I hate computers so #$*&ing much. I mean, I despise them. My entire life revolves around them, so when they misbehave, I get really mad, like when I lose 45 minutes to an hour of work because Blogger saves via the internet, so even frequent saving doesn't help. I just wrote a nice long column about the goings-on here at work today, hit save, and poof! Network gets a little sketchy, entire column now gone.

For a change, this isn't Blogger's fault, but CSC's, though Blogger going down has caused similar problems in the past. Can anyone say, "Switching to Movable Type?"

Okay, had to get that out, sorry. I guess I'll just be typing my column again. Here goes:

The building I work in is old. I mean, really old. Almost as old as your mom. It was built in the 19th century as part of a vulcanized rubber plant, and was renovated in 2000 to hold my group of extremely sarcastic UNIX engineers. (For those of you who know Newark fairly well, yes, it's in the same complex as Timothy's, there on White Clay Creek. It's the really skeevy building with nothing on the outside to indicate what it is.)

Being a 19th century structure, much of the pre-renovation interior was wood, particularly the ceiling supports. It's a 5 story building, so the first floor supports are holding up the four floors above us. We are fans of this, since it means our workday doesn't get interrupted by a violent and painful death; our employer is also a fan because of the obvious insurance implications of workers dying on-the-job, even if the reduction in headcount would help with budget issues. Unfortunately, many of the supports were somewhat rotten or termite infested, so they replaced the bad ones with what I assume to be solid steel support beams, the outside of which are drywalled into a square shape roughly the same size as the old wooden supports (about one-foot-square). The wooden supports that were deemed to be in fine shape were left in place.

They are now discovering that some of the wood beams they left in place are not as strong as they had originally assumed, and are replacing them. This sets the stage for this week. They're replacing one of the beams on my floor, about 30 feet from my desk, so many of my coworkers had to be moved to other cubicles. Thursday morning, workers arrived, and in the space of one day:

• Disassembled and removed any cubicles that were in the way.
• Removed the ceiling tiles and all their supports.
• Constructed a large aluminum frame around the work area.
• Hung drywall on the frame to keep dust in the work area and away from the lungs of fragile UNIX Engineers.
• Attached a door to the room they'd built.

It really was impressive to see. I'd be typing away at the computer, probably writing a nonsensical column about writers' block, and I'd glance around; hey, they're taking down the ceiling. I'd go back to typing, and turn around again, and Hey, they've drywalled an entire room off, what the hell? It was neat. So today, I imagine they began work on installing temporary supports so they could saw out the old wooden beam and put in a nice tempered steel I-beam.

Around 10am, I'm typing away happily, listening to some ABBA mp3s and periodically going to the International Male webpage to admire underwear, when I hear a bunch of banging noises, as if the fellows behind The Dry Wall are shoeing horses. Normally, I'm all for a game o' horseshoes (that was for you, DeeDee), but hearing repetitive metal banging is not fun when you're trying to pretend to work. After a minute or so, it stopped, and I thought little more of it . . .

. . . Until around 11am, when I heard a very loud CRASH-MANGLE-SPLASH noise. I leapt up to see what had happened, and noticed that one of the walls surrounding the work area was missing. Well, okay, not missing, exactly, but piled in a crumpled heap on the floor. It seems that one of the workers had been up on a ladder and somehow fallen through the wall, taking the ladder with him. I can only assume no one was hurt, because whoever fell through it was up and back inside the wall by the time I could see what had happened, and I heard none of the horrific screaming usually indicative of the terrible demise of a small Hispanic drywall-hanger with a long piece of aluminum stabbed through his pancreas.

It scared the bejesus out of most of us. I haven't been able to work since. Not that I would be anyway, when I could be looking at this.

posted at 3:06 PM

I had a whole column planned about the Democratic primaries, but I decided to scrap it. Two reasons:

1. It was unfunny. Like, depressingly unfunny. If you read this column, and then read something funny, they would cancel each other out, and you'd go through the entire afternoon feeling horribly unfulfilled. I'd never forgive myself for that.
2. Achewood said everything I wanted to say in 7 short panels: Philippe for President!

So now I've got come up with something new upon which to expound. Let's see...hmm...yeah, I got nothing.

Here's the thing. I need to figure out how it is that other guys, such as Jeff, James, and Charles, come up with quality columns, every day. Hell, I've been going twice a week for about a month and the ideas just aren't flowing. Well, they are, but they suck. Here's a list of the stupid crap I've come up with for columns over the last week:

• Ask people what they would do with a million dollars and write about their responses. I don't think I could get more clichéd if I wrote about the Curse of the Bambino, which of course I have already done. Sad, people, just sad.
• Political stuff. Not only am I about as politically astute as lichen, the column was (as previously mentioned) not funny. I can't be having that here.
• Grammar instructions for blogs. I think everybody's had enough of crap like that from me, right?
• A simple title: "Why girls are cool." I think I got cooties from that.

See? And yet Lileks just writes a bunch of stuff about how he's too busy to write bleats and gets 3,487 hits an hour. Jeff Kay takes a bunch of pictures of fat people at Walmart and he's got material for weeks. Charlie...well, Charlie is clearly snorting 20 grams of cocaine every 15 minutes. (I wonder if he lets people call him "Chuck" or "Chaz" when they get to know him better. I dunno. Somebody get him drunk and find out.)

And my dumb ass is sitting here, looking around my cubicle, frantically looking for something to spark the old Muse. The only thing that's really happening, though, is a bunch of tough-looking guys are disassembling the ceiling a few rows over, so they can work on a ceiling support. One of them does kinda look like David Crosby, but how the hell do I get a column out of that? Answer: I don't. And so you get to hear me rant about it. Which basically indicates I'm not much of a writer, I guess. Maybe I should look for a job in computers.

Wait. Already got that. Dammit.

posted at 12:39 PM

Today's post is in the style of The West Virginia Surf Report, which is funny.

I cannot begin to express my glee at seeing they've made a Starsky & Hutch movie. I have to admit, I don't think I've ever seen one episode of Starsky & Hutch, but I was born in 1978...the 70s style is in my blood, ya dig?

How could this movie fail to be absolutely mesmerizingly hilarious? Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson, at the heights of their respective careers, dressed in unbuttoned shirts and bellbottoms, chasing criminals around in a Ford Torino. (My dad once owned a Torino! Now all he buys are Saabs. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.)

If that doesn't suck you in, I have six words for you: "Starring Snoop Dogg as Huggy Bear." I feel like Roast Beef when Ray built the entire Cheers Bar for him.

Anyway, looks like it comes out March 5th, according to the Official Website at warnerbros.com. I'm gonna try and see it opening night, while hammered.

In other news, it snowed around here again today. I'm not sure how this happened, but Delaware was horribly unprepared for this eventuality. I figured after last year's "Shut The Whole State Down For A Week" issues, they'd invest in a couple extra plows, maybe stash some more salt somewhere, but no. It's a mess.

CSC told us to report two hours late today, so I got on the road about 10, and had to call back to the house to warn HW to call in dead 'cause Rt. 273 was completely unplowed, all the way from our development to Newark. When did my state turn into Texas when it comes to snow removal?

Back in the days before global warming, nobody had four-wheel-drive or snow-blowers. The schools might close, but DelDOT (Delaware Department of Transportation) was on the roads plowing before I would even roll out of bed. I don't think my dad ever got out of work because of snow when he worked for the bank. Delaware has quietly turned into a state of wussies, and it makes me cry a little.

Okay, it's been a week. How about them Eagles? ::sigh:: What a crime. Were the refs paid off, or were they just stupid? How is that Donovan McNabb can get speared in the crotch 45 seconds after the play was whistled dead? Is there a rule somewhere that you can rough up the best player on the opposing team, so long as he comes back to play injured for a few quarters before they finally bench him? How come the Birds didn't take the opportunity to stick a shiv into Stephen Davis' shoulder? I just don't get it.

So I guess the Democrats are having another of those primary things tomorrow. Am I the only person that thinks they're all kind of insane? Most of the candidates appear to be trying to win the nomination based on a "Bush sucks, war sucks, France is our ancient ally" platform, despite the fact that the President has a 60+% approval rating, roughly 2/3 of Americans think the Iraq war was a good idea, and France is a country of smarmy cheese eating bastards. (That was probably a horrible stereotype, but if God didn't want us to make stereotypes, She wouldn't have given us stereos.) (That joke was ripped off of Dave Barry, except that I made it so it doesn't make any sense.) I'm seeing a huge Republican blowout come November, and I'm still probably gonna vote Libertarian, 'cause I like throwing my vote away.

Last thing: be sure to go over to Blogmadness and vote for me! I'm seeded #20 in the region. So far I'm kicking ass and taking names, and I'd like to sneak through a couple rounds and try and make the sweet 16. I think it's possible. Anything's possible when you're this damn sexy.

posted at 5:56 PM

I need a camera phone. Not because like taking pictures of things and sharing them with my friends on a regular basis. I need one right now so I can take a picture of my hair and show you why I want to shave it off.

In order to make it do anything, I have to put what amounts to candle-wax in it, and that doesn't always help, plus it takes THREE latherings of cheap shampoo to get it out. (Suave: 99 cents a bottle, and you get what you pay for.) This morning, I put my usual slather of pomade in it, and mushed it (kinda like playdough) into a reasonable facsimile of Kyan Douglas' (the hot one on Queer Eye) coif. Went downstairs, made myself a tasty egg sandwich, gather'd my stuff up, and made my first major mistake of the day:

I put on a hat.

What can I say? It's cold outside. Weatherbug reports it's currently 15 degrees out there. Ain't no way I was gonna have my ears be cold for the 15 foot walk from the house to the truck, and the 50 foot walk from the truck to my office building. Cold ears are Satan's Breakfast, as dear old Great-Aunt Missoula liked to remark. (Alcoholism runs rampant in that side of the family.)

Now, when my hair is dry, I can put on a hat, and then when I pull it off just mush my hair back into position. This morning, though, my hair was wet. I forgot that part of the equation, and didn't realize my error until I pulled off my watchcap and felt the damage. A quick run to the bathroom confirmed my fears: I looked like Don King, if Don King's barber had cerebral palsy.

I tried to do a little mushing (Er...zhuzhing), but I was not having much luck. So I wet my hair, hoping to start over from scratch . . . oh boy. Now I look like a horribly sweaty Don King. I give up! So tonight I want to shave my head. Sarah says "hell no," but she can't do anything when she's locked in a bathroom.

In other news, Wednesday was my birthday! Happy Birthday to me! I am now 26 years of age, though I don't look a day over 19, despite the wrinkles and extreme obesity. Sarah got me a UD NCAA Division I-AA National Football Champions t-shirt (which I am sporting today) and everything I need to run a wireless network in my house, which I will probably set up this weekend. Once that's done I'll get started setting up all my old computers, including my linux machine. At some point I'll have to buy a wireless bridge to connect up my P2, and later on when I get ReplayTV I suppose I'll need to bring home this little 10Mbit hub I have here at work.

Are your eyes glazed over now? If so, good news! You're not a dork like me! And you should be proud. Even if I make more money.

UPDATE: My hair has calmed down a little bit. Now I look like a more normal Don King.

posted at 1:10 PM

Holy Special Needs, Batman! Another multi-topic day! Many of you are probably saying, "Well, that's great and all, but why don't you just write one column on each topic and therefore have more columns per week? Dumbass." In reply, permit me to quote the Great Emancipator, Abraham Lincoln: "Shut up."

On to the first topic: Women's Fashion. Personally, I think female style is moving in the right direction: more cleavage, and tighter shirts. However, there are a couple of things I'd like to discuss.

Low slung pants: bad idea. Fewer than 5% of the American female population has the right body style for these, and anyone else that wears them ends up with serious backfat issues. I saw a girl today who had on a pair of low pants and a shirt that was dreadfully incapable of covering the rolls of blubber attempting to free themselves from the confines of her pants. It was not fun.

Capri Pants: I've ranted on capri pants in a non-web format before (mostly saying to my wife "WHAT THE HELL IS THE POINT?"). My view is this: just wear shorts. Capri pants merely mean your cankles get cold, without revealing the part of the leg that's truly interesting, that is, the thigh. If your thighs are unattractive, just get a pair of baggy jeans and some black lipstick and go Goth.

Brassieres: Are you going jogging today? No? Then let them be free. Exceptions can be made if you wish to hoist The Boys up for proper cleavage. It's not like I wear a jockstrap on a daily basis. (I'm probably gonna get stabbed when I get home tonight.)

Jewelry: You only really need one good pair of earrings, a nice simple gold chain necklace, and two rings, tops. Save your money and spend it on something truly useful, like cigarettes, beer, or expensive electronic devices. (I'm trying to help the guys out here, and I get the feeling I'm gonna get stabbed twice.)

Thongs: Actually, these are pretty cool. Forget I mentioned them.

Next topic: Nachos, or, Tuesdays at Kate's Are No Better Than Any Other Day. Sarah and I went over to Klondike Kate's for lunch this afternoon, and we each had the Crab Bisque (exquisite), following it up with the Shore Bird (chicken and lump crab meat in an alfredo sauce over pasta) for me, and the half-price nachos for her. I guess I never really noticed it before, but, um, Kate's nachos are not good. They're dry and meatless, and try to compensate with many different chopped vegetables and some chili and beans on the side. I find it strange that the local establishment's star appetizer is trumped by a similar offering from Taco Bell, and TB uses cheez whiz.

Listen up: there are 3 things that are absolutely crucial to good nachos: excellent cheese, good corn chips, and as much meat as you can fit on the plate. If you want chicken, that's cool, but be it poultry or cow, slather it on there (with as much grease as possible), and then melt some cheddar and jack on top. Anything else you put on is merely decoration, with the possible exception of beans; stick some beans on with the meat, that's good times. Lettuce, tomato, olives, and peppers are all nice things to have, but if you are relying on them to make your nachos tasty because you were too cheap to put a half pound of ground chuck in there, you have failed in your mission.

I will brook no argument. Nachos must have meat, and lots of it. Taco Bell knows this; La Tolteca knows this. Kate's needs to learn this.

In other news, only one shopping day left until my birthday (1/21)! I like CDs, books, and widescreen HDTVs.

Note: It has been pointed out to me that nobody knows what "cankles" are and just think it's a typo. Well, cankles are when your calf blends straight into your ankle without any of the normal narrowing. If you've got them, I'm terribly sorry you do.

posted at 3:37 PM

It's a two-topic day! Well, 3. Er, 2 1/2. The last two topics are sort of intertwined, so . . . let's start over.

It's a multiple-topic day! There, that's better. Topic one: The Weather Gods suck. 3 to 6 inches my portly pink posterior. Those of you not stuck in Delaware are probably unaware that last night was spent in a Winter Weather Warning, meaning The Storm was Heading Right For Us and Nobody Was Going To Work or School for 3 Months.

Skeptic that I am, I kept an eye on the weather map all day. Sure, the storm is coming this way, but the way it is subtly curving, I said to myself, it's gonna pass north of us. We'll be lucky to get 2". That turned out to be optimistic. We got less than an inch. The only thing that closed was the preschool at which my mother works, and they close for sun flares.

Actually, it was rather amazing. I have never seen a storm so spiteful, so determined to drop as little snow as possible on yours truly. I watched the weather map off and on until I headed to bed at 11, and the small portion that knew it wasn't going to be able to pass north of us actually split in half and went around us on either side. It was like nothing I've ever seen. Therefore, the Weather Gods get one hell of an "up yours," unless of course they defeat Mongo, in which case I shall bake them a most excellent pie, provided they have the good taste not to mention that I spoke to them. Topic two:

The Inability of Most Americans To Speak English. Okay, this topic is largely old hat, but I think some lessons need to be restated:

• The word is pronounced "offen." Yes, I know there's a "t" in it. There's also a "b" in a "subtle," an "o" in "opossum," etc. It is, and I'm sure you've heard of this before, a silent letter. It is left out. Please stop saying it.
• The word "espresso" does not have an x in it. Those who pronounce it as if it does, such as the idiot local yokel I heard in a Dunkin Donuts ad this morning, will be the first against the wall when the revolution comes.
• We've been over this approximately 3000 times. The correct phrase is, "I could not care less." Those of you who say, "I could care less," are essentially saying that you DO care at least somewhat, because it would be technically possible for you to care less than you currently do. If you did not care at all, it would be impossible for you to care less. Thus, "I could not care less." Those of you who cannot understand this are advised to use the phrase "Here's a quarter...call someone who cares," so you can avoid getting shivved if you say the wrong thing in front of me.
• Your vs. You're: I've almost given up hope on this one. I've grown to accept that the average American is both stupid and lazy, and therefore types "your a jerk" because they lack the energy to type the extra two characters and the intelligence to care. But when I see something like "you're dogg bited me!!?!" I start twitching. Please just stop using pronouns altogether, I beg you.
• Capitalization: the shift key is your friend. He loves you, albeit unrequitedly. Please learn to love him back.

Related Third Topic: Cool archaic spelling. This is probably something that most folks don't run across, but as a church singer I see it very often. Centuries ago, English was largely pronounced as it was spelled, meaning words like "rejoiced" were pronounced "ree joy said," and and "scattered" was pronounced "sca ter red."

Later on, people starting shortening things to "re joissd" and "scat turd" (I think scat and turds are the same thing, right? Just remember, when you drop your bag of marbles and they go everywhere, that's TWICE as crappy as you think), but when they did, they would replace the "e" with an apostrophe, such as "scatter'd." Rejoiced doesn't work as well for it, because you need the "e" there to indicate the soft "s" sound of the c, so obviously that was a piss-poor example, but it's too late to change it now, I'm on a roll.

Anyway, I'm proposing that we try and return to the style of spelling that puts an apostrophe in any past tense word you can. I'm going to start doing it, at least. I thought about promoting "Cool Archaic Spelling Day," but I suspect that no one would do it, and I'd look like a tool, so I'm gonna start gradually, with just me. I imagine that people at work, or teachers at school, would be confused and annoy'd, so I'd say leave it out of any professional correspondence. But in emails or instant messages or retarded websites, I'd say make sure everything is spell'd (er...spelt? Better look that up) in an amusing, olde timey manner.

Oh, and topic four: (I faked you out! I'm so quality.) Don't forget to look at Kyle's New Girlfriends and vote for a winner! And have a superb day.

NOTE: Rick has pointed out I typed "and" twice, a few paragraphs up. I, in response, pointed out that he has an ass for a face, and struck out the offending word. Problem solved.

posted at 9:50 AM

Sorry, no column today, but I wanted to draw your attention to something I've been working on, off and on, for about 6 months: Kyle's New Girlfriend. Of course, you'd think that something I've been working on for that long would be really funny, but you'd be WRONG! Okay, it's still pretty damn funny. Anyway, I've linked it on the right as well, so tell you friends that if they log in next week they'll still be able to get to it.

Hopefully, column on Thursday or Friday.

posted at 11:40 AM

I have a few complaints about modern music. Nothing major. I don't think it's anything that can't be fixed, with a little effort by the music industry.

For example, is there some rule in modern hip hop that you are permitted to only write one song per album that doesn't mention "Dolce & Gabbana?" Not that I'm personally against Dolce OR Gabbana; by all accounts, they are two most excellent gentlemen, and their treatment of their midget workforce should be copied by sweatshops everywhere. This complaint also extends to "Prada," if only because in 94.3% of rap songs, "Prada" and "Dolce & Gabbana" are rhymed with one another, which is sort of like rhyming "Playdough" with "Drano" (two of my favorite childhood toys).

And why no mention of Isaac Mizrahi? I think he'd fit in nicely in a song I've been brainstorming for Missy "Misdemeanor" Elliott:

I was chillin' in my crib, wearin' Isaac Mizrahi
Then some chumps rolled up on a hand-powered trolley
I blasted them fools and lit up some chronic
Went to Neiman Marcus, bought some Manolo Blahnik

Are you feelin' that? I sure was. I'm trying to figure out how to work in a shoutout to Jaclyn Smith.

Next we need to talk about "crossover" artists. I had always assumed that had something to do with transgender issues, like Garth Brooks and his "Chris Gaines" alter-ego, but now it seems it means a singer who started out in one genre and has moved to another; it's almost always country to pap, er, pop.

Exhibit A: LeAnn Rimes. I've never been a huge LeAnn fan, mostly because she kinda looks like somebody flattened her face with a band saw, but at least she had a couple decent country hits, particularly a couple nice Patsy Cline covers. Now she's singing super-pop and has totally slutted herself out, as you can see to the right. (On the plus side, I can hardly complain about the increasing prodigiousness of her breasts. They are becoming quite impressive. I love breastameses.) What is up with that? Now she's positively painful to listen to, and she dresses like an extra in a Nelly video, hardly something that will endear her to her original demographic (old Patsy Cline fans).

"Crossing over" is hardly a new thing of course; back in the 50s and 60s, the line between "country" and "pop/rock" was even less finely drawn, and depended largely on who was producing the record. Elvis, to take a particularly sexy example, recorded everything from country and religious music to pop and rock; small wonder he appealed to so many, since he covered just about all the bases. Also, he had magic moves and an ass that just didn't quit, plus his hair may have been the best thing since Jesus (not that Jesus isn't, still, the best thing of all times, of course. So don't send me emails telling me I'm going to hell, I know it already).

My only real other complaint about the music industry is the same one that everybody has, which is, "please stop releasing CDs by really really really crappy people, such as Macy Gray." What is up with Macy Gray? What exactly is redeeming about her? She sounds like she smokes 4 packs of Chesterfields a day through multiple holes that have been drilled into her larynx with an underpowered Dremel tool.

Also, I think we can all agree the world needs more Justin Timberlake. He's like Elvis! I'd like to see him in some sequined jumpsuits. I think the time has come for that.

posted at 11:44 AM

The phrase "New Year's Eve" can bring to mind many different things, depending on your age. Children may only know it as "that night that we went to bed at 8pm, as usual, and woke up at 1 am when Daddy crashed the car into the garage door and Mommy threw up in the pachysandra." (These are clearly rather precocious children.) Older kids know it as the one night a year that they can stay up until 12:15am before being hustled off to bed because Mom and Dad shared a bottle of Korbel and are "feelin' frisky."

Anybody with kids of their own probably thinks of it as "remember when we used to have fun? Now we put the kids to bed at 9 and try to stay up to watch the ball drop, probably passing out at 10:30." Anyone from the age of 16-30, of course, probably knows it as "I drank three bottles of Mad Dog, and I don't honestly remember what happened after that, but I woke up with a tattoo of Willie Nelson on my ass."

Unless, of course, you spent New Year's Eve in Bethany Beach with us, in which case, here are the things you forgot when you passed out face-down in a bush in the backyard:

• There were approximately 30 people, and 48 bottles of champagne. In case you don't feel like doing the math, that comes out to 1.6 bottles per person. End result: Fitzy tried to seduce a table lamp.
• For the 7th consecutive year, I ran around the party with nothing on but boxers and socks, which Ian would periodically pull down. (The boxers, that is.)
• I vaguely remember Kirsten and her sister Krystal making out for a while, but that may have been a dream. And what a dream it was!
• I'm sure everyone remembers, "If you ring that #$*&# bell again, I'm going to #$*&#$ pull it off the #$*&# wall," so there's no need to rehash it.
• Did Courtney disappear from about 10pm to 2am? I don't remember him being there. It kinda worries me, wondering what he was up to. Losing track of a 300+ pound man is ill-advised.
• Important Lesson Learned #1: After drinking 2 bottles of champagne, do not awake at 6am thinking, "Man, some eggnog would be really good right now!" You will shortly find yourself driving the porcelain bus. And the bus mustn't go below 50 mph or it will explode. And Sandra Bullock is there. I hate her so #$&#* much.
• Wade broke a fan-lamp by punching it with his fist. Was he pissed off? No. Was he drunk? Not yet. Is he kind of retarded and lacks motor control? Yes.
• We were definitely the only party in Bethany that had two guys named Pete that threw up all over the entire house.
• I planted my face in a chair (yes, my face) and passed out at 1am. Luckily for all concerned, someone had forced me to put my pants back on by then.
• There were no known sheep involved, but three albino ferrets met a gruesome end in some kind of weird 3am ritual that Rikki performed.

Other than that, it was just a drunken good time. Although it cost me $250 to get that Willie tat lasered off.

posted at 7:36 PM

Happy New Year!

Okay, enough of that. I need help. I know I promised I'd relate the sordid details of the New Year's Eve festivities (no goats were involved that I can remember), but I'll have to do that later. Right now I need someone with experience in dream analysis to tell me what the hell last night's dreams meant.

This is long, and very confusing, so first I'm going to list the major players in the dream so you all know who I'm talking about:

• Sarah: my wife.
• Rachel: one of our best friends. Very smart, very cute, lives in San Francisco, but has been hanging with us for the last few days. Very liberated woman. Does not eat meat.
• Brian: close friend for approximately ever, curator of milobloom.com, very funny fellow. Works too hard.
• My mom: Well, she's my mom. Nuff said.
• Karen Rodriguez: I have no idea who this person is, but the name comes up in the dream. I do not know why.
• Jodi: Good friend from college; Sarah and I were in her wedding back in November. Her first child is due on 1/27.
• Todd: Jodi's husband. Totally quality all around guy, but in the dream he is inexplicably very fat and alcoholic. He is neither of things in real life. I have no idea.
• Issa: 13 year old boy, sings in the choir at the Cathedral. Despite his youth, he is well over 6 feet tall.
• My truck: 2002 Ford F150 4x4. Black.
• Linda: another member of the Cathedral choir.
• Fitzy: Chris Fitzhugh. I've actually known him for longer than almost anybody; our paths keep crossing strangely. We were in youth group together in the early 90s, and then met again in college. Both of us are Y-chrome alums.

I think that's about it. So anyway, the part of the dream that I remember, Sarah and I are on the grounds of some kind of Presbyterian church. The church itself is not large, but rests on a large parcel of land and has many buildings affiliated with it; a hospital, some kind of dormitory. Anyway, Linda appears and tells us what a few of the buildings are. She then disappears and is not seen again.

Sarah and I enter the dormitory, at which time I realize that Rachel is with us. Not sure where she came from, but anyway. We go upstairs, and somehow I get delayed (not sure why), and when I enter the room, Sarah and Rachel are already there, and my mother is in there holding a young baby with a SERIOUS acne problem. There's also another woman in the back of the room, but I don't know who she is, and I never find out.

Confused yet? Welcome to MY world.

Okay, so my mom is holding an unexplained baby with more zits than hair. Suddenly I realize Rachel is the mother. To know how dramatically screwed up this is, you rather have to know Rachel; those of you that do are probably nodding. Rachel also has somehow changed from her normal hip attire into a bright white velour track suit. Not just bright...glowing, like something out of a Pieta. Her face also changes a bit until she's not really Rachel...she looks rather Claymont. Those of you who have been to Claymont probably know what I mean. Those of you who are FROM Claymont are probably rather annoyed right now.

Welcome to MY world.

Then, some sketchy figure appears wearing a hooded sweatshirt...I pull the hood down, and it's Issa. Except that it's not; it's a 25-30 year old guy that looks just like Issa, and has an extraordinarily poor complexion. So now I realize that he's the father, and that he and Rachel have been married for about a year, and the not-Issa lives around here, and Rachel lives in California.

My mom asks who takes care of the baby, and Rachel replies "Karen Rodriguez." My mom inquires about the cost, and Rachel tells her it's free. Who is Karen Rodriguez and why is she caring for a baby for nothing? I do not know.

Next thing I know, we're driving around in some of the nastier parts of the city of Wilmington, Delaware (not exactly a stretch, since that's about a 10 minute drive from our house). Sarah and I are being driven around by Fitzy in his little red Volkswagen, and it's about 2pm.

Suddenly we time travel, and it's no longer afternoon, but late at night. We are now being driven around by Rachel, who is driving my truck. We are very, very lost in a very, very bad part of Wilmington. We have to stop because the road ends at a fence, so we get turned around, and notice we're in some kind of parking lot, and all the cars are flashing their headlights. I'm all, "Rachel, floor it, get us out of here," and she's all "No, they'll just think we want to race them, and they'll chase us." Whatever. Did I mention she's no longer wearing the track suit, her face is back to normal, and there's no sign of baby or Issa-like father? Oh well. Then four very sketchy inner-city dwellers on roller blades are playing street hockey. At 2am.

I have no idea what is going on at this point.

Suddenly, Rachel drives by a very bizarre building; rather reminiscent of Burnett Elementary School, but weirder. I comment on how I don't want to go in there, so of course she parks the truck and we go in. Not sure where Sarah is at this point, but she comes back later. Once inside, we realize there's a big cocktail party going on for some reason. Everybody is wearing cocktail dresses or nice business casual clothing, depending on gender; I start climbing up the stairs until I reach the top floor. Rachel is there, and a bunch of people I don't know, but then Jodi appears, wearing a green velour halter top that reveals her belly button. Since she is 8 months pregnant at this point, this seems an unlikely thing for her to wear, but who knows. Todd, who in the dream is fat and drunk, is running around handing out beers.

Twitching yet? Welcome to MY world.

Then the party goes outside, where a bunch of people I don't know are huddling around my wife's car. Sarah and Rachel are inside, cackling maniacally about something, I dunno. I'm a little concerned about all these sketchy people, but then somehow we're all back inside having a great time, and some really skeevy young girl is totally hitting on me. I have no idea.

Next thing I know, I'm in a junkyard/liquor store with Brian. Why someone has opened a junkyard with a liquor store, I do not know. He's driving my truck, which apparently has had lifts installed, because we're at least 8 feet off the ground. We're driving around cars and things, and we decide not to buy any liquor, so we just drive through the checkout, Brian says something I don't remember about his son Zachary, and I woke up.

That's it. That's the dream. A few things are easy to figure out: I dreamt about Rachel and Fitzy because I hung out with them on New Year's Eve. Rachel looked Claymont because one of the other girls we hung out with at the party looked kinda Claymont. The bright white velour tracksuit appeared probably because it the words "velour track suit" came up in conversation two or three times this week.

Other than that, I'm incredibly confused, and somebody needs to quickly leave detailed comments about what all this means, else I will have to assume that I've gone completely insane, and I'm taking you with me.

posted at 11:18 AM