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Mmmm…autumn. The time of year when I leave my house in a heavy jacket and long pants because it’s 54 degrees at 9am, and end up having to strip to my knickers when I get out of work because it’s over 80 and the AC in the house isn’t on. I kid, because this is pretty much my favorite season. I love the leaves changing, I love the cooler temps, I love wearing layers, I love the smell of people getting their fireplaces going for the first time since March, I love the way my wife smells in the fall. (Musky.)

I’ve always been conflicted, though, because growing up I was not such a fan of school. And September was the beginning of it. I remember going to first grade on rainy Tuesdays and depressed all day, not least because I was a Talker, and was therefore usually on punishment. I think I spent the entirety of that year with my desk pushed far away from the rest of the class because I had problems “shutting the F up,” as Mrs. Morgan put it to my parents during parent-teacher conferences.

(Note: Mrs. Morgan probably never said that. I don’t know, I wasn’t there. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she had. I was . . . frustrating.)

Now, of course, I have to work my 8-9 hours a day year round, and I combat the depression with ill-gotten meds, but I look at Charles and think: dang, boyo. If you’re anything like me (and he’s almost identical to me, so far), in about 5 years you’re going to be sitting in first grade, talking a mile a minute, until your teacher throws a stapler at your head.

(Note: no teachers ever threw staplers at my head. Mr. Eshelman hit me in the eye with a piece of chalk once, but he assured me it was on accident. Though I did see him collecting a sawbuck from Ms. Shepard later, as if he had won some kind of bet.)

And as much as I enjoy cooler temperatures, the timing of them kinda sucked; it was warm most of last week, until I drove to the beach on Friday and the temps hovered in the high 60s all weekend. Not exactly “fling oneself into the surf” weather. Luckily, we (Sarah and I and her coworkers and friends) combatted this by drinking staggering amounts of red wine, and eating enough Mimolette that I still ain’t poopin’ right. (Which you totally needed to know.)

It amazes me how one can get trapped in an information hole and miss all kinds of important stuff. I’ve been working like a beaver on meth for the last week or so, and then today I casually went to Wikipedia, and found myself clicking on the recent deaths.

Remember last Wednesday how I mentioned I was thrilled to find three books by Madeleine L’Engle? She died on Thursday. I can’t help but feel responsible.

I scroll down a little further, and discover Pavarotti died! What in the holy hand grenade? How did I miss that? Something like that, you would think, would be SOMETHING THAT WOULD COME UP IN CONVERSATION WITH OTHER MUSICIANS. But nay.

Nay.

This is the worst short story ever. By me. Based on true events from Monday.

Robert didn’t think of himself as high-strung. He was a pretty relaxed individual. Which is why it was such a surprise when he killed that guy.

All he’d wanted to do was go for a bike ride. So he put his bike on the rack on his car, packed up his helmet and other associated gear, and went to work. Around lunchtime, he gathered up his stuff and changed in the bathroom.

“Damn it!” he said to himself. “I forgot a towel.” Hm. Robert was going to have to shower after the ride, but without a towel he’d have to stand around air-drying. Just then he thought, “Wait, I only live 5 miles from here. I’ll just ride home, throw a towel in my backpack, and then finish out the ride!” Good thinking, Robert.

So that is what he did. Sort of. Except for the retrieving a towel part, because Robert got all the way home and was pulling into his driveway before he realized he had forgotten his keys.

So, he spent a few minutes trying to figure out a way to break into his house, but being a security-conscious soul, every door was locked, and every window latched. “Well, that’s just great.” Robert considered his options, and realized there wasn’t much he could do. So he headed back to the office.

The sky grew ominous as he rode along route 40, and eventually turned into a torrential downpour. Robert was soaked to the bone, but didn’t slacken his 15-mile-per-hour pace. He stopped only to check his phone and make sure it wasn’t going to short out and melt or anything.

After 8 miles of being really pissed off about being stuck in the rain, Robert came back to the office, went to the bathroom and showered. He came out and prepared himself to just stand around while waiting for the water to drip off. Just then, a man came in to change for HIS workout.

“Rainy enough for you?”

So Robert beat him to death with a cycling shoe and dried himself off on the man’s pants.

Weird Dream Number 1: Saturday night, after hanging out with my college peeps, I dreamt one of them (Todd) was picking a fight in a diner with someone much larger than he. They went outside, and Todd tried a sneak attack in which he punched the guy in the junk three times, but it didn’t faze the big dude, and so Todd basically got his ass kicked for a while. Then some kind of clown showed up to break things up, and I ran outside to help, ending up putting the big guy in a choke hold that involved forcing his jaw open so far that I nearly cracked it. Later, the guy came into the diner, but it was a different guy (but the SAME GUY!), and he kept talking smack, so I put him in a choke hold again. Then later he kept talking about how he was going to find out where I lived and come over to hurt my family, so I held him against the wall with a butter knife to his throat and asked him what it was going to take to get him to go away.

Just then several naked women came in.

So the guy says I have to pose with two of the women (who somehow found some clothing to put on, meanwhile) while reading a note he handed me, that I can’t remember the exact wording of, but the gist of it was that since I was married, I was never going to have sex with these other women, and he videotaped it. I assume that mollified him, because after that I woke up.

Dream Number Two: I had gotten involved in some kind of massive benefit concert in which I was going to be the headlining act, except that I hadn’t rehearsed, didn’t have a band to back me up, and in fact hadn’t even picked any songs to perform. I did have all my instruments with me (not an insubstantial collection, at this point), so I set them up, and started asking around for people to play them.

The concert was to be outside, so at some point I wandered away from my stuff to inspect where the stage was, which was sort of in a big field with the stage set in the shade provided by a wooded bit. Then I went back to the main area and was alerted to the fact that the wooded stage was only for the warmup acts; the main attraction (me) was to be playing on the main stage nearby, which was already packed with like 40,000 people.

At some point Brian showed up and I recruited him to play bass or something. Then I woke up.

What’s wrong with me?

This may be the most rambling, disjointed post I’ve ever put on here. And that is seriously saying something.

I dreamt last night that I got my truck back. The circumstances surrounding it were vague, but for some reason I found myself at the Ford dealership, and the guy that originally sold me the truck said, “Hey you know, we have your truck outside.” And I drove off in it without having signed anything. Immediately I scratched the hood of it on some kind of post.

Anyway, I was so ecstatic to have my truck back, but I felt a great deal of guilt because somehow, despite not having signed anything, I knew it was going to cost me money that I don’t need to be wasting, since HW and I are trying to figure out how to move back up to North Wilmington. (As it turns out, most of New Castle is a cesspool. Our particular neighborhood isn’t too bad, but go 1/4 mile in any direction and the people have fewer teeth than my son. I hate to sound like a snob, but I need to move back to a place where people drive late model Camrys instead of 1993 Ford Tempos with Monza exhausts and plastic rims. Just seems like a more…intellectual environment. Plus, most of the things I do outside of work (church, drama productions, etc.) are in Wilmington, and both sets of parents are up there.) I recently got a pretty decent payraise at work, but we need to save up some serious down payment money, and also we need to prepare ourselves for the fact that our monthly mortgage+tax+insurance payment is probably going to DOUBLE.

So anyway, I felt guilty for having the truck, and was trying to figure out a way to return it. Then I found myself playing softball with a bunch of people I don’t know, and somehow I was managing them and attempting to put together a lineup card while the leadoff batter was already at the plate. At this point Sarah woke me up ’cause it was like 9:15am and I needed to get to work.

Oh, the reason I slept in until 9:15? The Brandywiners “preview night,” in which they give a bunch of tickets to current members and participants, was last night. Since they do the show in an outdoor theater at Longwood Gardens, they have to start hella late or it’s not dark enough to use the lighting system. So the show didn’t end until just after 11, and then we had to go to Applebee’s for mad delicious flava.

Oh yeah, Applebees: I used to hate that place, but now I don’t. The reason? The one by us is really really, really REALLY bad, and the one up by Longwood is less so; the Walmart-adjacent one we went to a couple times had service worse than a prison cafeteria. Plus it seems like Tyler Florence’s influence has improved the quality of the food a great deal, such that I had some kind of shrimp fettuccini and it was heck of enjoyable.

This concludes the most rambling, pointless thing I’ve typed since my 6th grade “Invent A Country” project. (Its name: “Hoyaglitchland.”)

I’m going to see John Mayer tonight with my sister, and here’s the plan: we’re going to sneak backstage, and then Liz will distract the various roadies and Ben Folds (who is apparently there in “support” of John, which I assume means he’ll just be cupping his balls during the show, which is nice in that John gets a nice little lift, and Ben Folds has something to do to keep him from actually singing) while I grab John and kiss him full on the mouth, probably with a measure of tongue.

That is my plan. Your thoughts?

Yeah, I was heck of up all hours of the night for work, so we’re going to do a link day. But before we get to that: have you ever listened to a song, divined what you believe the lyrics to be, and think wow, that’s amusing/cool/sublime/sexy/etc., only to find out later that the lyrics AREN’T what you thought, and what they really are isn’t as cool?

I’ve been rather suckered in by Timbaland recently, such that he can release a completely repetitive song entitled “The Way I Are” and I’m immediately listening to my head and singing along. At any rate, during the chorus, Timbaland sings something that sounded to me like:

I’m about to strip
And I’m well-equipped
Can you handle me the way I’m are

The “well-equipped” part always amused me, for some reason; I assumed he was alluding to the massiveness of his wang, which was about to be unleashed on an unsuspecting Keri Hilson. Imagine my dismay when I looked up the lyrics to try and figure out something that Keri sang, only to discover what he’s really saying is:

I’m about to strip
And I want it quick
Can you handle me the way I are

Which is less funny, doesn’t rhyme well, and is just disappointing from every perspective (except I guess from Timbaland’s, since I’m sure he’s raking in unbelievable dough off the single). I was very saddened by the whole thing. Anyway, if you’ve got any examples of similar lyric anomalies, let me know, I’ll be amused by them.

The linkz:

• Best. Headline. Ever.
• What in the heck is this? I am beyond confused.
• Now, THIS guy is really on the ball.
• I don’t know many Canadians, and yet from the ones I’m closest to, this isn’t even remotely surprising.
• And let’s close things down with a quote from Bill Simmons’s latest mailbag. This may be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen on the internet:
  

  I want to go to the top of a really tall building, take a leak, finish, zip up, and then have my pee hit the ground. I want my entire pee to be airborne. Man I love beer.

  What more needs said?

omg no time to talk on vacation just go here look at new pictures ok thnx bai

Seeing as how I’m a bit of a gadgetphiliac (which is like being a fecalphiliac but with marginally less, you know, poop), I cannot tell a lie: I love the new iPhone. I covet it. Deeply. Which is completely stupid because it’s a PHONE. A $600 PHONE. (Which I want.)

But I won’t buy it. (Not least because if I spent $600 on a phone there’s a non-trivial chance my wife would kill me with a thatching rake.) I just don’t need it, which is how I justify most of my expensive doohickey purchases:

• New acoustic guitar: $800. Needed because my sister wanted back her guitar, which I had been borrowing. Or something. (I’m not sure she noticed she didn’t have it.)
• New camera: $900. Needed to take pictures of my adorable infant. (The camera I already had, well, it just didn’t DO it right.)
• New 50mm lens for camera: $100. I totally needed it to take more pictures of my adorable infant INDOORS. (I will use a similar justification next year when I spend $400 on an external flash with wireless remote.)
• New 28mm-300mm zoom lens for camera: $250. I just wanted to take better pictures at baseball games, really. But I do take pictures of my adorable infant/toddler with it.

Spending money is like an addiction, though, and sometimes it takes a hard moment to break one of it, like when one checks one’s bank account and discovers that one has overdrawn same. Not that I have, of course. But in the last few weeks, I have discovered that I need new pants, so I had to buy those; I couldn’t find my softball glove, so I acquired a replacement; I needed new batting gloves, so I bought those too; it adds up! Luckily, when taxes come around, I will deduct all these expenses because I’m writing a new novel about them, or at least that’s what you’re going to tell the IRS on my behalf if you get subpoenaed during the audit. (Burning questions: can other people be subpoenaed? Is “subpoenaed” the hardest word I’ve had to type all day? If I sell a single picture of Charles to my mother for like 50 cents, can I deduct all the camera-related purchases?)

Listen up people: here is the big news. Me and Old Navy are BOYS. Or…boyz? Boyxi0zrzx? I can’t keep track anymore. Anyway, once again, Old Navy has saved me from a fate worse than death: not owning any pants that fit over my Beyonce-style derriere. (Note: this fate is worse than death for anyone who may meet me in their daily travels. For me it’d be fine; I’d go naked most of the time but for the restraining order and all.)

My pants situation has been worsening, ’cause I’m hard on clothes; my inability to eat without dribbling colored liquids onto my lap, coupled with general clumsiness and the fact that my junk and booty both apply TREMENDOUS pressure on anything attempting to contain them, means that pants just don’t last very long. I finally had to throw away one of my few remaining pairs of good khakis on Monday because I sat down to eat my morning omelette and split a hole right through the crotch, through which my various Bits attempted to fairly LEAP. I think I ended up putting on pajama pants to go to work.

The big issue is that I am just fat (38-inch waist) and tall (34-inch inseam) enough that nobody bothers to stock clothes for me. Target has fat kid waists up to 42 or so, but doesn’t carry any 34″ inseams once you get past about a 34″ waist, because apparently people over 6 feet tall are NEVER anything but completely skinny. The same thing happens at pretty much every store at the Christiana Mall, including Macy’s, Aeropostale, The Gap, all that good stuff. A notable exception is Penney’s, which does have a boss Big-‘N’-Tall section, if you don’t mind wearing Dickies, which I do.

Old Navy, however, has 34-inch inseams all the way up to 40 and 42-inch waists, and is therefore my solution for all fat tall kid pants. Yesterday, HW and I finally found time to go (I bribed her by also taking her to Red Robin for gourmet burgers; mine had guacamole in it and was SO GOOD (and yet I wonder why I have a 38 inch waist)), and I picked up two pairs of pants that make my ass look absolutely delicious. For reals: one of the sales girls got that look in her eye, you know the one where they’re all “I want to bite you on the butt,” but she managed to restrain herself, probably because she saw that my wife and son were there.

And no young boy should have to witness his father’s booty getting chomped on by someone other than his wife.