Cold weather has arrived! Autumn is clearly the best time of the year. An end to the blistering heat that keeps me from going outside is merely the most frequently noted reason; I also get to look forward to our annual Homecoming party, as well as close in on the holidays.
The rest of this week the temps won't climb above about 65, allegedly. This weekend they might get to 75 or so, which will be nice for outdoor drinking. It might rain, but since I'll likely be drunk by noon, it's not really an issue. Plus, we might get the chance to play mud football, which is the best thing ever.
Speaking of football, my fantasy football team is now 5-0 and shows no signs of slowing down. I've been lucky so far this year; no serious injuries, while the rest of my league's guys seem to be getting mowed down like the Polish cavalry circa September 1939. Also, Priest Holmes is kicking BUTT. Milo seems to think he was my "sleeper" pick, but I knew he was the second best back in the league all along. Really. I did. I swear. Shut up.
Speaking of Milo, as I write this (Tuesday afternoon), his wife is in the throes of child production. And not the fun part at the beginning, but the agonizingly painful part at the end. I heard from Miles at noon and he said they expected to see 10 tiny fingers, 10 tiny toes, and (judging from the ultra sound) 1 massive schlong around 5 or 6 pm. Here's props to Mary and Brian and urchin (who I'm provisionally naming Matthew Hearn Smith until I hear differently), the first real progeny produced by anybody in my close circle of friends.
Speaking of children, my better half went on a business trip to Chicago last week and extended her stay a few days over the weekend to hang out with an old college buddy of ours. I took the opportunity to busy myself around the house and . . . who am I kidding. I drank a crapload of beer and hung around doing pretty much nothing.
Well, that's not entirely true. On Friday evening I went over to a coworker's house for a jam session, dragging along my bass for the ride. Bill is a real studiophile, and has a sizeable collection of Hammond B3s and Leslie speakers. He also has a Gibson Les Paul Standard, which was easily the coolest thing I've held in my hands. It has an action softer than a rabbit's fur (plus, it squirms less when you play it), and can make even a hamhanded putz like me sound like Joe Pass. Okay, maybe not, but close.
On Saturday I went up to the old high school's homecoming game, and realized I'd gotten there after halftime, and the band played PREgame anyway, so I was doubly retarded. Oh well. Dad and I snuck over to Stanley's and drank beers and ate skeevy, greasy food. It also occurred to me that I can drink 2 23 oz. glasses of beer in a little over an hour and not really notice. I'm hoping this is due to sheer muscle mass and not to the fact that I drink too much. Oh well.
John Mayer's coming back to Philly the night before Thanksgiving; I'm clearly going. I think tickets go on sale sometime this weekend, so I'll be snagging a couple so I can go watch him get his funk on with the wife. Wait . . . that didn't sound right. I mean go with the wife and watch him get his funk on. I think. Anyway, anybody that's interested in going along (and I know who you are and have expressed interest in hanging out with you on occasion) let me know and we can all ride up together.
Went up to Lancaster and celebrated my grandmother's 80th birthday a few weeks ago; definitely festive. You can see some amusing pictures of the wife and sister; they started calling themselves "Jebus's Phat Angels," which rapidly moved toward "Jebus's OBAAAASE Angels." They frighten me. Seriously.
