Short People

I feel kind of like Alfalfa did when he said, "then the clouds opened up and God said, 'I hate you Alfalfa.'" I just got the word that the ides of March came early this year and stabbed me in the back. St. Patrick's Day is officially cancelled. There will be no merriment, no song, no jig, and no leprechaun. The Avalanche has reneged and will not allow me use of their restaurant-and I have no other viable options. Just as I was feeling better and thinking maybe I could really get on with my life and host a party like gold ol' pre-cancer times-I get hammered back into reality. It's not in the cards for you fella. On the brink of redemption, damnation rears its ugly head yet again. So now what do I do? I guess I put all my eggs in one basket this time and took a shot-but it caromed off the edge. Pour a little on the sidewalk for a fallen friend would you? I guess Paul Newman was right.
I suppose I sound a bit melodramatic, but I've always been a little theatrical, plus I spent over 4 hours at the docs today-mostly waiting around. But as you can see I'm trying to deal with continued disappointment in a healthy way, with humor (see Randy Newman clip above), and with candid online conversations about my feelings.

Smokin' in the Boy's Room

Everyone remembers this almost sacred ritual of middle school with fondness. Ah, to be 14 again (ok, so nobody has ever wanted that, except for maybe Romeo, so he could not kill himself while his star-crossed lover yet lived). Anyway, I went to the public library yesterday, was browsing the bookshelf, and happened on this little ditty, "The Art of Smoking." My thoughts immediately turned to Brownsville Station and their reminiscent ballad to illegal behavior. So what if I was in the cooking section? My masculinity is still intact because 1. chicks like guys who will cook for them, 2. smoking is right alongside barbecuing as masculine methods of cooking, and 3. the first thing I thought of was really tobacco use, even though I was in the cooking section. I wish I had a candy cigarette to take a picture with-it's cold enough outside that my breath would look like smoke to a camera. Just imagine it in your mind. As an afterthought I realize that Motley Crue's Smokin' in the Boy's Room rooks harder, but on that fateful afternoon I thought of Brownsville Station first.