was hungry all freaking day. Today, before I got to work, I stopped and got my standard coffee and doughnut, and thought I was going to puke all day. Maybe I have malaria.

Moving on, I think I'm going to sign off and see if there's something I can do tonight. My buddy J (who has a great blog, by the way... check it out here) is having a couple people over for cocktails, and I think they might make the trip downtown to my neck of the woods. I said I'd try to come over or meet them out, so I think I just might do it. It'd be a good reflection of my character. Think I'll leave the do-rag at home, though.

Until next time...

R

I got some time... you?

I'm going to go ahead and warn you in advance that this is going to be a boring post, but if you have 5 or 10 minutes to kill, this should do the job.

Alas, my vacation has finally come to a close. As of 8:00 AM tomorrow morning, I'll be back at it... work, that is. It's strange because the last day that I worked before Christmas, I remember thinking that I had a bunch of time before Christmas, and here I sit, pondering the busy day that I have tomorrow, and dreading getting back into the swing of my normal (well, kind of) life. For as much time as I had off, I feel like I didn't really accomplish much. I finished my shopping, drove to sunny Jamestown, did the family Christmas thing, drove back on Christmas day (that sucked), did the rest of the family thing, and the rest is pretty much an alcohol-fueled blur. Funny how that works. What I mean by that is that a few days ago, I went out with the 5 Dog, and we pretty much drank everything in Rochester. I couldn't find my apartment the next day because I drank it.

By the way, I got a sweater for Christmas. What I really wanted was a moaner or a screamer. Bummer. Moving on.

I shouldn't say I didn't accomplish anything. I did complete one task that I've been meaning to do for a while. For the last couple years or so, I've been keeping all the wine corks from the bottles that I have enjoyed. I just threw them in a box when I finished, so it amounted to about 600 or so used wine bottle corks that have been sitting around collecting dust. So anyway, for however long it's been, I've been trying to think of something cool to do with them. After all, it'd seem like a shame to let all that hard drinking go to waste and have nothing to show for it. Today, I found something that I think is pretty cool.

Yes, my loyal readers, for the first time in the corner apartment, it's arts and crafts time with your host, the Rychkid. Try to stay with me. I went to a craft store and got 4 pre-fab shadow boxes (like I said, I have about 600 corks), a hot glue gun, and headed back to the new corner apartment. I opened up the shadow boxes, and went to work. I glued the corks in alternating directions until I had completely filled each one. Then, I put the glass back over the top, and here's what I got.


















I had enough corks for 3 of these thing, so I have a pre-fab shadow box left over, but regardless, they look pretty cool on my wall.



















So, in a nutshell, that's what I accomplished on my week off. I warned you in advance that this would be boring post, but Happy New Year anyway.

Back to what I was saying about the time thing. Isn't it strange how you think that you have all the time in the world, but then when it's over, it seemed like just a second. It's kind of how we look at the clock, and the perpetual rotation of the hands makes us feel like time goes on forever, but we curse the hourglass because it reminds us of how time is, in fact, running out. Oh time, why do you punish me so? I think of 10 or 12 or whatever years ago when I moved to, what seemed at the time, this big city of Rochester. I remember that moving here from Jamestown was so intimidating. I'd never in my life had to get on an expressway to get from one part of the city to another. In Jamestown, you can pretty much get to any place in the city in under 10 minutes. It seems like yesterday that I was drinking beers in the Stardust on 3rd Street in Jamestown, wondering if I'd ever get out of there. Rather, find the courage to leave. Well, in short, I did, and it was the best move I ever made.

When I sat down in front of my computer tonight, I was thinking about writing about the past year, and all that's happened, but if you want a synopsis of that, you can simply check out the archives on the right. There should be enough photos to sum it up if you're pressed for time. Instead, I think I'll look forward to what 2006 has in store for me. In the upcoming months, you can look forward to yet another post about the annual Vegas trip with the boys, probably a rant about Rochester's finest and how I don't care for them so much, and maybe, just maybe, if you're awful good and a little lucky, there may just be a post about a girl. I know she's out there, I just don't know the hell where.

In short, I don't know. I don't know what the upcoming year has in store for me. I wrote a long time ago that I didn't have all the answers, and how I wished that I had an "answer guy" that I could periodically consult. As of yet, I haven't found him, so I still have to rely on myself as the answer guy. I guess I can live with that for now... I have been known to be right once in a while. I thought I was wrong once, but I was mistaken.

Who knows? Maybe this year is the year that some publisher decides to pick me up and put the corner apartment into hard cover. Maybe this is the year that some saint of a dermatologist finds the cure to stop hair loss and I won't ever have to go down that road. Maybe this is the year that the Boston Red Sox decide to disenfranchise and are never heard from again. Maybe this is the year that I finally figure it all out. And finally, maybe this is the year that some nationally recognized band decides that they need a new lead singer and finally gives me a call. Hey Matchbox 20... I'm available.

There's one thing that I did forget to mention, while I'm on the subject of "maybe this is the year that blank." A couple of weeks ago, I achieved bowling immortality. Yes, I'm in a bowling league. Leave me alone. Anyway, I bowled a perfect 300 game. It's actually pretty impressive, especially considering that I have a 174 average. Yeah, I'm not a particularly strong bowler. I'm in like the 0.00001% of people that have done that. Go ahead, say it... you're impressed. I'll wait. Did you say it? Good. Thanks. Let's move on.

Having said that, I think I'm going to log off for the night, and try to get to bed at a decent hour. Seeing as I've been sleeping until noon for the past week (at the earliest), 7AM is going to come very, very early. Besides, my watch stopped. Better head to the mall for a new battery. Looks like time's running out.

Until next time...

R

I do, well, maybe.

As I sit here, sipping a nice SoCo on the rocks and playing poker, I wonder. I wonder about a lot of things. In light of the past few days, my wondering has particularly gone the wayward of marriage. Am I considering getting married? No. But I will tell you that I do wonder about it. Again, in light of the past few days, what, with my mother and her new husband, and my thoughts that my father probably got engaged (again). Sorry, Dad.

I know that I've written about this before... about how it doesn't matter how old you are and if you're not married it doesn't make you less of a person, but I see all that, and I see my two best friends that I never get to see, and it makes me wonder, and it confuses me. It makes me wonder; what if I'd have gone through with my engagement in 1997. What if I would have fought harder for Beth? What if the girl that I broke up with 5 years ago was the one? Well, the odds are that she probably wasn't.

Regardless, I still have to believe that through the years that I have made the right decisions. Statistics don't lie. The odds are that if I get married, I have a 50/50 shot of being divorced. Again, that's not me talking. Those are the facts. The fact that I'd have to give 50% of whatever meager possessions I own are going to someone else in the event that she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life with me is not a great bet. Would I be willing to gamble on the right horse? Sure... but I'd have to be pretty darn sure. If and when I get married, there's not going to be a doubt in my mind. It's not going to be one of those "well, I've been with this person for so long, and it's not great, but it's not horrible, so I might as well go to the next step." Wrong. Wrong answer. The very fact that you've just stayed with this person for whatever duration of time and you're not sure that it's great is the very justification that you should not, in fact, take the "next step."

The "next step," you must understand, is a whole other level. Everything changes. Yes, I said everything. The little things that now annoy you, yeah, they will grow to an incessant degree of pissing you off. {Quick sidebar... I just lost with pocket Jacks. That sucks.} Bear in mind, it's not that I'm bitter, it's just that I'd love better odds. It's, once again, like Vegas. You have pretty much a 50/50 shot on the red/black thing, but there's that double zero that throws the odds in the house's favor. If you had to wager everything you owned on a 50/50 shot, would you do it? Me either... unless, of course, my buddy Noah, was at my side saying, "cuz, I got a good feeling about black, hit it up for $200." If I had the same feeling, I'd probably lay it down and drop a couple hundred on black. Again, bear in mind that I trust my gut and I trust Noah. Nevertheless, it's the roll of that marble.

Now, let me say this. I just got down to the final table... that means me and some other clown are going head to head at 3:13 AM. Do I know what he has in his hand? No. I only know that I have J, 10 off suit and that I'm going all in. Turns out I lost. The other clown had Queens wired, and caught one on the flop. It happens. Ladies and gentlemen, the very same thing can happen well after you've exchanged vows. You could have pocket Aces, but she could be sitting on 3/6 off suit and nut the straight on the flop. You don't have that guarantee. While you may think that your Aces are golden pre-flop, you never know what somebody else has in their pocket. It's the luck of the draw, and you never know what the other person has in their pocket. Those of you that are in the situation that I previously mentioned should read that again.

Regardless, it's funny how I wind up with like $50 remaining, and I find myself at the final table every time. The cards just somehow seem to work out in my favor. Maybe that's a sign.

Anyway, I'm not going to take what the cards say as gospel. I'll just continue to play the game.

I've got pocket Kings, and some jerk just raised me. Think I'll see what happens on the turn before I fold.

Until next time...

R

Hmmm...

Well, my loyal readers, yes, I know it's 9:10 AM and I'm on vacation all week, so you may be wondering what I'm doing up so early. I can't tell you. Sorry.

The real reason I'm up is that I have a big concern. I think President Bush is drinking again, and I have the video to confirm my suspicions. Click here and let me know what you think.

Until next time...

R

Merry Christmas... I need a shower.

Well, here it is... the day before Christmas. Let us revel in all it's splendor and majesty. If you're done reveling, you can read on. If not, continue to revel, and read on later. Done? Good. Let's move on. As I write this, I'm at the old man's house in fabulous Jamestown. That fact will become relevant as you read on.

Well, let me tell you how my happy holiday started. Last night my sister and I had dinner with the old man, and then, much to the protest of my father, went out downtown in Jamestown, NY. Due to the fact that it's just about the most exciting place in the world, my sister and I refer to it as Jamesvegas. Regardless... we went out, hit a few of the "hot spots" in Jtown, and we were crocked by about midnight. Called a cab, headed home. I love calling a cab in this armpit of a city. It's $4 to anywhere in this megalopolis. Perfect. Anyway, when we got home, I made sloppy joes. Yes, you're impressed, and I know it. Sounds like a pretty average night, right? Well, let me tell you how I was roused from my pleasant holiday slumber this morning.

About 9:00, I hear someone knocking on the old man's front door. Since no one apparently is awake, I get my lazy ass out of bed, and go to see who, in the name of all that is holy, is knocking on the f'ing front door. Now, before you read on, let me preface this with a couple things. One, to look out of the front of the house, there are a few options; I can actually go downstairs and answer the door to whatever asshole is out there at 9 freaking AM on Christmas Eve, I can go through my father's room and look out his front window, I can go through my sister's room and do the same, or I can head out to the guest room and look down. Two, my sister is home with her dog and we left her alone for about three hours last night when we went to dinner. I chose the latter of the three options; I threw on the t-shirt I had on last night, and headed for the guest room. Now, bear in mind that I'm not really conscious. I was drinking Budweiser and Southern Comfort last night (not mixed together, moron), and I've had about, well, 9 hours of sleep. I'm not really in the game yet, and I'm not what one would call a morning person.

Anyway, to continue the story, I head for the guest room. After taking about two steps into this room, I feel something uncomfortable mash underneath my bare left foot. Now, remember... my sister is home with her dog and we left her alone for about 3 hours last night. Immediately, I'm stone cold sober and wide freaking awake. I look down, and there is dog shit strewn about the floor. If you're not quite getting the jist of what I'm saying here; first thing this morning I stepped in dog shit. Seeing as it was in the guest room, my guess is that the dog figured, "well, hey, I'm a guest, right?" By the way, my father was wide awake and on the phone in his bedroom, and the jackass at the front door was one of his clients that evidently had to show up at 9 freaking AM today and cause this mayhem.

I can't even impart to you the horror of stepping in dog shit, sans shoes. It's not pleasant. It's less than not pleasant. It's just terrible. It's like, well, it's like something. It's like ordering something in a restaurant that you're really excited for, and when the waitress brings it, she's got fresh stitches and there's a hair in the middle of the plate. It's just miserable. Stupid dog.

Anyway, that's going to be about it for the Christmas Eve post. My sister and I need to go to the palacial Chautauqua Mall so that she can get the old man a shirt. Me, I'm done with my shopping. I'm just going to look at the rest of the morlocks that didn't finish their shopping. Ever been to the Chautauqua Mall? It's a freaking leper colony in there.

I will leave you with one thing to amuse you through this holiday. Assuming you've seen Napoleon Dynamite, you'll find this to be just about the funniest thing ever.

Anyway, off to the mall... gotta pick up some slippers.

Until next time...

R

Uh... had a little accident

Well, my loyal readers, I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that I went hunting this past weekend and I got something. The bad news is, well... figure it out for yourself. Merry Christmas.

Until next time...

R

The move... completed. Merry f'ing Xmas.

F'ing finally. The move is now complete. All the shit that I had in the old place is into the new place, and now I have a bigger place to store all my shit. There. Having said that, you, my loyal readers, get yet another apology. Sorry. Yes, I've had internet access since Monday of this week. Yes, I've been able to post since then. Yes, I've been neglecting the blog. Yes, I've been really f'ing tired from work this week, and finally... yes, I apologize. I won't say that it won't happen again, but sorry anyway. So there.

Wow, here we are... the very first post from the new corner apartment. Strap in. Here we go.

On that note, I have to thank my multitude of readers that have emailed me about the move... recommending moving companies, offering to help move my big f'ing TV & leather sectional couch, letting me know who to call about whatever. To you I must give a vote of thanks. I didn't actually utilize any of your advice; I have a couple of really great friends that helped me move all my shit, but regardless, your assistance is greatly appreciated.

You know, I figured that when I moved, everything would be just peaches & cream. Let me ask you; when was the last time that happened with regard to absolutely anything? I get all my shit in, and I'm all excited about the free laundry in the basement, and the gas for the dryer isn't turned on. I now have fourteen pounds of cold, wet clothes sitting in my laundry basket. I run home from working for 5 minutes, and park in the driveway in front of the house because I know I'm going to run right back out, and the guy from downstairs pulls in exactly at that minute and starts honking his horn. So now I have to run back downstairs and move my minivan to the back of the house for the 5 f'ing minutes that I'm actually going to be in the f'ing place. Timing is everything. But I digress. The landlord said that he'd have the dryer fixed by next week, and I learned to actually park if I have to come home for anything during the day. So far, it hasn't been a horrible process, but a couple hiccups have made it less than perfect. No, by the way, I don't bitch about everything.

All in all, it's been a good experience... so far. I guess time will tell if the juice was worth the squeeze. It's nice being in such a quiet place. I don't have the knuckleheads pounding on each other's walls when something is too loud like I did in the former corner apartment. I don't have a little weirdo potter banging on the door every 5 minutes, and there's no fat chick to steal my quarters from the dryer when I go out to smoke a cigarette... at least not that I know of; I guess it's possible that she's hiding in one of the nooks or crannies in the basement eating a bowl of Crisco just waiting to see me awkwardly meander through the intricacies of the cluttered laundry room, leave my laundry, and then spring into action like a ninja in a Quentin Tarantino movie. Much to her cholesterol-fueled quarter seeking rampage dismay, there will, in fact, be no quarters for her taking. I'd love to see the look on her bacon grease smeared face when she discovers that little nugget of information. "Ah ha!," I would bellow from the higher ground position like Obi Wan Kenobi after defeating Darth Vader/Anakin in Star Wars Episode III, "my quarters will no longer be victim to your thievery! Go get your own, you quarter stealing land monster quarter stealer!" Or something like that. By the way, if you haven't seen Episode III and I just ruined the ending for you... sorry. Get out of the house more and I won't have to do that again. I hope you've learned your lesson. Now, to continue.

Unfortunately, although I know I promised that I'd have pictures of the new apartment, sadly I do not. Yes, I could get off my lazy ass and snap a few with my digital camera, but quite frankly, I just don't have the energy. This week of work has been absolute hell, and I'm going to type this and take a nap. Maybe another time when I'm not working 15 hour days. Get over it, people.

There is one thing that I have to address. Well, I guess I don't really have to; as I've said many a time... this is my blog and I'll do whatever the hell I want. More accurately, I'll say that I want to... just because it's kind of bothering me and it's somewhat controversial. Having said that, read on at your own risk. I don't think anyone will outright be offended by whatever it is that I'm going to write. As a matter of fact, I'm not really sure what I'm going to write here... I never really do. I just sit down and start typing, and by some stroke of God's hand, people find their way here and start reading.

Regardless, here's what I'm going to write about. After reading this paragraph, you're on your own. I assume no risk of offending anyone... the oness is squarely on you.

There's a new film coming out this month called "Brokeback Mountain." If you're not familiar with the storyline, here it is; two cowboys start working together and subsequently fall in love. Yes, I said it and you read it correctly. It's a love story about two gay men. Just a quick sidebar here; ever see the South Park episode where an indie film festival comes to South Park and Cartman refuses to go because he says that all indie films are just about gay cowboys eating pudding? Kind of funny, although I don't know if there is any pudding eating or pudding eating references in the film. Insert gratuitous gay joke here. Done? Good. Let's move on.

Apparently, there has been some controversy about the film... you know, the whole gay thing is bad and wrong and gross and all that bullshit. The reason I know about this is because one of my best friends is gay, and happened to write about it in his blog. He got on a local message board about the movie, and people right here in Rochester were expressing opinions about it. I took the liberty of also logging on and reading some of the comments, and I have to say just one thing to those who oppose the film and have some unsubstantiated hatred of gay people; what's the big f'ing deal? If you oppose the film, don't pay your hard earned money to go see it. Don't freaking sit outside the theatre with your little picket signs and protest, don't post stuff on a message board saying that homosexuality is wrong and that all fags are going to hell, and lastly, don't waste your time. Seriously, now, aren't there more productive things that you could be doing with your life than degrading and annoying people who get enough shit from the general populous already? Jesus, I know I do. If there was a movie that came out about two diabetics that fell in love, would you bash them? Of course you wouldn't. Diabetes isn't a choice, and neither is being gay. Ask any gay person you know. If you say you don't know any, you're probably fooling yourself.

Now, before I go any further with this, let me say something and get it out of the way. I am not gay. I'm about as straight as they come. Having said that, it doesn't mean that I must, in fact, disassociate myself from that entire demographic. The only demographic that I willingly and publicly distance myself from is assholes. If you don't want to be around me, listen to me, be my friend, or read this blog just because it doesn't matter to me if someone is gay or straight, then the feeling is more than likely mutual. It simply means that I'm not part of it. In other words, when the census comes out, I won't list myself as having a life partner or being in a domestic partnership. If you're lucky enough to find someone that you can spend the rest of your life with, more power to you. I'm lucky if I can find someone that I can tolerate for more than six contiguous minutes.

Anyway, back to my original point. I'm not really exactly sure what my point is, but I'll keep writing and eventually, hopefully, one will surface.

As far as this whole posting negative things about the movie or the homosexual population at large, again, why do you care? What's it got to do with you? If a new flavor of Pepsi came out and you didn't like it, would you bitch to all your friends and people that you don't even know and create posts on public message boards that avocado flavored Pepsi is horrible? Probably not. By the way, don't try to sling that whole biblical thing on me about homosexuality being an abomination to God and all that shit. For every one thing that you find in the bible that you believe to be true, I can show you ten that you'll have to admit is folklore.

I've said this before and I'll say it again; if you'd have told me 10 years ago that in 2005 that one of my best friends would be a gay man that lives with another gay man, I'd have told you that you're insane. Where I'm originally from, if you're not driving a pick up with a gun rack, wearing a flannel shirt, a John Deere hat, and carrying around a half-empty Budweiser tall boy, you might as well be carrying a purse. That's one of the reasons that I thank God every day that I moved out of that town. Besides, do you know how hard it is to find a bra in my size? Kidding, by the way.

OK, here's my point; (I knew if I wrote long enough I'd find one) if you don't want to be around someone or something for whatever reason (it doesn't matter what... remember, we're all different) then, simply, don't. If you think someone's an asshole, fine. If you hate the way someone's hair smells, great. If you can't tolerate someone that steals quarters, terrific. Simply get away from it. Period. There's no reason to lash out and say that whatever that person has that you dislike is wrong... it's just not right for you. Plain & simple, simple & plain. Live and let live. Go listen to John Lennon, Woody Guthrie, James Taylor or the like... there's some good stuff in there.

Well, friends and neighbors, I think I'm done with that rant. However, it just wouldn't be Christmas if I didn't put a little something in here for everyone to get into the holiday spirit, so here you go. Click here and enjoy. It's one of my favorite Christmas thingys, and if you haven't seen it, prepare to laugh your ass off.

It's time... off to my nap. I've earned it. I'm off to my big ass couch right after I head downstairs and retrieve my wet laundry... think I'll bring a flashlight. You never know what you might find.

Until next time...

R

The move

Well, my loyal readers, once again you are due an apology. After not posting for like three weeks, I'm overdue for one. Although it's been used far too often, I'll say it again. The job has been kicking my ass. There. Now, here's what's been going on. Oh shut it. I apologized. Get over it.

Having said that, with everything that's been going on in the world and my life, it's probably good that I haven't posted in a while. I've got a lot of stuff that I want to weigh in about. However, first things first. There is a bit of semi-sad news to report from the corner apartment, and here it is. Sadly, this will probably be the last if not one of the very last from the corner apartment. No, my loyal readers, I'm not logging off for good. I'm moving. Alas, the corner apartment will be no more, at least not in my little world. I found a really cool apartment right smack dab in the middle of my beloved Park Avenue, here in sunny Rochester, NY. It's a two bedroom, two full bathroom apartment, and it's the entire second floor of a house. It's got a loft for storage that I just found today, and a ton of off-street parking. It's pretty much more room than I will ever need. While I don't have a ton of complaints about the corner apartment, there are a few, but the final straw was when I had to park a freaking block and a half away when it snowed last Thursday. That sucked, and pretty much solidified my decision. It's a little more than what I'm paying now, but I'll gladly pay the extra cash not to freeze my nipples off while walking a quarter mile in the dead of a Rochester winter. While I'm on the subject, here's a brief list of the reasons for the move.

1. My current landlord is a tool. Either he or one of his employees have this nasty habit of using their key and walking in here in the middle of the day. That's annoying. Once I walked in around 1:00 in the afternoon and there was some dude standing in the middle of my living room. That weirded me out... the first time. After that it just pissed me off.

2. Parking is absolutely abysmal... especially in the winter. If I'm not home by 5:30 at the latest, I'm pretty much parking on 490. If I try to park on what will be the correct side of the street any earlier than 4:46 PM (remember that parking ticket?) I'm apparently subject to legal action by one of Rochester's finest. Bastards.

3. Too many people that I previously dated know the security code to get in the building. If I have to explain why this is a really, really bad thing, go hit yourself on the head with a tack hammer.

4. The fat broad that lives in one of the basement apartments is big on stealing my quarters out of the dryer. Allow me to elaborate. A couple of months ago, I had a load of clothes in the washer, and while they were in there, I put quarters in the tray of the dryer, essentially to claim it for the next load. Having left them there in good faith (it's a freaking dollar in quarters for crying out loud), I went back up to the corner apartment to do whatever it is that I do while my clothes are spinning around in that soapy mess and making them wearable again. A half hour went by, and back to the laundry room basement I went. They were still spinning, and my quarters were still there, so I went outside to smoke a cigarette. On my way out, I noticed the fat chick walking in to the laundry room. Again, trusting that my f'ing four quarters would be safe, I didn't give it a second thought. Anyway, I smoked my cigarette, and headed back down into the bowels of the luxurious Berkeley apartments. As I entered the aforementioned laundry room, the fat chick was headed out with her big ass basket of freshly dried clothes. Much to my dismay, my aforementioned quarters were gone. The stream of expletives that escaped from my mouth would have made Sam Kinison jealous. Not so much that it was actual, tangible American currency, but the principle of the thing. It's a freaking coin-op machine for the love of God... it's not like they charge by the pound. Anyway, the quarter-stealing fat chick is reason #4. Have a little integrity, people.

5. There's a mentally handicapped gentleman on the first floor. Now, he, in and of himself, is not a reason that I'm moving. He seems like a nice enough guy, he's harmless, and he gets extremely excited when either FedEx or UPS shows up. So much so that I haven't missed a delivery in 6 months. As soon as the truck shows up, he runs from his apartment, and accepts the deliveries for all the people in the building. Now, having said that I haven't missed a delivery, doesn't come without a price. He'll leave a note on my door to come get my package, which means that I have to go down to his apartment and collect it. Let me preface whatever I put down in print with this; I have nothing at all against mentally handicapped people. I don't make fun of them, I do a bunch of charity work, and I think to see someone with a handicap overcome their disadvantage/handicap is wonderful. Having said that, here goes. When I go down to his apartment to collect my package, 9 out of 10 times he's not wearing a shirt or shoes, and it really kind of weirds me out. While I do appreciate the convenience, the bare chested gentleman is pretty creepy.

6. Every time I fire up the microwave for more than one minute and twenty-six seconds, it blows the fuse in my kitchen and bedroom. It took me over a year to figure out what lights I could and couldn't have on if I wanted to nuke a f'ing bag of popcorn. If anyone out there is looking for a two-bedroom in the Park Ave. area, and wants to move into the Berkeley apartments, you can have the TV in your bedroom on, but not the main light, or you can have the closet light on but not the main light and TV, and make sure that if you're making a hot pocket that you unplug the DVD player in your bedroom and cross your fingers. Yes, there have been explosions in the corner apartment.

7. I got a call a few weeks ago from my tool of a landlord that someone had complained that my surround sound system was too loud. One, if someone in the building thinks that my system is too loud, I would hope that they would simply come and ask me to turn the stupid thing down and not call the f'ing tool of a landlord. I'm 6'1" and 165 pounds soaking wet. I'm not the most physically intimidating person in the world. Two, it's not like I'm blaring this thing at 3:00 in the morning. If I do watch a movie, it's usually over by 11:00. Three, how the fuck does the tool of a landlord even know that I have a surround sound system? Oh yeah, see reason #1.

8. While all my utilities in this place are included in the rent, it's either feast or famine with the climate control. That's right, I don't have control over the heat. There was a note on everyone's door last week that said a computer controls it, and keeps the temperature between 67 and 69 degrees. Let me tell you this right now. There hasn't been a day in the last two years that I've lived here when the temperature has been anywhere near 67 or 69 degrees. The temperature in this place is one of two extremes. It's either Arctic Circle or hatching baby chicks in here. There's been many a night where I've woken up sweating at 4AM, kicked off the comforter and gone back to sleep, and then had my alarm go off 3 hours later and been able to cut diamonds with my nipples.

9. I watched the Boston Red Sox win a World Series in this apartment. I can't live with that, and neither should anyone else. If you hate the Red Sox as much as I do, and you watched that debacle in the place you live now, you should move. It's bad karma to stay.

Regardless, that's all I can come up with right now. I could probably write some more and fill up a few hundred pages on reasons to move, but I really feel like that would be wasted energy. And God knows, I need all the energy I can muster... moving is a bitch.

While I can't wait to move, I am absolutely dreading the moving process. Moving flat out sucks. However, I did get some good news the other day. I seemed to remember something about the place that I bought my TV from. I thought I heard them say something to the effect of moving my TV if I decide to move. Now, bear in mind that I have a 53" TV. I really don't want to move this f'ing monster. For one, the odds are far greater in favor of my dropping it a couple of stories than successfully negotiating the intricacies of a second floor Park Ave. apartment. Anyway, short story long, I called the place, and asked them if that was a service that they provided, and the response I got was music to my ears. The guy said, "sure, we can do that for you." Outstanding. Now that's customer service. Granted, I'm sure that I'm going to have to tip whoever comes to move this thing, but a small price to pay rather than buying a brand new TV.

Honestly though, it'll be a bittersweet day when I finally vacate these premises. I've had a lot of fun in the corner apartment. I started this blog, I got to meet the weirdo potter across the hall, and successfully endured five and a half months of unemployment... man, did that ever suck.

Regardless, I think I'll end this rant there. Although there are a few other things I wanted to write about; Terrell Owens and how he's a dick and should just go somewhere and shut his big fat yap for about the next 30 years, the NBA and their new dress code and how the players feel that it's an "infringement on hip-hop culture." Give me a fucking break. You overpaid assholes make about ten times what I do, and I have to adhere to a business casual dress code. It's a requirement of the job, you freaking crybaby jackasses. I listen to Jimmy Buffett. You don't hear me bitching that a business casual dress code is an infringement on parrot head culture. That really pisses me off. And, finally, I was going to write about my upcoming Festivus party. I already have the pole, constructed from aluminum for it's high strength to weight ratio, and there will absolutely be the airing of grievances and feats of strength. It will be celebrated on December 23, and if you're good, you might just get an evite. By the way, if you don't get an evite and/or you can't come to mine for geographic constraints or other reasons, you can host your own party and order your pole here.

Well, unless I get the time to post again before the move, that'll about wrap it up from the corner apartment. No, I won't be re-naming the site, so you won't have to change the bookmark that I know you all have. Hopefully the next post that you read will be from the second floor apartment, complete with pictures... provided, of course, that Time Warner can actually show up on time. I've got them meeting me at the new place on the 28th, sometime between 4PM and February.

Having said that, I'm going to log off. I've got to go get something out of my car. Think I'll pack a lunch for the trip.

Until next time...

R

Huh?

This is probably the most embarrassing thing I have posted so far. I won't go as far as saying that it's the most embarrassing thing that I will post, because those of you that know me know full well that I have a great knack for embarrassing myself without the benefit of digital media, but someday, somewhere, someone might catch a different pic that will be just as horrible.

I'm only posting this because I told the 5 Dog that I would, and I'm a man of my word. We went out Saturday night, and the Rychkid had a little too much to drink. Strange, I know. Regardless, he came back to my place, and I had the uncontrollable desire to go into my office and play guitar. It made a lot of sense at the time. The reason for the title, "Huh?" is simply this. 5 told me that my response to virtually every question that he asked me was just that... "huh?" So, without further adieu, here is the picture lovingly entitled, "huh?". Check out those eyes. Wow. Anybody notice the half full bottle of Corona on the table. Yeah, maybe water would have been the better choice at that stage of the game.

Anyway, I spent most of the day Sunday recovering and not picking up my phone. Since the Bills were on a bye and I have a TV in my bedroom, there wasn't a ton of motivation for me to rouse myself from my bed.

You'll be glad to know, my loyal readers, that I have managed to fully recover, and all is right with the world... at least until next weekend.

Until next time...

R

Buffett in Vegas... Is there a better weekend? I think not.

Well, sorry for not posting in a few days to you, my loyal readers, but I've been in fabulous Las Vegas since Friday seeing the great Jimmy Buffett with two of my best friends in the whole wide world, Chris & John.

I have an early meeting tomorrow, so I don't have time to go through the whole trip now, but here's a couple pics to tide you over. Brief synopsis; started around 1PM at the pre-show party at Margaritaville, where they had an entire street closed off with bands, booze, and drunken wackos like myself in full Parrot Head regalia. Here's a couple quick shots from that. I think my fav is the two guys with blue mohawks that wrote "FINS UP" on the side of their respective heads. Good stuff.I simply had to get a shot of the hats on these chicks.

Anyway... after a few Margaritas (of course) and a bunch of Coronas and "loaded Coronas," which I found out is Corona with a shot of lime-flavored Margaritaville brand tequila poured into the bottle. Yeah... it's really good, and it gets the job done. In hindsight, that's all I need... something to get me ripped faster. Now you people have me pouring tequila in my beer. Is it wrong when you refer to all alcohol as "pain-go-bye-bye juice?" I might as well check myself into Betty Ford right now and move to Utah. At least there I could avoid the whole monogamy thing and ski a lot. Then again, I hate the cold and I hate skiing, and I don't think the whole Mormon thing makes a lot of sense... anyway, never mind. Suffice it to say that by the time I left that pre-show party I was in a really good mood. Regardless, on with the day and the beat goes on.

Next was the second pre-show party back at the MGM around 4:00. Good stuff, aside from the old bitch that came up to our table and said that she had it "saved." We said, "OK," and sat there for another 10 minutes, finished our beers, and watched her revel in her annoyance that we didn't immediately jump up, kow tow, and pull out the chair for her old ass. The band started at the other pool, so we eventually left so that she could have her "saved" table. We figured, "hey, she's old, she's trying to get into heaven, so let her have her table... even though she is a bitch. But I digress.

It was a great party, but MGM was a little crazy with security. They actually had Nevada State Troopers walking around the party. Normally this would make me nervous and annoy the hell out of me, but these cops were actually all right... aside from the whole slapping the cuffs on me thing.

Not to worry, my loyal readers... I didn't actually get arrested. I just thought it would be a funny pic. You can exhale now.

Anyway, after we gave out about 200 strings of beads that we brought in an effort to make friends, and drank about 726 beers, and smoked 83 packs of cigarettes, into the show we headed. Again, I don't have the time to get into the whole thing, but it was awesome, as usual. One thing about going to a show at the MGM arena that you should know is that while security is tight outside, but inside is pretty f'ing lax. Let me explain. I walked in with my digital camera in the outside pocket of my shorts and it set off the metal detector when I walked in. I told the clown running the thing that I did, in fact, have a digital camera in my aforementioned outside pocket of my aforementioned shorts. The aforementioned clown told me to just walk over to the desk (about 20 yards away) and check my camera. So what did I do? I walked right into the arena, got a couple beers, and John and I headed to our seats, camera in tow. I got some great shots of Buffett, but I think if I post them here I'm going to get into some trouble. Suffice it to say I got some awesome shots of my idol in concert.

Now, bear in mind, it's Halloween weekend while we're there. Halloween in Vegas. Just take a stab at what kind of wierdos come out of the woodwork. Tons. However, I did see a great costume, and had to have my picture taken with them. If you're a fan of Reno 911, you'll appreciate this. If not, it's on Comedy Central (channel 38 here in Rochester), and it's hilarious.

I just noticed that if you look at my eyes in this picture, you can get a pretty good indication of how much alcohol I ingested that day. Jesus, I can't believe I kept going. Yes, you read that correctly, but that's a whole other post.

Anyway, like I said, I have an early meeting tomorrow, and I still have some stuff to do before I actually attend this thing. I'm sorry that I've been writing my posts in pieces lately, but such is life. Deal with it.

Having said that, I'll get going. Think I better find a good lawyer that specializes in a drunken Margarita binges.

Until next time...

R

Trouble in South Florida

This is kind of a moving story, so I felt that I had to go ahead and write a little something about it.

There's another hurricane heading through South Florida, and apparently six million people are still without power. I just talked to my friend that moved down there recently, and he says that it's pretty nasty. He has power but no internet or cable. I'm just glad he's OK. Anyway, I was able to find a sattelite picture of Hurricane Wilma, and here it is. I think you'll agree it looks pretty nasty.

Until next time...

R