Teh Hockey!

AISOT, this is where I sang not one, but TWO national anthems on Monday afternoon.

You can see where I would have been standing, near the red circle in the upper right, if I hadn't been in the press box taking the picture. (I can't be in two places at once, people. It is the great shame of my life.)

The singing went well, although My Canadian-by-birth-Korean-by-choice friend Stefan pointed out that I said "my" when I should have said "our." Whatever. At least I didn't fall down.

BTW: I'm posting this from my iPhone. More on this awesome development later.

Computadoro

I've never insisted that I was particularly bright. Which is why it shouldn't come as a surprise to you that, up until this week, I had no serious backup setup for my computers at home. What changed this week, you ask?

Computer crash.

My wife's achy old Dell B130 would only boot to the Blue Screen of Sadness, so I got it into diagnostic mode and did some tests; the hard drive failed like a fat kid in gym. It did at least START to load Windows before it would roll over and point its feet in the air, so there must be SOMETHING remaining on the drive. I deduced that with a little genius, I could get it back to life.

This did at least give me an opportunity to do a little shopping on Amazon. I ordered a new 80GB drive for HW's laptop, thereby doubling her original capacity. Since I'm a moron and had never bothered to do proper backups, I also ordered a 1TB, that's 1000GB, USB drive to start doing so. I also picked up a $15 laptop drive enclosure, so that I could put Sarah's old drive in, and then plug in via USB to my Mac. If I could get the old drive to spin up, hopefully I'd be able to recover some data.

What I didn't have, and couldn't easily get, was any kind of "reinstall" CD. If the laptop had come with one, we couldn't find it. There was a sticker on the bottom of the case with a product ID number for Windows XP Home, so I bugged my dad to lend me his Windows XP Home CD, and went to town. Inserting the new 80GB hard drive was a breeze; switch around a few screws and a protective plate from the old drive to the new, and plug that puppy in. Mounted the Windows CD, formatted the hard drive, and XP Home was on its way. It prompted for the product ID number from the sticker on the bottom of the lappy, and I typed it in.

"The CD Key which you entered is invalid."

Huh? Maybe I mistyped it. It was annoying flipping the laptop over to get 5 digits of the code, and then flipping it back to type them in, so I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote the code down, then typed it in again.

"The CD Key which you entered is invalid."

What the heuristic hell? I checked the key I'd written down against the sticker once more; it was accurate. What I had was a Windows XP Home License that didn't work with the Windows XP Home CD I had. Good job, Microsoft; no wonder you're laying off thousands. (In a related story, my Mac is awesome.) I later deduced that the code I had was valid if I could have found the original Dell installation CD, but since I don't have one, I was SOL.

I did a little poking around warez sites to try and get a code, but none worked. Finally, through A Source, I was able to get a functioning code. It might not be ENTIRELY legal, but I reasoned that the laptop has a license for Windows XP Home, I'm trying to install Windows XP Home, it's not my fault that Dell didn't give me a CD to match the license key I had.

Finally got it installed and booted, only to discover that the CD came with only the barest drivers, none of which worked with the network cards in the lappy. So I had to waste a CD-R on the drivers I downloaded from Dell, but oh well. These are the prices we pay. (Along with, of course, the $200 for the various components I had to buy.)

Once that was done, I turned my attention to the old hard drive, which I screwed into the little enclosure I'd bought and connected to my Mac. It immediately recognized the drive, spun it up, and displayed all Sarah's folders. Good times! I'll just drag and drop. It copied around 6GB of data, and then EPIC FAIL!

Whatever was wrong with the drive (corruption, bad sectors, etc.) was preventing me from copying the entire thing. I decided I'd start with just getting the My Documents directories, so I dragged and dropped those: EPIC YAY!!!111!one

Final result: $200 spent, laptop disk capacity doubled, and 1TB backup drive purchased, which also gives me the ability to back up my entire gaming/recording desktop in the basement and rebuild it from scratch without all the spyware and viruses one gets from developing a truly mammoth collection of pornography illegal music jpegs of puppies.

Slow, painful, angry death

Since I reach a significant Age next week, I had to go to the DMV and renew my license. My car is also going to require renewal in two months, so I figured, hell, they'll let me do it now, why not kill two birds with one stone! Particularly when those birds are massive, slavering creatures with Adamantium talons who hate me and everything that we as a nation hold dear.

So I snuck out of work for an early lunch hour, thinking I'd beat the crowds. this handy website shows the wait times for various functions, and it was saying I'd wait no more than 5 minutes for my license, and maybe 10 for my registration. Awesome!

I arrived shortly after 11, and got into a short line at the inspection lanes. As I later twittered, I, as always, picked the wrong lane, and watched as 3 or 4 cars who arrived after me got in first. But the joke was on them! I had, completely on accident, picked the one lane that could do all the regular checks (turn signals, lights, horn, etc.) plus the ODBII check (where they plug into your car's computer to see if you've downloaded porn to it)! All the other lanes could do the car checks, but then you had to get into another lane for the computer read-out. This seems like a foolish way to do it, but I grinned happily as I parked and went inside, where I discovered that the South Wilmington DMV, unlike the New Castle one that is technically closer to my house but horribly inconvenient for a lunch hour visit, doesn't actually have "line;" it has a take a number system, so you can sit and read horrific books while you wait! (I went with Dude, Where's My Country? by Michael Moore, a book so painful that I got it at the dollar store. For a dollar.)

They were on number 202 when I sat down; I had number 222. So I read, and occasionally glanced up when the shift supervisor, the Mother Superior of the DMV, would get called over to yell at some poor soul who believed they could renew their car's registration without having the current one, or without an insurance card, or without retrieving their car from the impound lot whence it was towed for unpaid parking tickets. (An aside: some of these people were at least fifty years old. Folks, how do you not know how this works? How do you reach the age of fifty, probably renewing at least one vehicle every two years, and not know what documents you require for this process?)

Finally I was called up to a very polite gentleman who took my documents and money and gave me a new registration and sticker in three minutes flat. I fail to understand why this is such a difficult process for some people.

By that point it was roughly 12:30, and I had to go get another number to wait for my license renewal. I was number #177; they were at #140. I shed a few silent, hot tears and sat down next to some sort of kiosk. After 20 minutes or so, they had gotten only to #150, and a young woman came out and started fiddling with the computer at the little kiosk. In a flash of brilliant insight, I deduced the following:

1. Eventually, this lady was going to open this kiosk for business;
2. It was likely that they intended it to be an express lane, meaning it would most likely be available for people with simple class-D license renewals (no truck licenses, no new licensees, no state IDs, etc.);
3. It was also likely that the line would be first come, first served;
4. The instant they made any sign of opening up, I needed to spring to my feet and sprint to the head of the line, hardly a challenge since the kiosk was approximately three feet to my left.

Sure enough, at about 1:10pm, a supervisor came out and started to announce that they were opening the kiosk for simple license renewals, and before he had said two words I was standing next to the nice young woman running the show. I think I even semi-accidentally butted in front of another fellow, but he sensed that were he to confront me, I might roll up a Driver's Education Manual and beat him to death with it, so he held his tongue.

Because I know how to handle a drive-thru bureaucracy (just like a fast-food drive-thru; no special orders, basic meals only), I was through the line in three minutes, had my picture taken, and handed a literally piping hot new ID by 1:15. A little creative driving had me back at the office at 1:35! I think the word I'm searching for is "WOO!"

In short, the DMV is slow, news at Eleven.

Horrible, horrible things to say

A few tidbits:

• I wish I hadn't spent $200+ dollars on "Party Pigs" for my beer because, frankly, they suck. They're a nice a idea, because bottling beer is a huge hassle and I have a life to live, people, but unfortunately they don't live up to the hype. They just don't dispense beer very well. It starts out really, really foamy (like a real keg would), which I can live with, except that before the thing is even 1/2 empty it starts dispensing insanely slowly. Seriously, filling a pint glass takes so long you could time it with a calendar. The reason, as far as I can tell, is the expanding CO2 pouch inside starts blocking the spout, and there's not a lot you can do about it aside from just taking the thing apart, which you can't do without losing the beer (the pressure makes it go all over the place). For 40 bones a keg, I'd like to think I could get more than 2 beers out of it that weren't absolute foam, you know? Weak.
• Charles is very fond of a TV show called "Caillou", featuring a little whiny bald boy. It's a pretty lame show, but Charles loves it; it's full of crap wherein Caillou is afraid to go down the slide, but his mommy helps him, or Caillou is afraid of Santa Claus, but Santa turns out to be cool and likes Caillou's drawing (when a real mall Santa would be half in the bag and have no time for smarmy baldies). The parents are astoundingly patient; when they ask Caillou to do something and he whines "But I don't want to!" they commiserate and work out some kind of compromise, when any decent parent would just lightly backhand the brat and say "Just do it before I make you bleed."

  Why he's bald is never explained, so Sarah and I have developed this enormous backstory centered on our belief that he has leukemia and they just don't want to actually cover it. Anyway, as an example of the horrible, horrible things my wife and I can think up: Charles was watching the show, and Sarah and I were at the dining room table. I looked at the TV and noticed that Caillou's mom looked a little thick, so I said,

  "I think Caillou's mom is pregnant."

  To which Sarah replied, "Yeah...you know they need that marrow."

  We laughed for a good 5 minutes, and then discussed whether that was going to get us into hell, or if the decision had been made years ago.

Headlines and Titles

Is it just me, or is the presidential campaign, and the coverage thereof, somewhat weakened by the fact that nobody knows how to properly refer to the candidates and affiliated politicians?

Every time I read a headline saying "BUSH BLAH BLAH BLAH" or "PALIN BLAH BLAH BLAH," I think to myself, you know, these people hold important offices. They may be douchebags, but the office itself merits our respect. Why are they not referred to as President Bush and Governor Palin whenever they're mentioned? It may just be me, but I have a really hard time taking any pundit seriously when he refers to a United States Senator as simply "Biden."

I'm guessing it's just me.

Despite my success in the bike ride a few weeks ago, I'm still having difficulty with my staggering bulk; I hit 250 pounds again, and decided it was time to Rectify That Problem. So I've been eating nothing but meat and cheese (and the occasional glass of vodka while we were at the beach), and as a result have lost 6 pounds in about 4 weeks. I'm hoping to shed a good bit more by Thanksgiving, at which time I intend to gain it all back over a period of 8 days.

To that end, I've been making beer like Sam Adams's fat drunk brother-in-law. I have a Guinness-like "Irish Stout" already in the keg and bottles, and am fermenting a batch of English Pale Ale. I have two more kits ready for b'ilin', including a "Robust Porter" and an English Brown Ale. All in all, I'll be appearing at our Thanksgiving vacation house with 4 cases + 4 kegs of homemade beer totalling approximately 18 gallons. My uncles are excited.

You may have noticed I put a twitter feed in the top left. Don't be sadden'd; instead, embrace the technology. I actually plan to make some small effort to keep it updated. At least as well as I do this blog, since my updates this year have averaged a wavelength of what, three weeks? Holy crap, I'm lazy.

I didn't die!

Here's the secret to surviving a 45-mile charity bicycle ride: get a flat tire 3 miles from the start. I got one, and was in the process of repairing it myself, when a "SAG" ("Support And Gear" or "Support Aid Group," depending upon whom you ask) van rolled up with a professional who did it for me while I watched and enjoyed the cool morning air.

I should backtrack.

If you've been paying attention, you know I was participating in the Livestrong Challenge, a charity bike ride to support cancer research. There are a number of distances: a 10 mile, 45, 70, and 100. My boy Zak rode the 100, but because I value my life/knees/testicles, I was not planning to go that far. My homeskillet Sarah B, who happens to be Zak's girlfriend, and her brother Kyle agreed to ride the 45. The original plan was that we'd stick together, but that proved very optimistic.

The Livestrong folks emailed out updates to the schedule, which revealed that we had to pick up a "race packet" with our bib number and some other things, and the only times that this could be done were on Saturday the 23rd, or Sunday the 24th between 6am and 7am, at Montgomery County Community College, which is 1) where the ride kicks off and 2) over an hour from my house.

In short, I had to be up at 4:30am Sunday in order to get up there, get my packet, meet with my peeps, and be ready and warm for the ride.

The drive up was pretty tame, since nobody was on the road, but was complicated by the fact that I had replaced all four of my car's brakes the previous day and had not had time to drive the car the 100-200 miles needed to properly break them in. So if anyone had cut me off, there was a good chance everyone was going to die a fiery, screaming death, because I probably would not be able to stop in time. Nevertheless, I made it without incident, arriving around 5:35. I had time to kill, so I started scarfing down egg salad, and wandered over to the information tent to get in line for my packet. Bonus: nobody was there except for the people handing out packets, so I got mine right away. Bogus: now I had roughly 105 minutes to kill before the race kicked off, and I had no idea where my homies were.

Luckily, I had made plenty of beef jerky, so I was all set if I had to wait a long time.

A few text messages later it was determined the aforementioned homies were still at the hotel, so I read a cycling magazine I'd been given and tried to fill up on eggs (probably not the best move), eventually getting my bike loaded up and finally meeting Zak and Sarah and Kyle over by Sarah's dad's car. We made our way over to the starting point, making sure to be there by 7:30.

At 8am, they finally started making some stupid speeches that we couldn't hear because the stage was a 1/4 mile distant. Lance Armstrong appeared, said something unintelligible, and then wandered off. Eventually they announced something that sounded like "Evrrlo hnret...GO!" and we deduced they were sending off the 100-milers, which took a while because there were something like 800 riders, Lance among them, and then the 70-milers, and finally we poor 45-mile participants were let loose around 8:15.

Sarah and Kyle and I had made absolutely sure to place ourselves at the back of the field; Kyle would probably be able to take off, 'cause he weighs approximately 75 pounds and appeared to be made entirely of protein, but Sarah and I knew we needed to start slow, and then continue slow, and finally finish slow. So we pedaled along carefully, trying to avoid running anyone over (it was a big crowd), and finally things started to thin out. Kyle said, "Man, I really want to attack this hill, but I don't wanna leave you guys," but I urged him on, and he disappeared into the crowd.

Sarah and I puttered along, but she was riding a mountain bike that couldn't really hustle on the downhills, so she fell further behind, and I would wait, but finally she told me to just go, and I did. Got about two miles before I heard the tell-tale "fwap fwap fwap fwap" that indicated I was losing a tire. I looked back, and sure enough my rear was deflating with great gusto.

(My rear tire, I mean. Not my rear end. I'd like to see that deflate, but it doesn't appear to be filled with air. Mostly shoo-fly pie and prime rib.)

I had a spare tube, so I stopped, got out my kit, and set about replacing it, which is when the SAG car rolled up, and a nice gentleman got out and did the job for me. It was a good thing he did, since he found the pin in the tire that I had missed, and got me going much faster than I would have by myself. Plus, I got to stand and enjoy my beef jerky and icy water.

Once that was done, I got back on and went on my merry way. Now there was no one in front of me that I could see, so I didn't have to worry about bicicular (not a real word) traffic, so I could ride at my own slow pace, which I did until I reached the first rest station, which my odometer said was at mile 11. (Note: this later proved...inaccurate.) I ran across Sarah again, who had somehow passed me on the side of the road without seeing one another, and we loaded up on snacks and water and made off again. Sarah kept with me for a little ways, but after a while my powerful thigh muscles led me away. Just kidding; we found a long downhill and my sheer mass powered me down the slope.

Speaking of slopes: I topped out at somewhere around 38mph on this ride, going down an enormous hill. It doesn't seem like that's all that fast, but you have to realize that in a car, the tires have a contact patch (where the rubber meets the road) of 30-40 square inches per tire. Each of my bike's tires met the asphalt in an area smaller than my wang. It's...scary. Making it worse are the many people who don't seem to realize that for every big hill we have to go down, we have to climb back up an equally large one, and it behooves one to build up as much momentum as one can; I'm flying down the hill at 35+, blowing by people taking up valuable road space who are holding on to their brakes and cruising at 20mph or less.

(Bike people, sadly, are no better at traffic maintenance than the average American driver; the concept of keeping to the right to stay out of the way of faster bikes is well-known but largely ignored. Unbelievable, and very frustrating.)

Going up hills was a big problem because I am not built for it. Good climbers are always skinny little guys who may not be long on leg muscle but are so light that they just scoot right on up. I weigh just shy of 250 pounds; going up hills just flat out sucks. A lot of people were having similar problems and remedied it by getting off and walking. I couldn't do that, though; I didn't mind stopping for little breaks, but I didn't sign up for a 45 mile ride just to say I walked up all the hills. So I would go as hard up the hill as I could for as long as I could, and then would stop, put my feet down, eat some jerky, drink some water, and wait for the intense burning in my thighs to ease. Then I'd hop back on and get moving. Some climbs were so steep and long that I would do this two or three times. I passed the time while resting by cracking jokes with the walkers, like "Next year: Nebraska!" or "Who put this hill here? I'm going to have a word with Mr. Armstrong about this." They're not exactly knee-slappers right now, but let me tell you, they KILLED among the "exhausted and in staggering pain" demographic.

Cruising along, I was surprised to see how many people were just standing outside their homes to wave and clap as cyclists went by. Some people had set up their own small water stands, in addition to the sanctioned rest stops, just because they or someone they knew had cancer, and they wanted to help in some small way. It was rather moving to accept a free cup of ice-cold water from someone and have her thanking me.

Eventually I made it to the second rest stop, which appeared to be at the 22 mile mark, so I confidently sent a text message to HW to say I was halfway through. By this point it was about 10:30am, so my original plan to finish by noon was tossed by the wayside. I got moving again, and then climbed several of the largest hills I've ever seen. Seriously, it was like I was in Switzerland, and I made a pact with Jesus that if he let me finish I would totally stop taking His name in vain in front of elementary schoolchildren. (I'm trying, dangit.)

Then Jesus messed with me by making my rear tire pop again, this time with a loud BANG. I stopped just shy of an intersection where a nice policeman was directing traffic, and he came over to see if I could use some help. I told him I just needed to wait for a SAG van to replace my tube, and he said he could call for one, but the next rest stop was just about a half-mile away, and it was downhill. If I could carefully coast to it I wouldn't have to wait.

So I did. Think it's dangerous going downhill at 35mph? Try doing it at 7.5 on a flat rear tire. But I made it, and in fact they replaced the tube and the tread, which was described by the tech as "suspicious." Going to refill my water bottles, I checked my odometer and was chagrined to discover that because of the hills I'd only really gone about 6 miles since the last stop. The good news: by my calculations I'd gone 28 miles in total, so I only had 17 to go! I was, like, 60% done! I checked my phone to see if HW had written back, and had a few congratulatory messages from her, but was saddened to see that Sarah B had had to bail out after a truck pulled out in front of her and she twisted her knee screeching to a halt. I felt pretty guilty, since I had told her, her brother, and her dad that I wouldn't leave her behind, and...um...did. Twice, in fact. I hoped she wasn't too badly injured, but there wasn't anything I could do about it now.

So I got moving. I knew the next rest stop had been 11 miles from the beginning (about which, you may recall, I was incorrect). I believed myself to be 17 miles from the end, and since it was just a big out-and-back trip, I only had to go 6 more miles to the last rest station. I figured I'd stop, take a long rest, load up on jerky and water for the last (mercifully flat) stretch of the ride.

Imagine my surprise when I got to mile 34 and there was no sign of the rest station. Nor at mile 35, or 36. I was starting to worry I'd gotten off the course, but was still seeing signs directing bicyclists, as well as other riders. I worried most that I'd somehow gotten redirected onto the 70- or 100-mile courses, where I would die a painful and tragic death, I was sure.

Then, at mile 38, I came upon the station. As I loaded up on water, I overheard someone saying that there were only 9 miles left (not the 11 I thought), and I remembered: I had reset my odometer after unloading the bike from the car, but NOT after riding about two miles to warm up and look for Sarah B and her boys. So all my distance calculations were about 2 miles optimistic. I hadn't gone 38 miles; only 36. And the first stop hadn't been at 11 miles, it had been at 9. Oh well.

The last stretch was indeed largely climb-free, but at that stage of my exhaustion even the smallest hills required the slowest gear and a great deal of agony. Finally I started crossing roads that I remembered being close to the end, and by my corrected odometer I realized I was only two miles away, then one, and then I saw Montgomery County Community College. I had never been so eager to see an accredited institution of secondary education in my entire life. I ended up rolling into the finish at approximately 1:15, 5 hours after I started.

The end was a little emotional; they radio ahead your number so the announcer can look up your name and shout it over the PA system as you ride in, and there were literally hundreds of people clapping, waving, screaming, and having a high old time. There are actually two lanes for finishers: regular participants like me, and cancer survivors, who are greeted with flowers and extra adulation. Coupled with the fact that I was completely exhausted and excited to have finished, and I almost got a little choked up by it all.

I tried to track down Sarah B and her peeps, but never managed to; I went to the post-race party, where I kept getting dust in my eye as they introduced cancer survivors and entire teams of people who were riding for their grandfather or aunt or just a good friend. I got a beer, some pasta (eff low-carbing it, I was hungry), looked around for my friends (no dice), and headed home.

I did later find out that Sarah B didn't hurt her knee too badly, and now she had something fun to brag about (apparently her parents already turned the story from "A pickup pulled out and I had to stop short" to "A mack truck cut me off and flung me into a ditch"), so all's well that ends well, although frankly I still kinda feel like a dick. As usual.

On the other hand, I did successfully cycle 45 miles in 5 hours. So go me.

A big hearty thanks to everyone who donated; I'll be sending out personal thanks over the next few weeks but would feel bad if you felt unappreciated in the meantime. So...THANKS!

Balmer

Sarah and I went to Baltimore last weekend. Short version? Hella fun. Long version? Here we go:

We got up with Charles on Saturday morning at his usual time, aka 0-dark-30. We played with him a good bit, he jumped on my belly, I almost threw up, just laughs galore. Meanwhile, Sarah got all packed up and ready to go, and then dropped Charles off with her parents whilst I showered, did a little ironing, and packed.

She got back, we both used the bathroom like responsible adults, and got on the road. We were in East Baltimore in just over an hour, which was pretty remarkable, both the speed of the drive as well as East Baltimore itself. The place goes very suddenly from "horrifically seedy" to "heck of yuppie" in approximately a block, something we were to discover later in our walking travels.

We found reasonable parking ($20 for 24 hours) near our hotel, got checked in, and decided our best option for fun and frolic was to go to Fell's Point. We had in fact selected our hotel in the belief that it was reasonably near Fell's Point, but it was technically closest to the Inner Harbor. Either way, everything was pretty much in walking distance. So we hoofed it into Fell's.

We expected to see a bunch of fun little shops and restaurants, and while there were a few of the former and a bunch of the latter, what there was more than anything else was bars. Sadly, few of them were my speed (quiet, probably expensive, full of dapper gentlemen in ascots and expensive sports coats and plasticine blondes with large white teeth), but we ventured into one that we had a coupon for from our hotel package, mostly because Sarah had to pee. It was named Max's Taproom, and it was unpleasant. Loud, filled with post-graduate D-bags, and featuring skanky waitresses attempting to cash in on Hooters-style garb.

Hooters sounds like a great idea on paper; decent food, particularly good wings, and hot waitresses wandering around in tight clothing delivering the grub. Unfortunately, in practice, you leave the place unsatisfied. I've never been served by a waitress at a Hooters that had, you know, Hooters. They try and synthesize them by wearing brassieres that would be tight on a Chinese gymnast, but meh. Plus they wear enough makeup that you really have no idea what their facial features look like. Is that a mole, or a goiter? Who can say? And Max's had nothing but Hooters cast-offs. It was depressing.

HW drained her urine tank and we scuttled out of there without having purchased a drink, for which I felt guilty a bit, until I had to scrape my feet on the sidewalk a few times to remove nasty beer stickum. We went across the street to the Greene Turtle to cool our heels, as we had more discount coupons for that. Went inside, saw a waitress who invited us to sit wherever, we said we'd be outside at a table that just opened up, and she said she'd be right out. So we sat outside for ten minutes until she finally poked her out of a nearby door and said, "Has anybody helped you?"

"No, not since you said you'd be right out," I didn't say.

"Not yet!" I actually said, cheerily, because I find in life that there is absolutely no sense in irritating someone who could spit herpes simplex-laden saliva into your drink if she senses her tip will be anything less than 25%.

The coupons specified that we could get a two-for-one drink deal if we ordered identical drinks, and this is where the complexity began: I have decided, as a result of tipping the scales north of 250 pounds, to go back on the low-carb diet. The only booze you can have (and they don't recommend you have any) is straight stuff, because theoretically all the carbs in it have been turned to alcohol, which I guess doesn't count as carbs for whatever reason despite the fact that it's still pure calories. Whatever. Sarah agreed to drink whatever I planned to order, so I got us two vodka martinis. Then I drank hers, because she thought it tasted like brake fluid. I think she then ordered a beer. Might have been a rum-and-Coke. I honestly do not recall vividly, because if you're keeping score I'd had most of two vodka martinis to this point.

I had a third, while we enjoyed some wings, and then asked for the bill. We had to do a bit of haggling with the check; the first time she brought it to us, none of our discounts had been added. The second time, the discounts had been applied to the wrong drink (costing us $3, but hey man, that's three double cheeseburgers), but the third time, all was well, so I threw some cash at the bill and we went a-wandering yet again.

We tried to find some shops and things to look at, but aside from a gallery of photographs that were retouched to look like paintings (which I guess qualifies as art, in the same way that Photoshop-filtered puppy pictures are art) and a jewelry store where HW bought me a nice silver ring, there wasn't much. Just bar after bar filled with drunks. Not that I'm much complaining; I'd had three martinis, after all, after not having had a drink in about a week, and was walking on air, or would have been had I not been so fat that the air was unwilling to support my heft.

We wandered north up Broadway a bit, and were bemused to discover that the quality of shops went from "10% off summer Silver" to "25% off all Hemp wear!" to "75% of weavs" in about a block. North of that, there be monsters. We came about smartly and headed back south.

After walking some more blisters into our feet, we decided to find a place to eat, and here was where the brilliant luck occurred: we had another coupon from our hotel good for $50 off of any one of three restaurants, and so we selected "Kali's Garden," which sadly has no website other than a few google links that seem to think it's a Middle Eastern restaurant, which it is most definitely not.

Kali's Garden is gourmet American cuisine done right. A good dose of seafood, of course; I had raw oysters that were YUMMMMMM, and bouillabaisse that was disappointing, although I don't think that was the restaurant's fault as much as me realizing that I don't much care for bouillabaisse. Sarah had a filet that was like butter, although filet is rather hard to screw up. Even my incompetent hands can cook tenderloin to a state of scrumptiousness.

The service was, as you might expect at a place charging upwards of $32 for a basic entree, spectacular and friendly. Sarah closed the meal with crème brûlée that was quite fantastic, although again it's difficult to screw up, while I polished off my 7th martini of the day and a free glass of champagne. Then we stumbled back to the hotel.

It was early yet, only about 7:30pm; we were tired of walking, but still too ramped up to sleep. So we wandered the Inner Harbor, did a spate of shopping (we bought a little wind-up crab for Charles, which he inexplicably hates because once it's wound up, it can't be turned off), and decided the sensible thing to do was go back to the hotel and get more drinks.

The hotel featured three on-site establishments: a Ruth's Chris franchise, something called "McCormick and Schmicks" or something like that (it seemed profoundly shady, and we avoided it) and a small bistro called "My Panini." We figured our best shot at cheap fare was at My Panini, particularly since we discovered it had a functioning bar. We wandered in and sat, and a nice gentleman handed us two menus. We decided what we wanted to snack on and drink, and waited for service.

And waited.

And waited a weeeee bit longer.

Finally a breathless young man came over, apologized profusely, took our drink and food orders, and then sprinted back to the bar and disappeared. We watched the bartender, not 15 feet from us, pour our drinks and sit them on the edge of the bar to get nice and warm, and waited for our waiter, who finally came back and delivered my salad (disappointing) and the drinks. We drank those and chatted, and he came back after a bit to get a further order, which we gave him, and he disappeared, such that we finally tired of waiting and simply got up to the bar to get our own drinks and place our own orders. On the plus side, we didn't get charged for something like 3 of the 5 drinks we had, so I didn't undertip too harshly.

We headed back upstairs and passed out like a hurricane.

The next morning, we planned to go see the Maryland Science Center, so we chugged some tylenol against our staggering hangovers and went downstairs to My Panini (where we were eligible for free breakfast) to fortify ourselves. We were told upon entrance that our coupons were good for a free cold breakfast, which amounted to cereal and fruit (neither of which I could eat), or $5 off of the hot breakfast, bringing the price down to $6.99 per person, plus drinks, which were exorbitant: $2.19 for a cup of coffee that tasted of seawater? What is this insanity?

My Panini, I'll say this once, and you should listen: suck it. Your prices are ridiculous, the food is disappointing, and your service is an abomination before the Lord.

After this disheartening experience, we decided that the Maryland Science Center was too great a task for the day, so we decided to wander the Inner Harbor in daylight, do some more shopping, take some pictures of various ocean-going vessels, and partake of as many tasty snacks as we could. It was a limited success; there were certainly plenty of people wandering around, though many of them were bums hassling the tourists for "spare" change. We did get to "enjoy" a "juggler" who did a minimum of juggling and a maximum of insulting his audience in a way that was 10% funny and 90% awkward. I'm glad he spent the first 5 minutes of his act reminding everyone that he'd appeared on Jay Leno and David Letterman and yet had time to come down and do his routine for the moron tourists of Baltimore's Inner Harbor. That really made us want to open our wallets. I don't think the guy made 50 cents all day, which is definitely not nearly as good as when the Y-chromes went to Baltimore my senior year and did an impromptu five-song concert in the middle of the...campus? whatever it is- and netted a small fortune, enough to keep us pretty much hammered the rest of the day, which was a spectacular idea since we had a concert that evening and I ended up throwing up on a frat couch at the after-party and got everybody kicked out.

But that is another story for another time.

Once we got our fill of wandering, we tried to find a nice little bistro for snacks, but unfortunately there's nothing in the Inner Harbor but chain restaurants, so we settled for a Houlihan's where we had Diet Cokes and mediocre spinach dip.

And then we drove home.

Whoomp there it...uh, it isn't, I guess. What?

Here's an update, bulleted with a blue sky:

• The LiveSTRONG Challenge donations continue apace! A big thanks to everyone who has donated. You'll all be getting much more personal thanks from me than just a mention on my blog, don't worry. (The promised hugs will most definitely be forthcoming.) I've been training, including doing some ridiculous hills (because the route's out in Montgomery County and promises to be fluctuous). I'm still working up my distance; the furthest I've ever gone is about 20 miles (the route is 45 miles), but I'm pretty confident I'll be able to finish. For one thing, I'm riding with my homegirl Sarah and her brother, and for another, the course opens at like 8am and doesn't close until somewhere around 4. Even my fat butt can finish a 45 mile bike ride in 8 freakin' hours. I'll be disappointed if it takes more then 3.5, although my pace will be dictated by whomever in our party is the slowest; I'm not leaving anybody behind. Of course, the odds are I will be the one getting left behind, which is fine with me. I ain't holdin' anybody up. If you'd like to donate and make my sacrifice worthwhile, use the link above and chip in some ducats, doggle.
• Oklahoma! wrapped up, I have something like 3,000 pictures from two photographers (Kate and myself) to go through and pick the cream of the crop. It may take some time, so if cast members are coming here wondering where the heck the pictures be at: patience is a virtue. I won't even have the full set of pictures until at least the cast party on Saturday 'cause Lord knows we need documentary evidence of that freakish dance party FOR. REALS.
• Charles sings the ABC song as follows: "A B C D F G H I J K L P Q R S two Vs double X Y Z Now know ABDs next sing me!" It's priceless.

That's what I've got. Challa.

Baby Kathryn

Dr. Tea-Gar pointed out in a comment to my last post that I was horribly remiss to not report the birth of my niece. Yeah, I am dumb. Somehow, the birth of my parents' first granddaughter slipped my mind. And I wasn't even drinking at the time! Of course, statistics show that I actually have a more reliable memory when I'm half in the bag.

Anyway. Moving on:

I would like to present Kathryn Amelia, born at 8 pounds 1 ounce, 20 inches long, on July the First.

(Link goes to Shutterfly, where those of you who are so inclined could order prints. It's a 10MP shot, so it should inflate to just about poster-sized, although it'll be grainy 'cause it's ISO1600.)

Crikey

Wow, it's been like 3 weeks and a day. That is pretty sad, for someone who prides himself on...well...I'm not sure what I pride myself on. Food consumption, I guess, and I'm also remarkably good at growing zits.

Anyway, you might be curious about what's been going on, but probably not. The new job really has me hoppin', and I'm loathe to do anything but, you know, actually work, because I'd like to keep my job. (At CSC getting fired would have been almost a pleasure, so I did a significant portion of my blogging from the office.) The Brandywiners show ("Oklahoma!") has me at one rehearsal or another almost every night, and we haven't even gone out to Longwood (the location of the outdoor theater) yet. Things are gonna get mad hectic. MAD. HEC. TIC. TAC. TOE.

That went to a weird place.

Anyway, some quicky notes:

• I love my new MacBook. (You may have read about it in an earlier post.) There's all kinds of radness associated with it, and I finally managed to get all my favorite programs installed. Woo! Woo. If you've got the means (they're roughly twice as expensive as a comparable PC), I highly recommend picking one up.
• I finally got around to starting to use Shutterfly, bringing me into approximately 2004. I'm catching up, I swear! Anyway, you can hit up matthearn.shutterfly.com to look at some recent pictures, and even download or order quality prints of 'em if you've of a mind to.
• While I'm in the picture-editing mode, hopefully I'll have new pictures of Charles to put up in the next day or two. I mean, I have the pictures; hopefully they'll be up. If you're curious, he's the size of a prize calf. It's like feeding a full-grown St. Bernard, except blonder and louder.

Yeah, that's what I got. Hopefully I'll see you in less than 3 weeks. No promises, though.

Playing catch-up

It's been some time, so we're gonna break it down West Virginia-style. Show me what you got!

• I may or may not have mentioned, I got a new job! Actually, I know I didn't mention it, because nothing was finalized until just a few weeks ago, I didn't want to jynx anything, and then things were insanely busy for the last few weeks at CSC and then of course the first week at AIG.

  I'm not gonna say anything rude about CSC, since that seems tacky and possibly actionable at law, but I will say this: wow, what a difference. AIG is just a completely different environment. In some ways that's great, and in some ways it's not so great, but the aggregate result is general awesomeness.

• I'm finally going over to the dark side. Or was I already on the dark side, and now I'm going over to the light side? Hard to say, but it is certainly the whitest piece of electronic equipment I've ever owned. I, of course, ordered it on a Friday afternoon before a holiday, so I'll be lucky if I have it by mid-June.
• Speaking of computational power, I got permission to buy MYSELF a new lappy by fixing my wife's, a 2-year-old Dell Inspiron B130 that had developed the following inexplicable behaviors:
  1. Getting hotter than a melon picker's taint in August. Seriously, if you turned it on and sat it on your bare legs, after a while you'd start to smell singed hair and be like, the hell? OW!
  2. Ridiculous slowdowns at completely random times. Work in Photoshop for 45 minutes? No problem! Attempt to open up Wordpad? Oh, that's gonna take me a few minutes. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!
  3. Heat-related shutoffs. Basically the box would just turn itself off, and then turned it on after it cooled, you'd get this nice message saying "I turned myself off 'cause it was too hot out!" Really great.
  I did a little googlin' and found two possible solutions to the problem:
  • Take the lappy apart and blow the dust out of it. I took it apart as far as I dared (didn't wanna break anything) and didn't see much in the way of dust, but I sprayed it with a can of air anyway. No effect.
  • Undervolt the CPU so that it absorbs less electricity, and thusly, less heat. Turns out this model CAN'T undervolted. Yay!
  So I was getting pretty pissed, and finally went to the Dell website to see if I could find instructions on complete disassembly of the system, and found a thing saying "if your B130 is overheating, here is how to take out the heat sink and clean the dust out of it." What? Why didn't Google turn this up? Google, you have led me astray!

  So I took the heat sink out, and sure enough, there was a clump of cat hair in there big enough to roll into felt and make a hat from. I got that out, blew some can o' air in there, and put everything back together. Now there's no heat problems at all. I've had this sitting on my junk for the time it's taken me to type this out (maybe 20 minutes) and nothing's afire! Woo!

  As an added bonus, the CPU processing power has gone from about 1GHz to 1.4GHz. I guess processors have ways of detecting when things are too hot and just slowing everything down. Ain't a problem no more, this puppy's whirling like a dervish.

  So in short, if your compy is too hot and it's burning your groin, pop the heat sink out and clean it.

The end.

Go see "In The Heights" on Broadway, as it is totally rad. Don't believe me? Here's what the NY Times had to say on the subject. I think they're pretty much spot-on, which means I agree with the Times on something, a scary thought. The music and dancing are FANTASTIC (the pit orchestra is particularly good), the dialogue reasonably funny, the plot sort of predictable and disjointed, but it's Musical Theater, not an Albee play.

It doesn't hurt that our friend Shaun is in it, primarily as a chorus member but also an understudy for two of the leads. So go see it.

We drove up last Saturday, a day those of you on the Eastern Seaboard was mostly one long torrential downpour. The drive was stressful. Two hours of driving at 60mph on horrible New Jersey roads, not being able to see more than about 100 feet in front of the car. Seriously, NJ, is there any reason why your roads have to be bumpier than my face? The Jersey Turnpike is one long rumble strip. It was particularly nice when the wind would blow from right to left, and I'd steer to the right to keep in my lane, and watch in wonder as the car continued to drift to the left because the front wheels had started hydroplaning. I'd lift off the gas, the wheels would stick, and the car would jerk to the right. One poor soul almost spun his Jetta in front of me, would would have resulted in Death and Dismemberment for all concerned.

We finally arrived in Manhattan, parked at a reasonably non-shady parking garage near Times Square, and walked the half-block to the DoubleTree Suites. My parents were up for the weekend as well and had already checked in, so we just grabbed a room key from the desk and headed up. Thank SGLBJ for high-speed elevators, says I, because we were on the 29th floor. The view was fantastic, and I had my camera, so it's a surprising oversight of mine that I didn't take a single picture of anything all weekend. Sorry about that.

I plopped myself in a chair to try and bleed off some stress, while Sarah mixed me a tasty intoxicating beverage from the stash we'd brought with us (because if you're going to open the minibar at a hotel anywhere in the world, and triply so in New York, you may as well just start wiping your ass with twenties). After we changed clothes and relaxed a bit, we headed out to meet our friends for dinner at "El Deportivo," which sounds like some kind of place the INS takes detainees for a last meal before shipping them back to Nicaragua. We ordered drinks, met up with our friends, and then I left.

I had to work, you see. Some application guys had scheduled a major upgrade for the weekend, and needed someone to run a backup of their system first, and I was the guy. I'm always the guy. Remember when I said I'd been working too hard? Yeah, having to interrupt drinking and fun to go do work is not good times. Luckily, it went superfast, so I ran back out to meet up with the family and friends at a bar near the Richard Rodgers theatre named "House of Brews," which had cask ale. This is not something one normally finds in America, so I had one, and it was fantastic. Man...English beer. Good stuff.

The theatre was pretty bumpin', a good crowd for the last preview show before Opening Night (which was on Sunday). We had pretty decent seats, on the lower level, good view of the stage. My knees were pressed hard into the back of the seat in front of me, which kinda sucked for the guy sitting therein, because I have a tendency to start pretending to play the drums when I hear funky latin beats, and my bass-drum leg was making that poor fellow's seat bounce up and down like Carmen Electra on a trampoline. He almost turned around to say something and I realized and stopped, but it was an effort to remain reasonably still for the remainder of the performance.

Luckily, it was captivating. Like I said, a little predictable, but who cares about that. I know how "No Country For Old Men" ends (I read the book), but I'm still beyond stoked to see the movie. "In The Heights" is the kind of show that I almost hope doesn't have too long a run, because it'd be nice to have MTI or Tams-Witmark get hold of it so I could do it at Brandywine High in a few years, although we'd have to have one HELL of a pit band to pull it off. It's just fun from beginning to end. And the guy that wrote it, and stars in it, is all of 28. Speaking as someone who is slightly older than 28: I hate him. Go see the show.

After the show, we met Shaun at the stage door, and he was able to take us inside and show us the set, which was ridiculously detailed. One of the leads had brought in a high school portrait of herself which they hung in the shop owned by her character's parents. There was an ATM with graffiti on it (it appeared to have signatures of the cast and/or crew all over it in bright neon colors). The sidewalk upstage had GUM STAINS ON IT. These are the kind of details you can do, I guess, when you have months to construct a set. (My favorite set of all time, although I'm hardly an expert on such things, was the one they had for "Sunset Boulevard" where a house descended from the rafters. Not a small house, either, but the entire downstairs interior of a Hollywood mansion, covering almost the entire stage, simply dropped into place, with Glenn Close walking around on it as they did so.)

Sarah and I took the opportunity to bust a few moves on the stage, so we can now say (and in fact have been telling everyone we know) that we have Danced On Broadway.

Afterwards, Shaun took us to a club named either "W" or "The Whiskey," I'm not entirely sure which. The confusion stemmed from the fact that it was all basically one club, but with two completely separate environments: a 7th floor lounge, where we stood around for a while and were bored, and a basement dance club, where we found ourselves around midnight and simply threw down the moves for upwards of 90 minutes. I awoke on Sunday with crippling thigh pain because of my unstoppableness on the dance floor. Eventually, we tired, and some folks had to take trains and cars to get back to their normal lives, but the rest of us headed to a pizza place, where I ate half a pie and part of another to soak up the staggering amount of gin I'd taken in by that point. Eventually, Sarah and I made it back to the hotel, where we crashed hard on the pull-out bed.

The next day, we managed to actually get up, get breakfast, and get on the road shortly after noon, and aside from an incident where I did something stupid in the Lincoln Tunnel and almost caused an accident, made it back to Delaware safe and sound. Whoo. The next day, I went back to work, and nearly wept at my desk.

Tomorrow: the final installment of pictures of Charles from like 2 months ago. I'll have to take some more; he's probably grown an inch since then.

Okay, so here is what has been going on, and it is crazy.

We have a new customer at work, about whom I can basically say nothing, except that

1. it's actually a pretty cool client to work with, and
2. contractual obligations have required us to have things in place on an INSANE timetable.

So, in short, I've been working ridiculously hard, something that is anathema to my very soul. This has left little time for sleep, not least because the stress prevents me from sleeping very well, and when coupled with the spring high school show we're doing again this year (Wizard of Oz, April 10th,11th,12th, be there or be crushed by a flying house) and the supposedly-only-21-months-old-but-the-size-of-a-3-year-old toddler that's destroying my house, I end up doing things like writing 89-word run-on sentences with multiple nested parenthetical asides (like this one (and this one)).

Luckily, things at work have slowed JUST a teense (although I still have some stuff ramping up that I'm hoping to get ahead of before it gets too insane), just in time of course for the musical to get super busy. Extra-luckily, we learned from our mistake with last year's show (doing it in mid-March after only about 2 months of rehearsals, many of which got snowed out) and are doing it almost a full month later this year, plus not many rehearsals got snowed out, so we're in good shape. Of course, we have to deal with spring break in the middle of rehearsals, because Easter is about as early as it can possibly be, but that's a small price to pay for, say, not opening this weekend, which would have me cutting my legs like emo girl.

Plus, I found a little time to start working on a novel. Yes, I'm writing a novel! As you might expect, it's pretty bad! Like, almost painful. But I've decided that dammit, I'm gonna finish it, even if it's just a practice one. If it turns out to be not a complete embarrassment, I might share it with you. If after about 17 drafts it actually ends up being half-decent, I might send it around to some publishers, as soon as I figure out how to do that. This is not likely, however, as so far the only redeeming quality seems to be that some of my fishing reel trivia is correct.

See? I told you. BAD.

Later this week, you'll have one more righteous picture update from Charles, and I might actually take a break from going insane to tell you all about going to see "In The Heights" on Broadway last week. Hint: I HAVE DANCED ON THE BROADWAY STAGE!

In my never-ending quest to be exactly 4 years behind my peers, technologically, I finally got an iPod. For a long time I maintained that any music player was as good as another, and in fact convinced my wife a few years ago to buy me a little 256MB player that held 70 or 80 songs and was very small and compact and handy. It had some downsides, though: it used a single AAA battery, which it would burn through in about 45 minutes; it was nearly impossible to control the volume easily, which probably took a few hertz off of my audible range; and also it required a proprietary USB cable which I immediately lost, so the songs that were on it were gonna stay on it, which is unacceptable as long as Justin Timberlake keeps releasing albums.

So anyway, I put an iPod nano on my Amazon.com wishlist a while back, and managed to update it to the new video version long enough before Xmas that HW bought me one. It's simply fantastic. It's like a monolith, and it has changed me from a raving caveman into a hip Seattle-style intellectual. (Sorry, I just read 2001: A Space Odyssey for the first time.)

Don't worry, this isn't going to turn into some kind of indie band blog, 'cause let's face it: 99.9% of indie bands are independent of the major labels because they suck Donkey Kong.

Anyway, a few thoughts on the iPod nano:

• It is ridiculously small. Seriously, I look at it and marvel at what science can do. It's about the size of 3 credit cards stuck together, and holds 8 freaking gigabytes of data, be it mp3s, videos, photos, or even games. Note: playing games on an iPod is kinda sucky.
• I had never really gotten into the whole "podcast" thing, because without an actual iPod I could only listen to them on my computer, and if I'm sitting in front of my computer I'm undoubtedly reading something or playing a game, and can't concentrate on the voices in my ear. Having an iPod changes everything; I download podcasts and listen to them in my car, which is fantastic because the average podcast is roughly 25-30 minutes, and it takes me 25-30 minutes to get from where I work to Sarah's parents' house to pick up Charles. So awesome.
• Perhaps it's just the shape of my lobes, but the earbuds just won't stay in my ear very well. It's not a problem if I'm just sitting at my desk listening to tunes, but I can't imagine jogging with them. I think my ears are just too big. They make decent headphones that wrap around the ear (I have a pair I bought for my other mp3 player, although they're kinda beat up now), but the iPod earbuds sound particularly good, and I don't think a cheapy set would fit the bill. Some of my readers are enormous individuals who probably have iPods; how do you guys listen to your jams?

Also, since I'm always about 2 years behind on pop culture, HW and I are getting caught up on "Heroes," which I think is the best network drama on TV. More about that later in the week.

This is the cold that never ends. It just goes on and on, my friends. Some germs got in my body made me feel filled up with fuzz, I can't seem to get rid of them and it's all just because this is the cold that never ends...

It's not a BAD cold, it's just ANNOYING. Just a sort of general ague that leaves my nose running, though I can still breathe through it, and my throat filled with various goos that I can't seem to cough up. Plus my earache comes and goes, that's an added bonus. I managed to fight through it for a Messiah performance yesterday, but that's mostly because my solos were all in the first part, so I didn't have to try and save myself for stuff towards the end. All the worrisome bits were done by intermission, which meant I could just stand up and sit down and periodically yell in baroque counterpoint, while stuffing cough drops into my mouth and yawning to drain my eustachian tubes. It was good times for all! Yes, yes it was.

The performance went superbly, actually; we had some new soloists this year, a tenor named Ken, and an old acquaintance named Gus singing countertenor. Dude sings like a lady! It's awesome.

The rest of the weekend was spent completely ignoring my self-imposed dietary restrictions in favor of chips, fudge, and alcohol. These are a few of my favorite things, particularly when the chips are Grandma Utz's, the fudge is handmade by yours truly, and the alcohol is in vast quantities. Plus my wife let me sleep in on Saturday for no good reason at all. If I could have figured out a way to not get called for work all weekend (despite not actually being on call; my job is really great) it would have been very restful.

I hope your Christmas shopping is in a better state than mine; my usual effort to make up for being a dick 364 days a year by spending too much money on friends, family, and charities is WAAAAAAY behind. I have some stuff, but need to make an inventory before making any further purchases so I don't end up with a situation in which I have 17 items for my father and 3 for my mother. (This is hyperbole, you understand, but I'm pretty sure as of now I have 2 or 3 big presents for Dad and not one thing for Mom. Although I think Sarah has stuff for her; I'll just replace her labels with ones that say "from your loving eldest progeny." Just like every year!) Usually by this time I've already basically completed my purchases and just have to make with the wrapping, but it's been a busy fall. BTW: people that want good presents make and update their Amazon wishlists. If you leave me to just buy you whatever I think you might like, well, that's how people end up with CDs like this.

Don't worry, not dead; we have some doings going on at work lately that have me busting my butt. Hard work not being something to which I am accustomed, it's all I can do not to go home, squirt Cheeze Whiz into my mouth, and pass out in front of the TV. I have a bajillion picture albums I need to go through and get uploaded, so that'll at least provide some entertainment, something to look forward to, for you, my reader. (I'm pretty sure there's just the one, at this point.)

I shouldn't complain, actually; I disappeared all last week for a lengthy Thanksgiving break, went and visited a new baby (Hi, Olivia!), and then crashed at a beach house on the Outer Banks for 5 days with Charles. I've been on a major beer-making frenzy for the last couple months, so I had plenty to take with me (and will have something like 3 cases + 3 kegs available for New Year's); I had something like 2 cases plus a small party keg onhand, so we got our festive drink on for 5 solid days. Thanksgiving morning, I cruised back up to DE so that Charles and I could be on hand for official celebrations with Sarah's parents. Then we spent the next three days recovering, by which I mean eating and drinking everything in the house. After managing to lose something like 9 pounds in 2 weeks prior to the break, I gained 11 pounds in 10 days. Go me!

In other news, I have acquired a New Car, specifically a 1997 Saab 9000 CSE. It was a gift from My Pops, whom I thank profusely, because driving to North Carolina in a 1998 Mazda Protege would have been uncomfortable and possibly unsafe. The Saab is a year older, and has something like 20,000 more miles, but it's a Saab, so it'll last for another 100K miles, and the Mazda was destined to fall apart like the Bluesmobile at any moment. (If I'd thrown a rod somewhere in Virginia, I would not have been surprised.)

That is about the absolute latest and greatest. Not that you care. I'll try and actually make with the funny with a quickness, since the last month has been apologies, religious war, and pointless diary entries. Yay!

Like many Americans, I am on a diet. And also like many Americans, I hate it and it's not working. Well...it sort of is. I can't tell.

The problem is that I weigh exactly the same as when I started, roughly 240 pounds. (What can I say? I got a BIG ASS.) But my pants fit better, my belt is on a thinner notch, and people have been asking me if I've lost weight. I'm all, whaaaaaa? I have lost no weight! I weigh the same! And yet am thinner!

Perhaps my guns are getting bigger. Yeah, that's the ticket. And my MASSIVE PECTORALS! Or, and this is far more likely, my neck.

In other news, I have gotten addicted to MS Flight Simulator 2004. I don't think I've played a flight sim since about MS FS 4.0, which wasn't actually a half bad game, but 2004 is way bitchiner, with full training programs, a number of built-in airplanes (plus bajillions of downloadables), real-time weather, and the ability to connect to the VATSIM network and interact with amateur air traffic controllers.

It's not a bad deal, really; FS X is now out, so 2004 is a steal, brand new, at Amazon for $19.99. I got a Logitech Extreme 3D controller at Target for $26.99, and it has more gizmos than my car: throttle, twistable stick (for rudder control), trigger (in case I get a combat sim some day; meanwhile it controls the brakes), and 11 other configurable buttons. I haven't crashed yet. Even on purpose! Although I've flipped a few planes by taxiing too fast.

I've gone through enough training to get my Private Pilot's Certificate, and it makes me wonder; how much harder could it be to do that in real life? I mean, aside from the written test, and the costs, of course.

So now of course I'm looking at how much it would cost to someday buy a used airplane, and wondering how easy it is to make a flight in a single-engine airplane from New Castle County Airport to Mason, Texas. As usual, I'm whole hog into something that will be forgotten in 3 weeks. YAY FICKLE BRAIN!

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.)

I dunno about you, but any time I go to the Arden Fair, I feel the need to document the goings-on. Unfortunately there's only about 5 pictures, because I am a rank amateur, still learning how to use my tools, and a significant number of the pictures were blurry beyond belief. Arrrrrrrrrgh.

The weather for the Fair was perfect, though. Just warm enough to wear shorts, not quite warm enough that the moisture in my groin was a bother. We ate kettle corn, and I wandered into the book sale and started making selections. After I had tucked 10 or so books under my arm, a nice gentleman volunteer came over and asked if I would like a box.

"I would LOVE a box," I replied, and he fetched me one. After 5 or so more minutes, I had completely filled the box and was balancing even more books on top.

"Sir, would you prefer a bigger box?"

I agreed, and he got me another one. I ended up taking away about 2 dozen books, including a host of fiction (Madeleine L'Engle's Time Trilogy, consisting of A Wrinkle In Time, A Wind In The Door, and A Swiftly Tilting Planet, all of which I'd been planning to order from Amazon soon anyway, along with the Tripods Trilogy by John Christopher), poetry, books on photography, and a few medical textbooks. Total cost: $16. I love used books. I don't understand how people can get rid of books; I have three 6' bookshelves at home completely stocked, and dozens of books laying around my basement with no shelves on which to reside. When we get our new house, I'm going to try and reserve one room as my library, assuming my wife permits such a thing.

Sarah and her mom looked over some crafts, most of which were a tad overpriced, and little was bought. But the food was decent, like it is most years, and the Diamond State Concert Band played marches and things in the "Beer Garden," and all was riotously fun.

What the heck, man. How is it possible that I can have gained 10 pounds but still completely fit into all my pants? Am I gaining fat in my knees and feet? What the crap?

What makes it all the more annoying is that I thought I had been reasonably good for the last month. I'm not actively dieting, but I figured I'd just eat plenty of vegetables and get lots of exercise, so I've been biking 2 or 3 times a week and running occasionally. I have, however, probably been drinking too much. Stupid homemade beer!

I guess it's possible I gained some muscle, but I tend to doubt it. I do want to buy a large weight-training device within the next few months, though, so hopefully I can develop pecs instead of boobs. I know, I've tried it before at the gym, but here's the thing: the gym sucks. There's annoying other people there that I have to share machines with, plus now that I don't work in Newark the school gym (which I have free access to 'cause Sarah works for UD and all) isn't even remotely convenient anymore. I guess I could JOIN a gym, but...well, for the price of a year's gym membership, which I probably won't use much, I can get a Weider Crossbow (about $400-500) and get ripped when I want in the comfort of my own home. Heck YES, says the goat!

Hopefully it won't turn into a coat rack.

The downside of riding one's bike a lot, of course, is that if one is redunkulously clumsy, as I am, one occasionally falls off. On Saturday I took a nice long ride around New Castle, and made a wrong turn. Once I realized that the road I'd chosen didn't go anywhere, I had to make a U-turn in a tight space, lost my balance, and couldn't get my foot out of the clipless pedal in time to prevent me banging my elbow and skinning my knee. So now I have a skinned knee for the first time since approximately 1993. Gotta tell you, it's pretty old-school.

Oh, the beer. Well, the first batch came back with mixed results, and I'm not sure why. Overall the beer is good, but certain bottles are a bit skunky. I thought the bottles were sufficiently clean, but who knows. It's all a mystery. I went ahead and bought a new beer supply anyway, a "Robust Porter." I definitely did a better job with the boiling and fermenting process, so hopefully it turns out to be a phatty batch. I bottled it last week, so I'll know by the end of the month. (And quite possibly by then will have bottled yet another 2 cases. Woo unlimited beer supply!)

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.")

Update: I did not get to kiss John Mayer on the mouth. All is sadness. Doubly frustrating, is that because the Tweeter Center sucks, I couldn't get any pictures. Argh.

Our tickets said something about "NO PROFESSIONAL CAMERAS," which kinda concerned me, but I thought, well, Canon's own website describes the Rebel XTi as a "consumer" camera (the 30D is prosumer; the 5D is professional; and the 1D Mark III is "Holy Crap This Is Way Too Expensive To Take Out Of The Box"), and if I just put on a relatively tame lens (no monstrous zooms with lens hoods), they can't really complain.

Incorrect.

Apparently when they say "No Professional Cameras," they mean no detachable lenses, so despite the fact that my camera entered the building with a 50mm prime lens that wouldn't allow me to get a shot of John any closer than "ant" view, it was confiscated (and returned later, worry not). This wouldn't have been so troubling if the tickets had specifically said "No cameras with detachable lenses," which would have been perfectly clear. It also would have been less annoying if they weren't allowing people to bring in $800 Sony zoom 8MP digitals that were capable of getting pictures of the bass player's ridiculous Village-People-Cop hat.

Anyway, we got in, and I immediately bought myself a large boring American beer, only to walk an extra 50 feet and discover they had a stand selling all kinds of quality microbrews. So my frustrations mounted. Then we got seated while James Morrison played his set, and I got even more pissed off, because the sound system at the Tweeter Center is so crappy it sounded like James was singing through a special filter designed to remove all consonants from every word. I couldn't understand a thing. Even now I have no idea if any of his songs are any good; it might as well have been all instrumentals. I've heard better sound systems in an elevator.

The same goes for Ben Folds, who from what I'm told is a phenomenal musician and performer; all I can say is he has some amusing gimmicks and his songs often have pretty melodies. I'll give him a B- because he kept throwing his piano seat at the keys, and at one point during a song he broke a piano string on a low note, immediately stopped the song, removed the string from the soundboard, handed it to a fan, and then restarted the song exactly where he'd left off.

Luckily, during his set I was able to run off and pee, and also buy a quality beer named something like "Circus Boy" or "Circus Penis," or something. It was FANDAMNTASTIC, and I got back to my seat to listen to Ben Folds play 2 more completely unintelligible songs and then wander off to put on his neck brace (I'm assuming, since his head is roughly the same size as the rest of his body).

Honestly, the best part of the concert (up until John walked onstage) was making fun of other people with Liz. A quick rundown of the amusing people we saw:

• Between 8 and 27,000 skinny little high school/early college-aged skanks who seriously needed to go dig a sandwich out of the trash or something before their bodies collapsed in on themselves.
• An ENORMOUSLY fat woman in a wheelchair, attended by her fat husband and 2 fat daughters, getting wheeled around while sucking on what appeared to be a quart-sized glass of rum-soaked pixie-stix-sugar. There must have been 3,000 calories in that "drink," which sadly was probably maybe 1/5 of this woman's daily regular intake.
• A couple thousand guys who were clearly there because their girlfriends liked John Mayer. These were the guys who were probably annoyed because they kept wanting to sit down and dorks like me wouldn't stop standing up and screaming.

Yeah, I was screaming. John Mayer gives me happy feelings in my pants. DEAL WITH IT.

There's not much to really say about John's performance; he was ridiculously spectacular. It's difficult to grasp how good a guitarist he is by just listening to his CDs; you kinda have to watch him play on TV, or live, particularly if he's not constrained by late-night/early-morning network TV timetables. And the best part about it is that he can solo pretty extensively, but it never starts to feel like it's gone on too long. For example: if you go to see Phish in concert, which I have, they will play maybe 8 songs, each of which is roughly 25 minutes long on average. Only one of these songs will have an identifiable melody. Usually after about 7 minutes into each song, Trey Anastasio would slow things down, and you'd realize they were launching into another 10 minute build-up leading to some kind of climax that left you feeling unsatisfied. John, on the other hand, played something like 25 songs, some of which were 5 minutes long, some of which were 10, but each extended solo was melodic and interesting and WENT SOMEWHERE. Going to a Phish concert feels like a 3 hour free-form jazz symposium at Camden County Community College; going to a John Mayer concert feels like going to a rock concert.

On the other hand, going to a Phish concert usually guarantees you a pretty boss contact high.

John didn't quite play all my favorites, which I guess just means I'll have to go see him again. However: not at the Tweeter Center, which has incurred my almight wrath for all times to come due to their immense suckitude.

Thank SSCBJ for sick days, or personal days, or mental health days, or whatever it was I used yesterday to get out of most of my workday so I could get some bloody sleep. Bejeebers, I was exhausted.

Since Sarah's doing the Brandywiners show this year, PLUS taking a class in a subject I don't even begin to comprehend, I'm on Charles duty most of the time, so I'm routinely running a bit ragged. The weekend, which I'll get to momentarily, nearly killed me.

Sarah had to be out of town most of the weekend at a wedding, so of course I made sure that my weekend was as busy as possible to make everything completely complex. I was singing in a benefit concert Saturday night, which included a Friday night rehearsal, so I had to find someone to watch HRB on Saturday; Craig and Mel jumped all over it, and did a bang-up job keeping him from eating nails and/or one of their cats, for which they are owed one ENORMOUS favor from me. That afternoon I took Charles and my parents to the Brandywiners picnic, at which there was frivolity and beer-drinking, and then sprinted home to try and get Charles to nap so I could shower and pack him up to go to C&M's.

Of course, he refused to nap. At least, after a while, he stopped screaming, and busied himself trying to disassemble his crib through the combined efforts of mumbling incoherently while shaking the sides and banging his head into the slats as hard as possible. Since he was calm, I showered and changed, then I got him ready, dropped him off, and headed to Archmere Academy in north Wilmington, the site of the benefit, which went very well. Jenny and I sang "Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better," from "Annie, Get Your Gun," which is inspired completely by a GAP commercial containing Claire Danes. Later we performed "No One Is Alone" from "Into The Woods" with two young people, Brooke and Madsy. It was all good times, and since my stuff was all done in the first act, I got to spend the second act eating and drinking in the lobby with the other people. It was fantastic!

After we were done, I returned to pick up Charles, who was a trouper despite the fact that it was 11pm before we got home, and we both passed out like your dad in the alley behind "Buxom."

Sunday, we relaxed in the morning, and then went to a pool party at a BEAUTIFUL home near Hagley Museum. It was awesome; the pool was the size of my house, and instead of a diving board, it was just built into the hillside such that it had a stone wall and a diving ROCK. Charles splashed around and drank chlorinated pool water, and Sarah came back from Long Island in time to fling herself off of the diving rock and make everyone giggle.

Finally, we went home and fell asleep, which was just awesome. It was so completely rad. Nevertheless, I woke up yesterday morning STILL exhausted, and so I called in "dead" and went back to sleep. I awoke to attend a couple meetings, and then had time to run some errands, mow the lawn (untouched in three weeks; the neighbors were thrilled), clean the bathrooms (which had become sentient), and even do some woodworking. Good times! Good times.

Tomorrow: I make beer.

Well, the beach was delightful. We didn't get to spend our usual week in Fenwick this year, due to rehearsals and classes and the concert I sang in Balmer last week, so there was sadness and gnashing of teefs, but we had a good time while we were there. Plus, since we weren't down there for a super-long time, we didn't have to strap our cargo carrier on the roof, as that is a Hassle. We managed to get up early on the 4th and get on the road by 9:15am, just about the time Charles needed a nap. He didn't sleep much, unfortunately, but he's a good traveller anyway so the 2-hour drive wasn't all that painful.

We arrived around 11, got unpacked, and immediately commenced laying around doing nothing for extended periods of time. Charles discovered the big sunny porch, dragged most of his toys out there, and tried to figure out a way to punch through the screen and fall into the bushes. (He was never successful, thanks to the intervention of Sweet Crying Sainted Baby Jesus.) We watched tennis, grilled steaks, and eventually fell asleep, fat and happy.

Thursday we decided to drag Charles to the beach, despite the ominous skies. He rather liked it. After a while it started to rain, and I was tired of cleaning sand off of Charles, so we hoofed it back to the house and cleaned him up in the pool, which was for him almost as much fun as the ocean. After some ritual hosing out of the orifices of everyone, we went to a seafood place where I ate a plate of food almost as heavy as my son, who yelled a lot, ate everything that got near him, and generally made a big fuss. Our waitress was both Eastern European and scandalously hot.

Friday, Dad and I had intended to go golfing, but it was hot, so we went to the beach instead and left Charles in Sarah's care, since she's not really a beach kinda girl (She's more of a laying-out-by-the-pool kinda girl, as long as she doesn't have to put her head under water or actually swim or put her drink down or anything.) I frolicked in the waves, got a good sunburn, and generally acted significantly less than my age. Luckily, there were lots of young women there to admire my pasty physique and generally be creeped out by me.

After that we went to a BBQ place called Bethany Blues, wherein Charles was surly and we had to shovel our food down our gullets and take him outside so he'd stop staring at people and screaming. (I dunno what's up with him recently, but he's not fond of sitting in restaurants and enjoying the ambience. He ends up throwing food on the floor and screaming for no reason until I tase him take him outside. Hitting the terrible twos a bit early, I suppose.)

Saturday we basically packed up, sprinted home, changed clothes, and went to Mel's baby shower, which was loud but filling; Sunday we went to my uncle's house out in York (another 2 hour drive! Charles was thrilled) for my aunt's birthday, and let Charles float around the pool in a little boat-like device my wife acquired for him. The boy is like a fish, I'm TELLING YOU.

And that's all I have to say about that. Oh, for the rest of the pictures, head on over to Charles's site. HILARITY IS TO BE FOUND THERE!

Okay, I'm going to force myself to post, but only because I'm off the rest of the week and do not intend to put anything up, unless I find myself with a strong desire to drunk-write, which is always a possibility, or if I take a picture of something particularly compelling (particularly disgusting diapers, or maybe my wife drooling whilst a-napping) and need to get it on the internets for posterity. I'm also not taking any responsibility for anything that follows being funny, 'cause if you think I'm going to worry about making you laugh at 2:18pm before my day off, well, in the words of Sean Connery, your mother's a whore.

Yesterday I got to skip most of my workday to catch a bus to Baltimore with the Chancel Choir of First & Central Presbyterian (so named because they were both First, and the most Centrally Located, which makes the other Presbyterian churches like totally SO jealous) to sing at the American Guild of Organists Region III Convention. This may sound very similar to getting to go to, say, the Nebraska State Ophthalmalogy Opthamogoly Eye Doctor Convention, except that Eye Doctors are better dressed and usually less, well, girthy.

The ride down was largely uneventful, unless you were the driver, in which case apparently EVERYTHING is an event; he alerted us that when passing over the Susquehanna River, you could look to the right and see the Conowingo damn, which I guess is useful tourist information, but he also pointed out a Weigh Station, The Place Where You Drop Off Family Members Who Are Going On Cruises, and some $350K Condos. By the end, people were just yelling "SHUT THE #*$& UP" every time they heard the mic click on.

We were to sing in the Baltimore Basilica, which is notable for being the first Catholic cathedral built in the United States. The cornerstone was laid in 1806, and construction complete in 1821. In 1937, the cathedral was raised to the rank of "Minor Basilica" by Pope Pius XI, but by the mid50s the powers-that-be had decided that the building suffered from a condition they described as "being surrounded by FAR too many crackheads" and they scurried the See off to the suburbs. Now the Basilica is a "co-cathedral," which is kinda like being a cheerleading co-captain: half the respect, and twice the teenage drama.

But I joke. The building is actually BEAUTIFUL, and since it's mostly space and stone walls, the reverb in there is unbelievable. Since I mostly sing in carpeted rooms that suck sound right out of the air, listening to plainsong chant and Russian hymns bounce off the walls for 3-4 seconds after we stopped singing was fascinating.

We rehearsed there, and then had some time to kill before dinner, so some us went a-wondering around Baltimore. The Basilica is just a few blocks from Peabody Conservatory, which you may recall I went to for a few years before realizing how annoying other vocal performance majors usually are, so I wandered over there to see if things had changed, which of course they had. I got loads of pictures of the mid-town area, the best of which I'll get online at some point. We had dinner, consisting of sandwiches, chips, and other knick knacks, at a nearby Unitarian church, and then went back to get dressed for the service.

The service started with a 30 minute concert by Mary Beth Bennett, who is most notable because she looked REALLY REALLY familiar to me and I couldn't figure out why, and then about an hour of singing and praying and all that good timey religious stuff. Then we piled on the bus, drank some beers, and headed home.

Oh, also, I went to the Phils game on Sunday; they won, and I got a million pictures, which I'll post later. Other than that, the only thing that was notable was that I went with two Mets fans in full Mets regalia and didn't get peed on by anyone! It was stellar.

Tomorrow, the Wilmington & Western Railroad returns to Hockessin after nearly 4 years! I've been sort of on a train kick recently, and was surprised to go to the WWRR website and find out they've managed to completely repair all the trestles, bridges, and track that were simply wiped out by Tropical Storm Henry back in September of aught-three. Tomorrow, they celebrate the return of "service" out to Hockessin.

I remember the storm, and the destruction to the railway, pretty vividly; at the time, HW and I were living just off Greenbank Road, which is unsurprisingly only like 500 yards from the Greenbank Mills, from whence the trains leave on their meandering route out to the northwestern environs of New Castle County. Not more than a few days after the storm, I was driving around in the back roads nearby along Red Clay Creek and saw the damage; huge sections of track simply twisted and washed aside by the flood. All the wooden bridges were simply wiped out. Since the WWRR had basically just finished the repairs from the LAST damaging storm (Hurricane Floyd in 1999), I figured it was out of business for good, and was sad.

Which is how I almost got crushed under a steam locomotive.

Not more than a month or two after the storm, I was driving down Newport Gap Pike, and when I came up to the rail crossing, the lights were flashing and cars were stopped. I'm all like, "Um, morons, the flood DESTROYED the tracks. The place is out of business. The lights are just flickering 'cause of some mistake, or kids messing with them or something." So I pulled around to the right intending to drive right through the intersection (which didn't have those big arms to drop down and prevent such things).

As I did so, I casually looked off to my left and noticed that a large black object was moving in my direction. Now, usually when this happens, it's my friend Courtney coming to do me harm of some kind (he occasionally gets revenge on me 'cause I may once have "accidentally" rubbed my genitals on him), and I know to get away as fast as I can. I wasn't on the tracks yet, so I stood on the brakes, threw the truck into reverse, and backed up. I ended up sitting next to the person at the front of the line, who glared at me with great gusto.

What can I say? I'm an idiot.

Anyway, I wish the Wilmington & Western well (mmmm...sweet, sweet alliterations), and hope that nobody notices that they seem to get hugely damaging storms exactly every four years in mid-September, so at best they have 3 months of full service before it's nailbiting time.

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?)

Free time is hard to come by these days, but I managed to broker a deal with HW in which she would get to spend Saturday night in New York, partying with her sorority sisters while I tried to keep Charles from flinging himself off of the furniture, in exchange for which I got to go golfing with Brian, Craig, and My Popz (aka Teh Grumpx0zrz) on Saturday morning. I hadn't golfed in a while, so I figured I'd better hit the driving range on Friday to try and repair my hideous golf swing. (Seriously, you know how the swing is supposed to be in a "plane?" Mine is in some kind of 4th dimensional heptangle. It's unbelievable to watch; during the downswing the head of my driver actually tesseracts across the galaxy for a split-second.)

There's not really a range anywhere near me since we moved, but I wandered over to Delaware Park and got lost a bunch of times trying to find the White Clay Creek Country Club located therein. Their website said they had some kind of "golf academy," which I figured meant they had to have a driving range, but if it exists, I sure couldn't find it. After wandering around aimlessly for a while, I said "to heck with all this jaun" and went to the liquor store, where my time could more effectively be spent selecting single malt scotches and forgetting to replenish my wife's Captain Morgan supply, for which she beat me with a shoe.

Our tee time was at 7:15am on Saturday, so I got up at 6am and made some breakfast sandwiches for the crew. Craig and Brian arrived at the house, and we all piled into Craig's car and met my dad at the course. I won't bore you with a complete play-by-play; I'll just say that, having not played in 2 years, I played some of the best golf of my life. I shot a birdie on the par 5, a par on a 4 somewhere, and if I hadn't had a really unfortunate 12 on a hole on the front 9, I might have broken 100. Clearly I need to play less frequently.

After that I entertained Charles for the evening, with the capable assistance of Craig, who got some practice in for when his own male progeny sallies forth in September. In other news, Happy Monday! Don't, like, die or anything.

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.

I've been sick all this week, which has been Unpleasant. Like most males of my generation, even the slightest cold sends me into a spiral of whininess normally only seen if you kick me in the harblz. It started last Friday with a major league sore throat, and was exacerbated by a HUGE weekend of frivolity, starting out with a performance of the National Anthem by the Cathedral Choir at the Phillies game on Friday night, continuing with Charles's birthday party on Saturday, and then finishing up with a Sunday involving three lengthy church services, a piano recital, and a banquet celebrating our collective churchy awesomeness. Let's tackle each item in chronological order:

The Phillies game was both awesome and totally unrad (and also anti-tubular), in that our performance was sweet, and James Earl Jones was there reading "Casey At The Bat" to a bunch of kids in the infield, but that the Phils ended up losing 13-0 (I left in the bottom of the fifth 'cause my throat felt like someone had poured battery acid into me) and JEJ, who got old while I wasn't paying attention, seemed particularly hunch-backed and mildly Alzheimery. It was very depressing to see Darth Vader in this state, being led around the stadium with a big dopey grin on his face.

Or maybe he was just drunk, I dunno. That would be AWESOME.

I took along my camera, and got a few decent pictures of the game, but I couldn't get close enough to the field to really get anything totally supersweet, and I lack a 300mm zoom lens, something I intend to rectify before I go to another sporting event.

Charles's party on Saturday was HILARIOUS. I made a half-decent cake (half of it was chocolate (the decent part), and half of it was boring-ass vanilla 'cause that's all my wife will eat), cut Charles a piece of the chocolate side, and let him rub it in his hair and ears for a while. Great times. We got a bajillion pictures which I intend to post, possibly later today when I have time to get them off the DVD and do some editing. (Note: we finally bought a DVD burner and have been steadily moving pictures onto DVDs, which is totally kick-ass because I have 4GB worth of cards for my camera, and every time I load them onto a laptop I completely max the hard drive. Plus the long-term storage prospects are pretty pimp.) Charles also got a huge number of presents, most of which he didn't get a chance to open before he got so unbelievably sleepy we had to put him down for a nap. We're saving the rest of his toys for later opening when he gets bored with flinging his new enormous-lego-style blocks at the cats.

Sunday was a LOOONNNNGGGG day, starting with an 8:30 christening service for Charles's buddies Tori and Rowan, whose parents decided to baptize them simultaneously in the interests of time. Charles got a little angsty during the service, so I took him out in the hall for a diaper change and a little crawling around, which was nice because it got me out of the rest of the service. (I'll never argue with anybody's right to worship in whatever way they choose, but the service featured a little too much arm-waving during hymns for the liking of a High Church dweeb like myself.)

After that service ended, I ran over to the Cathedral for our usual Sunday service, which on this occasion featured a period to recognize and reward all the choristers, acolytes, and other participants, which meant the service ran to about 105 minutes, which caused my ears to bleed a little bit, but that's nothing but a thang. After THAT completed, those of us who take our piano lessons from the Cathedral Choir School's various teachers (even if we don't actually get lessons through the choir school's scholarship program) performed the piano recital, which was of course completely ridiculous because they had me performing last, normally the spot reserved for the best student, which I am not. Also it was rather embarrassing because I'm roughly twice the age of the other performers. At least I didn't screw up too badly. Wooooooo.

Then we had the choir school banquest, which was fine but chaotic, and I gathered up my various robes and music and headed over to Christ Church (where my father is coincidentally the Deputy Organist-Choirmaster (I've been considering getting a little tin star made for him)) for an evensong, which wasn't too bad. Our clergy doesn't much enjoy doing the officiating at such services (it involves a great deal of chant-singing), so I've been doing it, and I managed to get through it without coughing up too much of my lungs. (I was sick; you may recall me mentioning that earlier.)

I stayed home from the office on Monday and Tuesday, attempting to recover my wits; I even went to the doctor on Monday, something I rarely do for myself, because my mother was diagnosed with a case of bronchitis last week, and homey don't play that.

The graphic atop this here page sure is grim, ain't it? It's been up since winter, and I intend to put something more spring/summery up ons, but sadly my time at home with the computer has been SEVERELY curtailed by the fact that my wife is working on some kind of paper, and hasn't let the laptop out of her grasp for 3 weeks. (I suppose it's also possible that she's developed a life-altering addiction to Teh Pr0n, but I don't think so.)

It's kinda sad, really, 'cause I have like 8 tons of totally hott photos I took with my camera over the last few months, featuring flowers and trees and geese and whatnot, that would be hella rad up there, but sadly I have not been able to edit and upload and make the necessary template modifications. Which is sad, really. Totally sad.

What is also sad is that, despite not having posted in roughly 9 days, I don't have much interesting to say. I thought I did; I had in fact written four or five paragraphs of something that I thought was totally AWESOME when it was rattling around in my head, which of course turned into absolute pap when neatly typed into El Computador. So, I beg your forgiveness. I'll give you a hint: it described my boy Kyle as "the fastest human being I personally know." So, you know, HILARIOUS stuff there.

The weekend was pretty busy; I helped my dad move a piano to my sister's house AND some of my grandmother's stuff OUT of hers before she moves to Florida, and managed to do it without exploding my spine. We saw "Chicago" at the New Candlelight Dinner Theatre (it's New!), which was outstanding. We went to a birthday party for our friend John, who is Old (not New!). Sarah went to the beach for a fun overnight with friends, and Charles and I joined her on Sunday morning because I was singing an evensong in Lewes that afternoon; it was windy and cold and I about froze my nads off. BOO TO THAT. We did get Nicobolis, though. Can't beat 'em!

I've been keeping up with my jogging, although I haven't been SUPER good about it; I try and get out three times a week, but sometimes it's just one or two. I've basically been eating everything in sight, justifying this by saying "Hey, I'm jogging like ALL THE TIME!" As a result, I'm getting fatter and fatter, so now I'm back to my "eating nothing but vegetables and small amounts of meat with no sugar" diet, along with drinking buttloads of water. Great times! Not really.

Wow, I'm sure typing up the hilarity today. I'll try and do better later in the week, really I will.

I've been getting swept up in a lot of "Disaster Recovery Tests" here at work, which basically means I end up driving out to some hotsite for a few days and working my tail off. The basic idea is that we have to assume that our data center was destroyed by a comet or overrun by Commie Nazis or something, and we have to rebuild everything. I actually enjoy them, because while it's hard work and long hours, it's almost completely technical problems, which is the part of my job I don't despise with every fiber of my soul. Unfortunately, many of the technical problems appear to be with stuff I don't control (invariably the backup systems get all screwed up and take 3 times as long to get running as we had anticipated; so far this has happened EVERY SINGLE TIME, and yet we invariably allocate like 3 minutes to get that stuff built), so I spend a lot of time sitting there watching OTHER people panic.

Anyway, we did one starting Friday morning in Carlstadt, New Jersey, which is like one good camel spit from Manhattan. My part in the test wrapped up at about 2am Saturday morning, so I went back to the hotel, got some sleep, packed up, checked out, and drove through Manhattan to Brooklyn to meet my boy Josh for some Wild Fun, which at this stage in my life consists mostly of eating everything I can find.

We grabbed brunch at a nice place called Rosewater (very reasonable; I think we paid about $36 for our grub, which was pretty nice by NYC standards), and then headed into the city to misbehave. We wandered all over Greenwich Village and its environs, ate at Joe's Pizza (really good), got ice cream at Cones (bloody outstanding), and then a few hot dogs at a street vendor (tasted like a tobacconist's carpet), along with going into a few fun shops selling things like raccoon penis bones (really).

We went back to Brooklyn to chillax for a while (my left knee has developed the annoying habit of developing AGONIZING PAIN if I walk more than a few miles, so I needed to rest it up), met up with Josh's girlfriend Cassie, and spent a few hours jamming on our Guitars (we, sadly, did not play Freebird). After Cassie's nap, the three of us went out and got delicious BBQ (I don't remember where). Mmmmm...brisket. Then we went back into Manhattan to go to a party, at which I met a large number of Josh and Cassie's friends and drank too much vodka.

I may or may not have said horribly racist things in the cab on the way back to Brooklyn. I honestly remember nothing of the ride (I fell asleep for most of it), but woke up the next morning with a feeling in my stomach that indicated either I had cast aspersions on the heritage of various persons, or had simply poisoned myself with alcohol, or both. So, to all who were in the car with me (Cassie, Josh, and some poor Middle Eastern driver), I apologize for any and all things I may have said about anything. (This is a pretty standard boilerplate statement that I issue whenever I drink more than 3 cocktails in one sitting.)

Sunday we all slept in until about noon, and then Cassie had to go meet friends for brunch, so Joshums and I went to the Miracle Grill, a satellite location of the official one in Manhattan that's mostly known for being Bobby Flay's first big restaurant, before he got famous and turned into a dick. I had an omelet with herbed goat cheese in it, which was ridiculously good.

Then we hung out at Josh's apartment playing Burnout until I got back in the car and drove home, where I collapsed and entertained myself by tickling Charles to make him giggle, which is HILARIOUS.

Yesterday was Sarah's birthday (she's heck of old), so we went to Red Robin (which recently opened near us, and which we had been advised was rad) to get some burgers and meet up with friends. There were perhaps 15 of us, 5 of which were small children. I spent most of my time making sure Charles didn't eat silverware, but here's what I came away with:

• The burgers are fantastic. I had something with egg on it, and I say, anything you can do to add fat and protein to my meat, DO IT. (More on this later.)
• The fries are free. Let me repeat that: the fries are free. And they just keep bringing them to you, like tortilla chips at Mexican restaurants. And they're not little cheapy fries, but enormous steak fries, one of which was the length of my forearm. I wouldn't want to meet that potato in a dark alley! Ha ha!
• The burgers aren't bad reheated and feasted upon the next day, either.

It wasn't haute cuisine, but it was good, and Red Robin himself was there, to the mirthful delight of all. If I could describe Charles's response to the enormous mascot, it would probably have to be "speechlessly enamored." Sarah even got a picture with RR, which I can't find at the moment or I would have scanned in.

I've been in a pretty serious burger mood recently for some reason; Friday night, I took a last minute trip to NYC with my parents and ate at the Ben Ash Deli, known worldwide as "The Deli Across The Street From the Carnegie Deli Which Is More Famous." Like all good NYC delis, the meals are enormous. I got a basic bacon cheeseburger, which contained a half-pound of beef and easily another half-pound of bacon. As I was eating it, I somehow finished the beef first, and was left with a bun and a handful of bacon. I actually had to stop: I had had enough bacon. This has never, EVER happened before. My mother wondered if I was feeling okay.

We were in New York, incidentally, to see the St. Thomas Choir of Men and Boys sing the Bach St. Matthew Passion; it was last minute 'cause my rents were going with a friend who had to back out. It was, nevertheless, 8 bombs of awesome. They had TWO orchestras of "period instruments" (wooden flutes, weird fat oboe things, old-style violins strung with catgut and bowed with tree limbs or something), a good gaggle of soloists, and of course St. Thomas Church, which is a rather resonant place to sing. Plus the conductor looked like an Austrian Richard Marx. I was going to shout "PLAY HAZARD" during a tender moment, but my mom grabbed my arm skin with her fingernails like she used to do when I misbehaved in my vigorous youth.

The Phillies preview is TOTALLY COMING, I swear! I might even throw in something about how my fantasy baseball draft went! I'm sure you'll be thrilled. Hint: Mark Teahen is the highlight of my team. It's going to be a GREAT season.

Oh hi! Long time no see, and all that noise. Once again, I have come through my semi-official March no-blogging-allowed time unscathed. In case you've missed things and need to catch up, the high school show that Sarah and I rock out on happens in March every year, so basically I disappear off the face of the internetz for the duration of the really hectic part. Which is now over. So I am at your service, once again.

Not that you asked, but the show went really well, almost surprisingly well, considering we started out short on time and THEN lost rehearsals to snow days, such that the pit band had only gotten together twice before tech week. Woo! Also, we waited until the last possible second to find a pianist, and through the blessings of Sweet Sainted Baby Jesus we were able to get the inimitable Steve Weatherman, who singlehandedly saved the show at least thrice. Wooooooo Steve.

Adding to the miracles was the fact that pretty much every single person involved with the show caught the Rotavirus during tech week. In case you are unfamiliar with how Rotavirus works, here's a snapshot of the symptoms: first, you spray liquids from all of your major holes, and then you sleep. Then you wake up and spray some more, and then feel achy for a few days. This is not conducive to dancing and singing, but everybody pulled through, with the help of a lucky snowstorm Friday that postponed that evening's show. Oddly enough, I was almost completely unaffected, aside from a queasy feeling all weekend and being unbelievably achy on Saturday. Somehow, we survived.

Now, of course, everyone's asking me "Hey, now you have all this free time! What are you going to do?" Well, duh: all the of the crap that's piled up for the last 6 weeks. It's amazing Charles has gotten bathed and fed, with how little time I've had. It's amazing I've been bathed and fed, although to be honest, I do smell a little like fish. I haven't eaten fish in weeks. I'm wondering if there's a flounder trapped in a fat roll on my back. (It happens sometimes when I go swimming in the ocean, too.)

Anyway, my plans for the next while involve cleaning my house, playing with my son, napping, and watching baseball. Yay, baseball! BTW: Phillies preview coming up in the near future.

In honor of Valentine's Day, which was like 26 days ago so this is TOTALLY CURRENT AND UP TO DATE AND YOU CAN'T TELL ME DIFFERENT, here are a short list of various reasons why I love my wife:

• When we took a road trip to the Outer Banks last fall, I made a mix CD of various recent tunes that I liked, which included some Alison Krauss, John Mayer, and that new Avril Lavigne song, "Keep Holding On," which is in 3/4 and therefore I like it. (I have a thing for that meter.) After listening to the first few tunes, HW turned to me and said,

  "Were you on your period when you made this?"

• Yesterday, we were in the kitchen feeding Charles and making lunch, and she walked by me and bumped her hip into mine. I said,

  "Did you just do what I think you did?"

  Sarah giggled. "Yep."

  "All trying to give me the hip bump?"

  "I farted."

• She takes so much in stride:

  Me: I just pulled a chunk of wax out of my ear the size of a lady bug.
  Her: Eww dude
  Me: Jeepers, what the hell. I thought I cleaned this ear the other day. I'm getting even MORE wax out.
  Me: What the [very bad word]! I think a bee tried to build a hive in here.
  Her: EWW
  Me: I've scooped out 3 big chunks with my pencil, and I think there's more.
  Her: Oh, weird.The date on my watch is messed up.

So, in short: Sarah is rad.

On the news front, the show is chugging along; we open Thursday, with three rehearsals between now and then to get things right. Woo! I'm terrified, but I always am at this point.

Things with the high school show ("Thoroughly Modern Millie," Mar 15-17, 7pm, Brandywine High, come check it as it will be RAD) are ramping up rapidly, so we're heck of busy with that. Still, a few things worth sharing:

Our friends Brian and Karen got married over the weekend; check out a few choice photographz here. Everybody was HOT.

I also put up some new pictures over at CharlesHearn.com. They are so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend checking them out.

I've had my Sanyo Katana for almost four months now, so I figure it's time a little review, so I can let you know whether or not it's awesome or Teh Suczk.

You may recall my short post a few months ago when I bought it and alerted the world that you could actually call me (the previous phone had been broken for a while). At the time, I was totally enamored with my new little flip-phone, and now that the initial puppy love has dissipated, it's time to take a hard look at the pros and cons, yo.

Pros:

• It's super-slim. Seriously, it's like a half-inch thick. It would fit comfortably in the rear pocket of my jeans, even with my gigundous black girl booty, if I wasn't afraid of sitting on it and crushing it with Teh Fatne$$.
• I can hear people on it, and they can hear me. This may seem like a basic thing, but after the problems I had with the last phone, this is a major improvement.
• HUGE screen. For websurfing it's still a tad small, but I was able to download Google Maps' free mobile client for it, and now I never get lost! Which is teh sweet.

Cons:

• You can use it as a wireless broadband device, which is pretty cool, but Sprint wants you to pay $40 a month for the service. With Sarah's phone, which is a bit older, you can do it for free. What a gyp. $40 a month, which is about what I pay for 3Mb/s cable modem access, for something no faster than about a 38400-baud modem. No thanks, losers.
• The ringtones are too soft. All the ringers are too soft, in my opinion. Most of the time, that's good, since I don't need the thing playing the theme from "The Greatest American Hero" (Sarah's personal ringtone) at 110 decibels while I'm at, say, the proctologist, but when I'm driving in my car and singing along with "My Sweet Escape" by Gwen Stefani, I usually can't hear it. Which of course is when wives, when they are pregnant, go into labor. (Note: HW is NOT currently pregnant, for which she thanks Baby Jesus.)
• This is a biggie: the stupid side button keyguard is set up in the most ridiculous possible way. The phone, like many others, has little buttons on the side that perform a variety of tasks, like controlling volume, scrolling through the phonebook, and, while the phone is closed, activating the speaker phone and dialing the most recent number. Since I keep my phone in my pocket, and since I wear very, very tight pants, this is bad, because if I don't turn on the keyguard the phone continually dials people, the end result of which is my father-in-law saying "hello? hello?" over and over again to my junk.

  Not cool.

  You'd think you could just set the keyguard and not have a problem, but get this: you can disable the keyguard by just holding the button down long enough. Which happens at least twice a week because, as I mentioned, I WEAR TIGHT PANTS. (Everything's tight when you are 45% ass.) This is the major flaw in the phone, in my opinion; I'm hoping they issue a firmware patch that allows you to completely disable the side buttons when the phone is closed.

Final verdict? A solid B+, which is far better than any other phone I've had. (The last phone probably started out a B and ended up as an F------------ because by the end it didn't actually function as a phone; it was more like a $30 a month pocket watch.)

Walking through my local Acme on Monday, I discovered that, of all things, they were selling Ducklings. 5 pounders. On sale for $1.99 a pound. I was like, whaaaaaaa? I have a more or less permanent craving for duck, and have always wanted to make it myself, but never found a place that sold it (I guess I could check a local butcher, but there's not one that's at all convenient). I consider it rather a gourmet item, so finding it Acme seemed incongruous; I half expected to find, I dunno, bricks of foie gras or something nearby.

Anyway, I grabbed me one and brought it home. Sarah was out with Charles, having dinner with friends, so I had plenty of time; I made a nice brine, pulled all the giblets out of the bird, and threw that puppy in there for a good soak. Mmmm...sugar salt water. While that sat outside in the snow to keep things from getting too bacteria-y, I worked in the garage building a custom-sized baby gate for our main staircase, which is only 5 steps high but 48" wide, and all the pre-made gates that fit that size and were hinged were going to run us $60 and I said HA HA to that. HA.

After a couple hours, I covered the bird in salt and pepper, sliced up the skin a bit to promote rendering and tasty browning, and threw it into a 400 degree oven to try and get me a nice crispy skin. After about 20 minutes, the skin was sort of bubbling, but not yet brown; I lowered the temperature a bit and put my probe thermometer in the thigh.

After an hour or so, it started beeping. I was like, wait what? I thought this thing would take 2, maybe three hours. Nay nay, apparently. The skin was still kinda squishy, but I'm not terribly picky, so I cut in, and was nearly bathed in dark red liquid. Ummm...yeah, done my fat pink booty. Back into the oven it went, and I upped the temperature to 500 to try and crispify things.

5 minutes later....beep beep beep! What the hell. I got out my instant-read thermometer, though, and everything said 165, which admittedly is lower than the 180 demanded by the government, but if I did everything the government said I'd have a lot fewer hobo bodies under my floorboards. There was still red liquid, but I said to myself, hey, this is duck. Not nasty salmonella-y chicken. I'm gonna eat it.

And I did. And I'm still alive! It was delicious, although the skin needed way more crispitude. Next time: I'm just gonna let that bastard broil.

Just a few short notes for today:

• They still haven't plowed my neighborhood, and so now the ice has sublimated and refrozen and is perfectly slick. I basically sledded out to the main highway today. Note that the 1998 Mazda Protege is NOT equipped with runners. I'd make some calls, but you know me, I don't like to create a fuss. Plus I have a sneaking suspicion the guy in our neighborhood who is in charge of such things has probably taken 37 calls on the subject and might strangle me through the phone if I call him up and employ Sarcasm. So I'm gonna let it slide. For now. Unless I'm driving home with my son and I slide into a parked car at 5mph.
• My homeskillets Ped and Andy have started themselves a blog in which they intend to ridicule all things artsy. I fully support this, and not just because I've known the two of them for like 8,000 years.

  In fact, it's an odd story, woven through the millenia: I knew Ped when I was like 8 or something, in public school. I think we ran across each other in Math League every year all through middle school and high school. Andrew I knew because we were in band in high school, but he also may have done dorky science and math stuff with me before then. And then we were all in the Ychromes together in college. Delaware is a small place.

  Anyway, check out their site, it's highly amusing.

• I'm setting myself up for a serious amount of abuse here, but on the advice of my attorney Josh, I have invested in a neti pot. The idea, and this is really gross, is that you make a saline solution, and then you pour it into one nostril while it drains out of the other one. Then you switch nostrils. It's very new age. It cleans out your sinuses, and then you get to spend a few minutes spraying water out of your snozz and spitting out nasty wet loogies.

  It's almost as fun as it sounds, but I can report that my sinuses are so clear it's disturbing. I've used it twice a day for about 3 days (although not this morning, 'cause I was in a hurry, yo) and have achieved major awesome results. There are downsides, however:

  1. The sensation of water pouring into your sinuses and back out the other nostril is pretty disturbing. It goes against all my principles of "avoiding sinus burn in the pool." Doesn't burn a bit, though, unless you're an idiot and double the amount of salt in the solution.
  2. Sometimes the saline gets sort of trapped in your sinuses, and you can't really feel it in there, then later on, you bend over for some reason, such as to kiss your wife, and salt water pours out of your nose all over, say, your wife's face. Her response to this may be unpleasant.
  Still, it's given me a reasonably clear schnozz for the last few days, and I'm looking forward to finding out if it improves my singing noticeably.

I didn't watch the Grammys (Grammies? I personally despise making it plural via adding an apostrophe (as in, "Grammy's") because that makes Baby Jesus cry) last night, so I don't really have anything important to say. Apparently the Police got back together, which is pretty awesome, but I missed it because I was asleep, because I had a DEVASTATING WEEKEND OF FUN. More on that later. What's important is that the Police played, but Juliet Huddy reported on FOX this morning that it seemed kinda boring, and we listen to everything she says because she is hot.

Re: weekend of fun: I was hella busy all weekend. I covered oncall Friday night, and then Saturday morning rode with Craig down to DC to meet Some Boyz for a Bachelor Fiesta! We started out at the ESPN Zone, or rather most of us did; Kyle and I trotted over to the Verizon nee MCI center to see about hockey tickets. They had none cheaper than $90, so we laughed heartily and said, dang. So much for hockey.

BUT! Kyle, being heck of inventive, called his wife, and got her out of the shower to get online and search for tickets for us. She found some via a place called StubHub, which turned out to have a location very near the arena, so she put the tickets on Kyle's credit card and all was gravy. After Kyle got off the phone with her, he turned to me and said:

"I'm pretty sure she bought those tickets while naked."

"I'm going to be thinking about that all game. Thanks!"

"Me too, man."

I'm glad we were able to get seats, since our backup plan was to get tickets to the International Spy Museum, which was also nearby. Instead, we went back to the ESPN Zone and watched sports for roughly 4 hours while I drank martinis. THEN: To the arena!

I've been to many hockey arenas in my time (okay, 4) and I've never yet come across one that sells anything but overpriced beer, but let me tell you, The Verizon nee MCI Center has a bar. That sells gin. So I bought two. I've never been so happy at a sporting event since, and this is a hilarious story that I like to tell, I was at a Virginia Tech @ Rutgers football game with Kyle and Hiz Crew O' Mizfitz, and I bought 4 large hot dogs. I got to my seat, ate two hot dogs, and then they played the national anthem so I stood up and removed my hat, then sat back down on the bleacher and watched the first few minutes of the game. After a little while, I said, "Man, those hot dogs were good. I wish I had more." Only then did I remember that I had NOT eaten them all, and in fact had two more sitting immediately to my right. It was like Baby Jesus had shown a bright light of love down on me, in the middle of all that chaos.

Buying gin at a hockey game is very similar. Cost me $8 per drink, but that wasn't much worse than the beers (I later paid $14 for two Michelob Ultras, which are notable for two things:

1. They are somewhat low carb (although not much lower than Miller Lite, to be honest), and
2. They have a taste that is surprisingly reminiscent of what the water from your well would taste like if your septic system started leaking into it.)

The game wasn't memorable; there were a couple of fights, which is always fun, but it was hard to see what was happening since we were in the absolute last row of the place. Seriously. I've never been so far away from a sporting event and still had to pay $40 to see it. The Capitals lost.

Then we went back to Barrett's (the emphasis is on the first syllable, which is much more manly than if he'd been named after a hair clip) for poker, at which I won everybody's money. This was doubly frustrating for Kyle because

• I am not known for my poker-playing prowess, because I have all the patience of a fat kid in a chocolate factory, and
• I was WILDLY inebriated.

Then Craig drove me home, which was kind of him since I fell asleep once he was safely on the interstate.

The next day I got up, on about 4 hours of sleep, and had to go to church, then play in a piano recital for schoolchildren (it wasn't a COMPLETE embarrassment), and then sing a short concert to benefit a Quaker school.

Then I came home and played with my son for a while because he was driving Sarah insane; he can now crawl rather expertly, and his desire to put the entire world in his mouth is unabated. This results in us having to grab him every 10 minutes and pull things out of his mouth, things like paper, foam torn from the upholstery of an old chair, cat fur, cat tails, wires (oh, how he loves electrical wires), cat food, carpet fibers, and Sarah's toes. Sarah had been doing this, with small breaks for sleep, for 36 hours, and so I took over for a while so that she'd stop making her head spin around like she does. (She's been fighting a flu/cold combination for about a week now and the pressure is starting to tell.)

And then I slept for about 11 straight hours, which might have been the highlight of the weekend if I hadn't had to go to work in the morning.

Okay, so uh, what's in the news? Apparently that girl Anna Nicole Smith died, but I joked about that yesterday. (Was it too soon? The response I got from the interwebs was cold, to say the least.) There's some banshee crazy astronaut ho that drove from Texas to Florida in DIAPERS to kidnap and likely kill her romantic rival. Apparently she wore diapers so she wouldn't have to make unnecessary stops, but here's the thing:

Distance she drove: about 950 miles.

Distance most cars can go before they need to stop for refueling: 350 miles.

So she had to stop AT least twice to get gas; would it be that out of the question to maybe take 5 minutes to whiz while the gas is pumping? Here's the lesson I have learned: women are crazy.

What else? The weather has been making up for lost time; it hasn't been above freezing, as far as I can tell, in like 6 days. I can't say I'm sad about it, since I enjoy me some cold weather, but I'd like to have a good dose of 8" of snow to go along with it and make it impossible for me to drive to work. They say we're supposed to get snow on Tuesday, we'll see how it goes.

I'm low-carbing it again, but it doesn't appear to be working as well this time, probably because I'm screwing it up. It's not my fault! People keep making me pies! I need to get on my bike some more and see if that helps force the old belly into "ketosis," which apparently is what they call it when your body starts burning your fat for energy. I fully support the burning of fat; I am, at last check, roughly 85% fat myself. Maybe self-immolation is the answer...I'll look into it.

Speaking of death-wishes, Charles has been crawling for a few weeks now, and has developed quite an interest in flinging himself down the steps into the foyer. So far I've caught him before he does so, but we need gates; a friend of ours is going to lend us some, but I've yet to go pick them up, so I guess I'd better do that. You know, before my son lands nose-first on cold, unforgiving ceramic tile.

As you can probably tell, I really don't have anything of any interest to share with you, so I'll just point you to Vinegar Man-Douche and let you have your own fun.

I love cars. Also, I hate cars. Or rather, I love cars that work or can be easily diagnosed and fixed, and hate cars that defy all attempts to repair them. At the moment, my Bomb@ZZ whip, the venerable Izzy B, has but one functioning brake light. The one in the rear-view window. I guess that's better than none, but try to tell that to the guys at the Motor Vehicle Inspection Lanes. I did. They weren't terribly amused. I'm assuming all the carbon monoxide has destroyed their senses of humor.

Anyway, I went to Pep Boys to get new bulbs for the brake lights. But Pep Boys had none. So I went to ANOTHER Pep Boys, which had them. I installed them. No change. So I bought some new fuses and tried those. No change. So I kicked the car and threatened to bring wrath upon it. No change.

I gave up after that, but the long and short of it is that I have a car with fewer then the recommended number of brake lights and my registration expires in three weeks. CAN MATT GET THE CAR REPAIRED IN THREE WEEKS, GIVEN HIS BUSY SCHEDULE? STAY TUNED!

Oh, and go here and check out a bunch of crappy pictures I took of Ye Olde Newe Castlee last month.

Okay, we're back to a more normal schedule, I think. There were much goings-on over the weekend, particularly a cold-weather golf tournament (our second year!) of which I have many pictures, some of Milo's backswing, some that Milo took of my butt. I'll get all that stuff posted probably tomorrowish, or Wednesday, or probably some time before 2008.

In the meanwhile, I started a gallery where I can upload my various efforts at photography, which so far contains just the one album of recent shots. I plan to get most of the New Castle shots up ins if I can figure out a way to batch process them (they start out as 3MB photos and I need to chop them down to 1MB or so before uploading, or the gallery prog won't be able to handle them, and also I'd wipe out my online webspace in a matter of days; the problem is that there are over 200 of them and I'd like to shrink them in one big process rather than loading each picture into photoshop, resizing and saving it, etc.).

I also uploaded some new stuff to Charles's site last week, make sure you don't miss that.

USELESS NOTE: I am aware that the general form of my page is still Christmasy. I shall endeavour to update it this evening.

Don't worry, I'm alive. I got roped into a last minute business trip, one of those deals in which I work about 40 hours in 2 days. Which I did. Got home early Wednesday morning and crashed like Billy Joel's car.

Woo. I need another nap. More later.

And...woot.

We had a nice loooong weekend. In honor of the commencement of my 30th year (for those of you who are math-dumb, this means that I have just turned 29 and am thusly awesome), I took Friday and Monday off, and we drove to Richmond to be one with our Virginian pepys.

'Cause they smell rather iffy.

The drive down was a breeze, since I got paged for something and our 6pm ETD got pushed back to 8pm. By that time, of course, there was simply nobody on the road, aside from a bunch of trucks, and the usual idiots sitting in the left lane holding up the works. I guess that means there WERE people on the road. However, they were very few, and dammit I STAND BY MY HYPERBOLE.

We arrived late, which didn't prevent us from shooting the shiz with Kyle and Kris, having a few drinks, making Charles stay up WAAAAAY past his bedtime, etc. In our defense, he was about as interested in sleeping as I was in getting up at the asscrack of dawn on Saturday for work (more on this later), but we finally got him down to sleep.

We awoke on Friday to the plaintive cries of our firstborn, softly murmuring for mother's milk. Ha ha! Just kidding. He woke us up at 6:45am by sitting up in his crib and talking at us at the top of his lungs. Here is the gist of what he said:

Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba wa wa wa wooooooo ba ba ba bla bloo blaa wooo!

Translation:

What are you idiots still doing in bed? The sun's almost up, and I'm famished! Additionally, I just dropped a deuce big enough to feed a family of five.

We gave him a bottle to gnaw on and attempted to sleep, but his constant yammering (I don't know where he gets this from) caused me to bring him downstairs so he wouldn't wake up everybody else. We watched Kyle's enormous TV and chewed on various things.

That day, we mostly sat around and cogitated (and took roughly three million pictures with my new camera), but eventually we did go out that evening to celebrate my birthday, during which I drank many beers and ate a piece of prime rib the size of my head. It was excellent.

Saturday was spent preparing for the bridal shower, which mostly meant grabbing Charles and ducking for cover. In the afternoon approximately every woman in the Commonwealth of Virginia descended on the house, so the boys, sans Charles, hightailed it for lunch and bowling. We played three games; in order, my scores were: Not Good; Slightly Better; and Surprisingly Good, Considering I Had Switched To A 12 Pound Ball And Was Just Screwing Around Trying To Throw The Most Devastating Spin I Could Muster. I kinda "found the range" with my spin and was knocking down pins like cuh-RAZAY, and so have decided I need to buy an actual bowling ball and practice this further. I haven't told Sarah of this decision yet, mostly because I just dropped nearly a grand on a camera and accessories, so any further purchases must be approved by She Who Would Clothespin My Dong To A Bicycle (As If It Were A Baseball Card) If I Didn't Keep An Eye On It.

The gals planned to go out to dinner, so the guys had to come home and entertain Charles for a few hours, after which the girls returned and kicked us out again so they could have a Bachelorette party and watch Carmen Electra Strip Tease Workout videos. (Seriously. I couldn't have been more thrilled when we came back and discovered them all practicing with chairs and poles and things. Most of us wept a little bit, and I took some pictures that will never see the light of Internets if I ever want to have more children.)

Sunday was my birthday, so I got up and hung out with Charles while Sarah slept in. This may not make sense to you, but it sums up our marriage dynamic rather tidily. (Just kidding, honey! Put down the pliers!) Around 11am, we were watching some NFL pre-game TV when Kyle noticed it was snowing. Neato!

Around noon, Mel and Craig (who were also down for the weekend) skedaddled north. Team Hearn needed to be in DC by around 3pm for the first birthday of another of our friends' childrenz, so we had the car completely loaded up when Craig called to alert us that the roads north of town were icing up, full of traffic, and basically at a standstill. So, Sarah and I got into HearnHuddle^TM and decided that we would wait out the precipitation and traffic. This meant that we would have to miss the birthday party, but it also meant that I didn't have to fight through heavy, sleety traffic on my birthday, which would have caused me great angst and possibly forced me to develop a small nuclear program.

It also meant that we were able to watch both Conference Championship football games, which was nice too. Yay for Peyton Manning finally coming up big.

We ended up getting on the road about 10:30pm, and sure enough, there wasn't much traffic. The roads were still slick, though, particularly just north of DC where apparently no salting was being done and there was a good inch of slush on the road. This slowed all the cars down to 35mph, but seemed to have no effect on the heavy eighteen-wheelers, all of which were blowing by us at 50-plus. Coupled with the fact that you couldn't see any lines on the road, I spent a fair amount of time praying to God to spare us and, if He had to, kill one of the other families in our stead.

I just made one stop to drain the main vein, and we made it home around 2:30am. Since I had yesterday off, I was then able to sleep until about 10am and it was SO AWESOME. Then I did some computery things and took my camera over to Old New Castle to take some pictures which I plan to edit a bit and post later this week. (Don't worry, I don't intend to turn this into a Photography blog, because photos aren't especially funny (with obvious exceptions), and my purpose in life is to make you giggle until you pee and ruin your best work pants.)

AND THAT WAS MY LONG WEEKEND. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much I enjoyed doing it, except for the driving in the slush with maniacal 18-wheelers part, because I enjoyed that not at all.

I hope everybody had a restful batch of holidays and didn't kill any family members or anything. I myself killed no one, but my time to rest was sparer than a bowling scorecard with nothing but slashes on it.

Was that a stretch? It felt stretchy.

I did all the usual; 847 church services on Christmas Eve, though we found time to take Charles to the pageant at the cathedral, where he sang¹ along with the hymns and the sermon. Christmas morning we set up Sarah's dad's video camera, which had been lent to us for this purpose, so that we might videotape Charles doing amusing Christmas things, like eating wrapping paper and ribbons.

Then we went to Sarah's parents', where we had eggs and no kegs, followed by a sojourn to my parents' where I think I fell asleep once. (Christmas is stressful.) It was a super successful day; Charles, as is his wont, was BEYOND happy all day. Seriously, I've never seen a child so relentlessly mirthful. The only time he gets really angry about anything is when he's tired, although if he needs to sleep and doesn't want to, his wrath is fearful. That boy can SCREAM. Most of the time, the only thing we can do is just let him lay there and yell, and eventually he falls asleep, but it's not exactly easy on a parent to hear your child making those noises. If he had the capacity for language yet he would definitely be yelling "SCREW YOU BASTARDS!" at the top of his lungs over and over.

He is his mother's son.

The rest of the week I was on call and had to work, which was boring. Nobody was in the office. I got almost nothing done except for when I got paged during off hours and had to reset people's passwords or some such frivolity. You'd think I would have used that time to maybe post something on here, but no, I was just about wiped out, and conserving my energies for the weekend. We were marrying off a couple friends, so I needed to make sure my liver was well-prepared for the weekend's onslaught.

Also, I sang the Star Spangled Banner (TEH BANZORZ!) at a Philadelphia Phantoms game on Friday night; I have a wav file of it made on Todd's cellphone that I hope to edit and upload later, maybe even make it into a ringtone for when Ambassadors to the UN call me and stuff. (They, and other governmental employees, frequently ask my opinion on foreign affairs. That opinion invariably is "Heck yes we should invade!" I am a highly valued member of President Bush's team.)

The wedding was beautiful and under 30 minutes, which are basically the two things all weddings should be. (Our wedding was of course nearly an hour long, but then we had a full choir and we sang hymns and things and there was a trumpet player AND a violinist.) The reception was DJ'd by notable local celebrity Dana McDonald, who has a nice radio voice. His tones were DULCET, I tell you. Dulcet.

I drank so much I nearly split my pants. Luckily, I have large friends who are not averse to carrying me home, and there was a shuttle back to the hotel so I didn't have to drive anywhere. AWESOME. When I say "sing," I really mean "yelled at the top of his lungs." It was stellar.

When we left our narrative yesterday, Team Hearn had arrived at the Outer Banks, I had gone for a bike ride, and then my father and I bought a metric f-ton of booze.

That night, we had A Storm. It was a Noreaster, one of those storms of lore that demolishes homes and moves dunes around. The wind shook the house and drenched everything, but we spent the evening in our tidy little nook knocking back beers and gin until House ended and we all fell asleep. WE ARE WILD PARTY ANIMALS.

On Tuesday, we stayed inside while we awaited the abatement of the rain. That night my brother-in-law arrived, and later that evening my aunt and uncle and cousin as well. And there was much rejoicing.

Wednesday, we did some shopping and prepared ourselves for the onslaught of deliciousness that is Thanksgiving. We also drank more.

Thursday, we ate ourselves retarded.

Friday, I briefly considered going out for a jog, but made myself a sandwich instead. We ran low on beer and had to go out for more, and then went out to dinner, where we drank more beer and ate like kings yet again, ignoring the mounds of leftovers back at the house. And babies in Africa cried.

On Saturday we awoke, did some more shopping, packed ourselves up, and BOUNCED. Charles slept the whole way, aside from a stop once we reached Delaware for KFC and Taco Bell.

Speaking of Charles, he is now 6 months old.

Team Hearn (we're Hearn-licious) hadn't been down to the Outer Banks in a few years, so my parents decided that's where they wanted to do Thanksgiving this year. In the off-season, beach-front homes rent for a song (specifically, "What About Love" by Heart), so my dad got us into some 6-bedroom, 6-bathroom monstrosity a few blocks from the sound.

It's a six-hour drive, so luckily we have our comfy Honda Accord. Sadly, what we do NOT have is a massive SUV, which is what we need to bring along all of our stuff; the amount of material we have to take along on road trips has roughly DOUBLED since Charles arrived, between his stroller, diaper bag, car seat, toys, bouncy seat, food, spare diapers. At the same time, the space we have to store stuff has about halved, since we used to load up the back seat with crap that wouldn't fit in the truck, and now we have to put him in there as well as leave one seat free in case one of us has to sit back there with him to keep him from screaming.

The solution: one of those rooftop cargo things, just to complete our transformation into suburban yuppie parents. Woo! But which one? I did a little research online and discovered that Thule, which makes popular bike racks, also makes roof cargo thingies, ranging from $300-600, which made me laugh so hard I chipped a tooth. Sears, on other hand, listed a model running about $120. So we headed to Sears, where they indeed sold what we needed, but had none in stock. The young clerk said, "We'll have more on Wednesday!" Sadly, this was Friday the 17th, 2 days before we were leaving. He told us Pep Boys sold the same model under a different name, we should give them a try. I gave them a try, and lo and behold we had us an 18 cubic foot storage box for $99, plus an extree $9 for the Accord-specific hooks that hold it to the car. It was awesome. Assembly was a bit taxing, but in the end I basically added another trunk to the car, doubling our storage, and enabling us to take actual clothes and deodorant and stuff.

After church on Sunday we packed up and rolled south. It's a six-hour drive, counting a few stops; I was assuming we'd have to stop roughly every hour and half to recharge Charles, change diapers, etc. Instead, he slept for about 2 hours until we stopped for lunch, and then slept again until we hit the Bay Bridge, at which time he started screaming, because once you're on the Bay Bridge you can't stop for anything short of a breakdown or the cops become angry with you. As soon as we got to a place we could stop, he went back to sleep.

It's like dealing with a ridiculously intelligent miniature alien who doesn't speak your language and likes to stand on your groin.

We arrived in record time, thanks to various road improvements through Virginia, and set about to the important task of eating and drinking everything we could get our grubby hands upon. I had, luckily, brought beer and cinnamon rolls.

I got up Monday morning and took a nice long bike ride. This was the only healthy thing I did for the remainder of the week. I compensated for it by going out with my father and spending roughly $180 on booze.

Tomorrow: the things we did with the booze.

Oh hi! Didn't expect to see you here! Why would I? It's not like I've published anything for 2 weeks, although to be seriously serious for a moment, I do feel very guilty about that, but I was working and then there was vacation and I don't like to post while on vacation because I'm on FREAKIN' VACATION man and it's awesome.

Anyway. Forgive the previous post, I was sleep-deprived. At the time I was working in Philadelphia practicing what would happen if our data center asploded, which meant I got my normal 40 hour workweek completed in 3 days. On the plus side, I got to stay at the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Philadelphia, which is some kind of luxurious, although it has a few flaws:

• My room leaked. It was raining like all mad craziness when I got there, and the windows were dripping; after a few hours, the carpet was soaked. It was gross. I could have moved my room, but I was really only using it as a place to come shower and catnap and store my crap.
• The TV didn't have any RCA inputs so I couldn't connect my Playstation. (Just because I'm showering and catnapping doesn't mean I can't catch up on Grand Theft Auto, fools!)

So the hotel wasn't so great, but I sort of rediscovered downtown Philadelphia. I hadn't really spent any time there in something like 20 years; maybe it wasn't so nice back then. I don't really recall. It's sure nice now. Office buildings, and professional folks, and WAY fewer scary toothless women waiting for busses! I felt safe enough to walk from my hotel to the worksite, even after dark. Of course, I wasn't going anywhere without my enormous black knife, plus it would take a pretty serious mofo to mess with me; I might poop my pants, and what mugger wants to smell that?

Since I was working night shift, I was able to get lunch with Brian at John's Roast Pork, which was delicious, and also met up with him on Wednesday because the Phantoms were having a daytime hockey game and he invited me to come watch. They lost. I'm not a good luck charm anymore, apparently.

We were done Wednesday night, so I got to spend Thursday and Friday hanging with The Beef, as we've taken to calling him. He's heavy, has developed teeth, and is awfully grabby.

Tomorrow: Teh Vakashunzozrzx!

I'm glad I got my hair cut this week. Otherwise my wife would stab me in the ear with her keys! Ha ha!

But seriously, she's violent.

Anyway, through the magic of my new phone, I've taken some snaps, son. Here is the pre-cut hair (taken right after I got home from an opera performance, hence the sexy curls):

And here's the sexy new do, having been cut and colored to the tune of a hundred smackeroos:

Whaddaya think? I'm totally gonna get ALL the chicks. By which I mean my wife. And really, I won't get her either. But at least I'll have intact eardrums.

I go through cell phones like Rosie O'Donnell goes through butter. I try and pick phones of good quality, but they just don't last. I'm clumsy, and so they get dropped and banged into things and suddenly they don't work so grood anymore.

My last phone was some kind of flip-phone with a camera in it. Totally awesome, and completely useless for about the last 6 months because I simply couldn't be heard on it. The phone before that, I actually paid for the stupid coverage plan, which was nice because when it broke, twice, it was replaced each time.

As soon as I'm eligible for a new phone, I immediately buy one, so I'm on, I think, mobile phone #5. My wife is 2 years into #2, the first one having lasted, I believe, 6 years. Unbelievable.

Anyway, I bought me a Sanyo Katana, which is black and has a camera and eentarweb and omg it is so awesome. I then shelled out an additional $19.99 for Xingtones, which is software that you can use to record, edit, and upload your own ringtones to your phone. Yes: by this weekend I intend to have my phone sing "2 Legit 2 Quit" whenever my wife calls me.

Oh, and if you've called me in the last couple months, my phone hasn't worked, which is why I haven't answered. It works now! I'm ready to be friends again!

I love our trash guys. They'll haul away anything. If I were to die this instant, HW could haul my corpse to the curb and I'm pretty sure the trash guys would just throw me in the truck without a second thought.

That, my friends, is service.

Here is a list of the things that our trash guys have taken away:

• Trashbags full of gravel and cat feces, every week
• A large piece of unexplained concrete that I pulled out of my lawn
• Large pieces of concrete that I pulled out of my old patio that have rusty pieces of metal sticking out of them
• Two empty wood pallets
• Approximately 400 pounds of construction sand
• A freaking WASHING MACHINE

That last item I actually called the trash company to ask if I could arrange a special pickup. The lovely lady on the phone said, "Oh, just throw it out there, they'll take it during the regular run."

I love my mafia-owned trash company!

---

Oh, btw, if you're having trouble getting to charleshearn.com, you aren't alone. It's misbehaving because the registrar can't seem to get rid of the old nameservers. I don't know why. I'm hoping it'll clear up in a day or two.

I got pulled over on Saturday, but received no ticket. Wooooooooo, says I.

It was rather late (I had actually just turned the clock in my car back, as it was 2am EDT and 1am EST) and was heading home from the Carmen cast-party (Carmen opened TEH BOMBZORZ, as expected) and traffic was heavy (I don't know why; this is the third parenthetical aside this sentence, a new record even for me). Over on the right hand side of I-95, the cops were sitting with their flashers going, which usually indicates they've already pulled over somebody, so slowing down is dumb. Everybody, of course, slowed down, including one idiot that swerved in front of me and then hit the brakes.

So I flashed my highbeams, swerved around him, and accelerated back to a healthy seventy miles per hour. Apparently the policefolks disapproved of this move, so they chased me down.

"What's going on?" he asked. He appeared to be one bright policeman. What does one say to that? I went with

"Um...nothing, officer."

"Where you goin' in such a hurry? I saw you whip in and out of traffic back there."

"Well, sir, the fellow in front of me swerved into my lane and hit the brakes when he saw you folks, so I had to swerve around him to keep from hitting him."

The officer grunted at this. "You have anything to drink tonight?"

"Yes sir. I had two beers about 2 hours ago." This was true; I'd stopped drinking at the party around midnight.

"Just two beers?"

"Yes sir."

"Got your license, registration and insurance?" I handed them over, and he went back to his car, while I sat and waited. I couldn't figure out exactly what they intended to charge me with; he couldn't possibly have clocked my speed from where he was. I assumed they might charge me with an unsafe lane change, which I figured I could probably fight successfully in court, since technically a guy did change lanes in front of me and hit his brakes. I assumed I would probably get a warning for having one headlight out (the Mazda seems to go through them like Rush Limbaugh goes through oatmeal cream pies). After a few minutes, the cop returned.

"Slow down."

"Yes sir." I drove off. A surreal experience, all in all.

I'm heck of busy today, running around like a wild man (who isn't?), but I wanted to share something amusing with you, and so therefore I give you this. Just pictures, not a movie or sound, but highly entertaining. The one that keeps making me wet my pants is this one:

Phenomenal times.

How strange must it be to be an infant. You wake up, a familiar friendly face giggles and coos at you, changes your clothes and diaper, feeds you, and then hands you off to another vaguely familiar face, that takes you outside and puts you into a car. You fall asleep. You wake up in a completely different place, surrounded by completely different people.

It's like time travel, I think.

Yesterday, I picked up Charles at his grandparents' house and put him in my car, where he fell asleep. Then I headed over to the Opera Delaware studios to try on a costume and wig, at which time his OTHER grandparents showed up (Mom and Dad are in the chorus of the opera) and woke him up. Surrounded by complete strangers, he was, and pretty freaked out by it. Luckily, he's a relatively happy baby, so he calmed down nicely and smiled for everybody.

Then he got his vengeance by flat-out refusing to go to sleep until 10pm.

I'm still kinda sick, myself, but somehow I'll survive. The agonizing throat pain has subsided, so now I just have some sniffles. I fully expect Charles and Sarah to get sick simultaneously. Really looking forward to that.

It is getting, it is getting, it is getting rather hectic all up in this piece. Yo.

*hack* *cough* *sniff* *snort painkillers*

Sick. Not real bad sick, but sick enough that I didn't go to the office. I am of course dialing into all the usual meetings, so I'm not entirely sure I can say I'm resting. Luckily, I have TV available to me, and plenty of food, and I don't have to wear pants. It's everything I've ever wanted! Except that my throat feels like somebody made me gargle with battery acid.

I, of course, thought all weekend that my allergies were just acting up. I had mowed the lawn on Saturday morning, so I figured once my body had expelled all the mold spores and grass seed bits, I'd be breathing normally. So I went to all my Carmen rehearsals as scheduled and breathed all over the leads. Truly wonderful. Hopefully nobody important gets sick. I'm going to advise them to bathe in vats of Purell.

I'm taking various medications (mostly just ibuprofen at this point, since my sinuses are reasonably clear, it's just my throat that's in agony), and hoping this thing will blow over by the weekend.

Meanwhile, rehearsals continue, and while I'm clearly still out of the league of the other folks, the differences aren't QUITE so glaring, since at least I know my lines now. (Yes: it's an opera, and it has dialogue. Apparently this is something relatively common with "light" French opera of the late 19th century. Who knew?) I also get to participate in a swordfight, and no one's been injured yet! Miracles: may they never cease.

That's all I have time for at the moment because I need to go cough up part of my lung, but I shall be back at a later date, fo shizzle.

Went I went out to my car this morning, there was frost on it. And the grass. It's winter! Yaaaaay!

It'll probably be in the 80s next week. And people wonder why I spend this time of year heavily sick. I'm lucking out at the moment; I'm sure I'll catch the full-blown flu the week "Carmen" opens.

Nothing much occurring around here other than that. I ran 3.3 miles in 32:16 the other day, my fastest time since I had to outrun those South American natives after I stole their golden idol. Man, were they pissed. Based on my calculations, I should be able to run a 5K in 30 minutes 33 seconds. I could take State with those kind of numbers. Hopefully my Lil Sis and I will set some ridiculous records for "5K time for a brother-and-sister combo weighing a combined 350+" when we run our 5K in November. I have no doubt that it will happen. Because I am hella fast. For a fat kid.

You may have noticed that my output here as increased over the last few weeks; no, I'm not any less busy, but I'm coming to the realization that if I don't do a better job of keeping y'all in giggles, what miniscule readership I have (hi Mom!) will disappear. If I were you, I would expect to see more stuff here, mostly just pointless blog entries completely devoid of anything that makes any bloody sense, each of them probably not much longer than THIS pointless entry making little sense. Since I won't be bothering to edit much, you'll be noting more grammatical errors and the like, so don't think I've had a stroke or anything. I'm just in a big dang hurry.

Stay loose, killers. More to come next week.

Wow, does my brain hurt. A whirlwind few days of "Carmen" rehearsals have left us with one simple fact: I am working with very talented people, and am only barely keeping my head above water. It'd be helpful if I could learn my dialogue and music, I think, so I've spent probably 10 out of the last 24 hours muttering to myself in French. In French! And I'm enjoying it, which is doubly surprising. I'd always considered French to be the province of beret-wearing, chain-smoking, skinny men with a deep knowledge of Proust.

I have more of a knowledge of Beavis and Butthead, myself.

In other news, Charles continues to expand in size and capabilities; despite having a head that's planetary in scale, when lying down he basically insists upon holding his head and legs in the air. It's an abdominal workout that I can't even begin to duplicate. It's becoming clear that our son is very strong. Like, World's Strongest Man strong. It's my dream to see him competing against Swedes, his enormous belly hanging out over his kidney belt, throwing huge boulders at passersby. If he was green I'd've named him Bruce Banner. Or maybe Elphabor, or something.

Note: the previous paragraph contains something for everybody: sports references, comic book characters, even Broadway shows. Thusly, it probably made sense to no one on this earth but myself. Forgive me: my brain is functioning partly in French at this point.

Charles also seems pretty darn smart, if you ignore the fact that right now he's attempting to eat plastic. I base this on his ability to watch Baby Einstein DVDs; he lasted about 15 minutes through one the other day and followed everything. This is in sharp contrast to Sarah and I, who sit and stare at the screen for the full 30 minutes as if we had just eaten a 13x9 pan of pot brownies.

Not that I, uh, know what those are. Just...nevermind.

If you want to party, let me tell you, Seaford, Delaware, is the Place To Be. There's a Friendly's, and a Walmart, and a strip club right next to the middle school! And you thought London was classy.

Okay, I'll stop burning Seaford, because it really is a nice little town, and also because the residents are just close enough that they might consider repaying the favor and burning my house. We were in town Tuesday and Wednesday so we could do "Billy Lee's Washington" at Seaford High School for various groups of school children. The first show was at 10am Wednesday morning, so rather than make us all get up at the buttcrack of dawn to be there by 8:30 to get costumed and painted, the organizers put us up at the Seaford Best Western on Tuesday night. As a hotel, it's everything you could possibly dream: it had a beds, and an alarm clock, and shady characters wandering around at all hours (some of which were in our group).

I was in charge of Charles (of his days, and also sometimes his nights) until Sarah got home from class on Tuesday, so I got a late start, arriving at the hotel around 9:30. I got settled in my room and looked over my score for Carmen (oh, I'm appearing in Carmen with Opera Delaware, I may not have mentioned that; more later) for a while, until Jenny (previously referred in this space as My Illustrious Costar^TM) arrived around 10:30, and we decided we'd like to have a beer. So we went a-driving, looking for an open restaurant.

Apparently Seaford basically shuts down around 10, because no restaurants were open, and no liquor stores either. We ended up driving to Federalsburg, MD, in a search for a 7-11 over the state line that might sell beer. We found a Citgo with a liquor store attached, which was of course closed. So we returned to the hotel and to our respective rooms, and bemoaned the lack of booze in our lives. Total time spent failing to find tasty liquor: about an hour.

The next morning we enjoyed the hotel's Continental breakfast. By "Continental" I assume they mean Africa, because there was hardly enough food for a family of one. They had set out roughly a gallon of milk, some cereal, and, strangely, a waffle-maker and about 20 gallons of batter.

Seaford High's auditorium is really nice, though, and seats some ungodly number of kids. The performances went just great, and we followed them up with one more at Caesar Rodney High in Dover yesterday afternoon, and now we are D-U-N, unless the folks at Mount Vernon call and ask us to come perform there, which I'm not sure is going to happen because the cost of renting the costumes again would be prohibitive.

Now if I could get the songs out of my bloody head. Rochambeau est bon camarade! Rochambeau est bon camarade! Rochambeau est bon comarade, que personne ne disputer!

Please shoot me in the face.

So I was talking to the French Ambassador to the US, Jean-David Levitte, and his wife the other day, and I said . . .

What? Of course I've met the French Ambassador to the US, Jean-David Levitte, and his wife. Hasn't everyone? Oh right, I'm sorry, I'm just That Special.

Ha ha! Just kidding! I'm not THAT much of a tool. (Yes I am.) But I did meet the French Ambassador to the US, Jean-David Levitte, and his wife, on Friday night. Let me back up a weeeeeee bit.

I may or may not in this space have mentioned that I am playing George Washington in a new musical written by noted local composer Evelyn Swensson. We spent most of September rehearsing, and opened at the "Baby Grand" (a new, small theater built next to the Grand Opera House in downtown Wilmington) on Friday morning for a bunch of school kids bussed in from all over creation. On Friday night, we had our "gala debut," which involved some extra scenes with Revolutionary War reenactors, and the presence of the French Ambassador to the US, Jean-David Levitte, and his wife.

The show itself is lovely; it's approximately 75 minutes long, and features music from the 17th and 18th century that Evelyn adapted with different words to fit her story and script. The cast is quite good, featuring a group of talented kids and some of their parents. Even the ever-remarkable Jennifer Kennard (whom you may remember as My Illustrious Costar^TM from Brigadoon in 2004) appears as Martha Washington.

After the show was over, I was introduced to the French Ambassador to the US, Jean-David Levitte, and his wife, at which time I apologized for what I had done to their language (one of the songs I sing is "Rochambeau Est Bon Camarade," the French-ified version of "Rochambeau's a Good Fellow"), and we had a lovely conversation in which I pointed out that Washington himself was probably sterile, which caused a brief awkward look between the Ambassador and his wife. If there's anything that Matt Hearn knows, it's embarrassing himself in front of foreign diplomats.

I've decided I would very much like to be His Excellency something. Even if it's just His Excellency the Royal Garderobe Sponger.

A surprising fact that you may not realize is that I graduated from high school in 1996. Sure, I act like a 4-year-old, but I am in fact 28 years old. We celebrated these facts on Saturday at a 10-year reunion at Costa's, a Greek place in Wilmington.

Now, I'm not much of a drinker (cough, cough), but to be on the safe side we dropped our little boy off at Sarah's parents and rented a hotel room near the restaurant for the evening. So we checked in with some friends at about 5pm and hung out, watched a little football, and walked over to the bar at around 7:45 (trying to be fashionably late, and all).

We were, of course, among the first people there. Well played, Trebek. I rented a Heineken from the bar and began the chatting. There's no need to come up with a complete replay, but here are the highlights:

• Hearing TJ joke about the time that he caught his jacket on fire in chem lab on a Bunsen burner being operated by me and Josh. In 1993, it was not funny, as TJ seemed likely to kill us. 13 years later, it was life-threatening funny, as we had been drinking.
• A nice gentleman whose name I won't reveal here, let's call him "Kansas," passed out in the men's bathroom covered in excrement (whether it was his own or he had somehow acquired someone else's was unclear). He later reappeared and got in a cab, but not before Brian touched him. I will never shake Brian's hand again, and I recommend none of you do either.
• My wife decided that, as the party wound down, we should go to Mikimoto's. She doesn't like sushi. HW is remarkably unpredictable after between 2 and 7 cocktails. As it turned out, they were closed anyway, so we went to the Washington Street Alehouse and rented some more beer and met some more friends.

The next morning was tragic and painful, but we applied emergency McDonald's breakfast sandwiches and felt much better. And that was about that. Not much of a story, really. Possibly because I don't remember much.