Red Eye Reduction

I woke up yesterday morning, went to work, caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror, only to find I had bloodshot eyes. The same thing happened the night before after I got out of the shower. I don't know what it is. It's strange because they don't itch and I haven't been using drugs or alcohol or rubbing my eyes or spraying pesticide in them.

Being the amateur, unlicensed physician that I am, I quickly ran through my symptoms for a self-diagnosis. Let's see: red eyes, no itching, no fever, no congestion, no hot flashes, no cold sweats, no whooping cough, some lower back pain, voter apathy.

It's not allergies; I have no other symptoms. It's not pink-eye; they don't itch. It's not fatigue; I got plenty of sleep. It's definitely a tumor.

Shortly after discovering my condition, I attended our morning meeting with what I though was a brain tumor. I hope it says something about my character that I pressed on and tried to contribute in the workplace. At the meeting, I said something funny and everyone laughed. If I had an actual tumor, would I still be able to quickly think of something funny? I don't think so, unless the tumor is one that is actually helping me think of something funny to say, like that bad John Travolta movie where he develops telekinesis for a short time.

Visine is a temporary fix. I think it's masking the real problem. I'd like to stop thinking about it now, so writing about the subject is probably not helping.

I'm in my mid-30's now. I've been a slight hypochondriac since I turned thirty. I remember fondly the days of my yesteryear, when abnormalities and mystery illnesses and injuries were written off as puberty, or later, a product of being a more active person who sometimes engaged in binge drinking. Ahh, the wonder years. Life without a tumor was so simple.

Update: The eyes have cleared up. I stood in front of the microwave for a half-hour and I think the radiation may have shrunk the tumor. Good thing, because I'm now convinced this red mark on my arm is the result of a bite from the button spider of Southern Africa. I'm going to look for some antivenin in the spider aisle at Walgreen's.

Hold the Brocolli

I've often wondered what women talk about when us men are not around. I always assume it's similar to the women's meeting that established couples showers, but I'm guessing there's so much more.

I'm not sure if a recent commercial I saw was true to life, but for some reason it raised a lot of questions for me. Two women are sitting at a table. They look like professional women out on their lunch break. The waiter brings them their main dishes and a side of broccoli. The first woman shoots her friend or business associate a worried look and points to the broccoli.

"See that? That's all it takes for me to get gas."

Wow. What kind of response is she looking for here? How well does she know this woman? Is it her boss? Isn't there a chance, considering food has just been delivered to the table, that her statement may have been inappropriate. Is she just "putting it out there" in case something slips out at lunch? Is that really the table conversation that you want to spark? Is she so bad at small-talk that she can't come up with something better than that? How about the weather, the waiter, popular music, reality television, politics, religion. Nope, she chose flatulence. On the surface; not the smartest business decision.

Ladies, have you ever been sitting at lunch with a friend or coworker, pointed to something, and said "That makes me fart"? No matter how close you are, isn't that a case of too much information? Does your friend really need to know this? I've heard men talk about this sort of thing, but it's usually not the cause they focus on, just the effect.

In this commercial, her friend didn't bat an eyelash. She simply handed her a bottle of Beano, a product that reduces gas, and they went about their business. The Beano wasn't tucked away in her purse; she was carrying it like her keys or some other chattel. The first woman looks at the Beano and says "Broccoli, you have met your match." Imagine the first woman's luck. She took a serious risk by bringing up a delicate subject and was instantly rewarded with a solution that will ultimately make it possible for her to enjoy broccoli again.

I had never heard of Beano. I don't believe I have any use for it, but I checked out the website just in case. Sure enough, under their "fan mail" section, there were seven women and one man who decided to send a letter to Beano. I can't imagine a gas problem being so bad, that when you get relief, you feel the need to send a letter to the company. Then, you give them permission to use your first and last name on their website. Doesn't that defeat the purpose of trying to hide an embarrassing problem?

Old People

Living in South Florida, I find it necessary to vent about old people every once in awhile to keep my sanity and avoid "acting out". In the past few days, I've had a few run-ins that have precipitated one of these moments. I wasn't going to post about it, but Willard Scott sent me over the edge.

It all started Monday on the way home from work. I was merging with another lane of traffic, preparing to enter a toll booth line coming off the Turnpike. There was a SUV next to me. I slowed down to let them pass. They slowed down. I sped up to get past them. They sped up. Ridiculous. As I slowed to a crawl, they finally inched past me. I looked over to see an old woman in the driver's seat. She couldn't have been a day younger than 90. She was on her cellphone, fumbling around for change, and had a dog on her lap. Somehow, I had annoyed her with my defensive driving, and, despite all of her other distractions, she found the time to look at me and raise her hand with her palm facing up and an angry look on her face like I was an idiot. This was a slap in the face, coming from an mental patient with a dog on her lap and a cell phone stuck to her head. I didn't even know people that old had cell phones. Do they make buttons big enough for them to see? Outrageous.

Then, Tuesday on my way to work, I needed to stop for gas. This is already a painful situation, because gas is now just short of three dollars a gallon. For some reason, I needed to wait in line behind another car at one of the pumps. Of course, I picked the 1985 Cadillac Eldorado that probably has only 3000 miles on it. The 85-year-old guy fumbling with the gas pump was out on one of his Tuesday morning drives. I should have parked behind the RV filling up next to him, but chose to wait it out. As he filled the tank, I knew what was going to happen next. Sure enough, he replaced the pump and turned to walk to the cashier inside. So predictable. I knew he probably didn't trust the crazy credit card slot on the pump and had to do his business in person. Instead of pulling up to a parking spot, he started the painfully slow walk to the building. I clocked him at 100 feet an hour, because the building was about 100 feet away and it took him an hour to get there. Then, I watched through the window as he waited in line behind 8 or 9 migrant workers buying their Gatorade. I put happy music on in my car to find a happy place, but there was no such place. Finally, after my beard grew in and I was almost ready to apply for my own AARP card, he began walking back to his car. Unbelievable.

The final straw was yesterday as I arrived to work. I usually have the Today Show on the television in my office. Sure enough, Willard Scott popped up on screen and started congratulating people for reaching their 100th birthday. Normally, I'm impressed by such a feat but at that moment I could care less. Then, I heard Willard say "Joyce Polillo from Bangor, Maine is 100 years old today. She loves reading and she cannot be beaten at Scrabble."

What!!!!!

That is horseshit!

Quickly, I went to the Today Show's website and found the Willard Scott area. Here's what it says:

"Please send us the following information in writing three to four weeks in advance. We need the full names and addresses of those celebrating, how old they will be on which date and something personal about them."

Whoever sent in Joyce's announcement could have picked anything over the span of 100 years to represent "something personal about them." A hundred years of material and the best they can do is "cannot be beaten at Scrabble"! That's an outright lie. The directions on the website are clear. It doesn't say "Please tell us how old they will be on which date and then fabricate some ridiculous fantasy about them." That would throw everything out of whack. I can hear Willard Scott saying "Joe Smith is 100 years old today and likes to race unicorns. Shelly White is 100 years old and she once went fly-fishing with Bigfoot." This is an outrage.

I'm sure there are linguists or English professors who could easily handle Joyce in a game of Scrabble. In fact, I guarantee that I could triple-word-score her ass right back to the Harding administration. Joyce, if you're reading this, BRING IT ON. I will boggle your mind with my knowledge of words containing X, Q, Z, or Y. You got nuthin! Did you know that a "xyster" is a surgical instrument used to scrape bones? Have you ever used the word "quartzite" in a sentence? I will take you down, Joyce. You can use your silly words like glaucoma and osteoporosis, and I will tap dance all over your feeble mind and make you wish your relative never crowed about your supposed dominance on national television. What, some guy who knocked over a liquor store came to the nursing home to fulfill his community service requirement and you got lucky at a board game and beat him and now you think you're better than me? Here's a little secret Joyce: When your family visits you and you play Scrabble, they're letting you win. Yep, sorry to burst your bubble, but I've heard that some of the words you use aren't even words at all. News flash: boogadeeboo is not in the dictionary. I don't care what games you used to play with your grandkids. Your grandkids are now 65 years old. Loser.

Screw you, Joyce, and screw Smuckers.

Phew. I feel better.

Weekend Movie Reviews

This weekend, I spent four days on the couch with a bottle of painkillers. One can only convince his wife to act out a few scenes from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest before it gets old.

So, I had the rare opportunity to catch up on several of Blockbuster's new releases. Here's the rundown of movies I watched this weekend and some quick advice on each one in case you're considering a movie night in the near future.

Just Friends
Surprisingly funny. I enjoyed this film. I'm not sure if it was because of the painkillers or not, but it was funnier than I thought it would be. Undaground advice: rent it.

Jarhead
Useless. I'm not sure that the first Gulf war is going to produce any worthwhile movies. Undaground advice: go get Full Metal Jacket instead. Ooh-ra.

Walk the Line
Hmmm. Dead brother, womanizer, drug addict, good woman supporting him. I've seen this movie before. It's called Ray. To be fair, I slept through most of the middle of this movie. Mrs. Undaground seemed to enjoy it. Undaground advice: worth watching but not as good as advertised.

Broken Flowers
Strange movie with Bill Murray. There was definitely a message here, but I missed it. Maybe if I still had my wisdom teeth, I'd be wise enough to understand this movie, but I didn't. Plus, the box says it's a comedy. Really? Undaground advice: if you watch it, please explain it to me and tell me what's funny.

Elizabethtown
I'm a big fan of Cameron Crowe movies. This was OK, but not nearly as good as most of his movies like Fast Times, Say Anything, Jerry Macguire and Almost Famous. I think Kirsten Dunst bothers me. She was good in Interview with the Vampire, but not so much after that. Undaground advice: skip it.

Garden State
I've actually seen Garden State a bunch of times, and Mrs. Undaground and I own the DVD. This was on HBO and I've found that I'll stop and watch whenever it's on. Undaground advice: If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend it.

Spidey Spam

I believe it was Spiderman's uncle who told him: "With great power, comes great responsibility."

It is now my responsibility to moderate the comments on this blog. Lately, there have been some spam comments, which direct you to a bogus website. For this reason, I've turned on the "word verification" feature. You've probably seen this before. When you want to enter a comment, you'll first have to show some basic code-cracking and typing skills by duplicating a fictitious word. Usually, it's something like "zorunk" or "chattel". This will prevent evil robots from posting unwanted comments on this blog.

While I'm on the subject of comments, I'd like to thank "Anonymous" for being such a regular contributor. Anonymous, you're very witty and clearly my most loyal reader and commenter. With such a name, I know you're probably not looking for accolades, especially in a public forum, but I can't resist. Let's all toast Anonymous, and shout his/her name from the hilltops.

Post-Op

Thanks for all the well wishes. I'm fine. Flowers are not necessary. If you feel you must do something, please make a donation to Little People of America, one of the Undaground's favorite non-profit organizations.

Wow, I'd have to say that the wisdom teeth extraction experience was worse than I was expecting. Despite my over-the-top mock anxiety on the blog, I was not really worried about it and thought it would be nothing more than a moderate inconvenience. I was wrong.

I had three wisdom teeth to remove; one was taken out about 5 years ago. Yesterday morning, the first two on the left side went very smoothly. I felt pressure but it was quick and painless. One more to go and I was out of there. No problem. On the other side, it was a different story.

When he first started to pull on it, I let out a little yelp. I said "Hey doc, I can feel that!" Of course, to him it sounded like "Aaaah, Goccch. Nokunoopalala."

So, he went back to the needle and more novacaine and walked out of the room. After about five minutes, he came back and started poking around.

"Do you feel that?"

(Two-syllabled grunt meaning "no")

"How about that?"

(Same negative grunt with more feeling)

Now he starts to pull again.

Oh my God. That's intense pain. "Ahhhhhrgh." I could feel it beneath or behind the tooth, in the bone of my face. I just wanted numb. Get me more numb.

Then I heard something that blew me away. The oral surgeon sighed. I couldn't see his eyes at the time, but I heard him roll them.

"I'm sorry", I said. Of course, it sounded like "Ahhh goggy." What the hell was I doing apologizing to somebody who was literally inflicting serious pain on me. It was Stockholm Syndrome at its finest. What was I sorry for?

That's when the extraction process turned a bit evil. He poked me with a needle again, and this time, didn't wait for it to set in. I've been to the dentist enough where I know it takes time to get numb. What was he doing? Did he have a brunch date with someone? Was he trying to finish before Ellen comes on? Maybe he likes to dance along with her.

Now, as he's yanking at the tooth, he says "Raise your left hand if you can still feel it."

My hand shot up. This was real pain. Again, I apologized, but I'm not sure why.

"OK, I'm going to let it sit for a minute and get more numb."

"Good idea, genious", I said. But it came out "Uhhh ga".

Again, I saw the unmistakable look of annoyance on his face. This asshole was annoyed by me. As I type this, I'm now realizing the full lunacy of that situation, because at the time, I was just trying to survive. There are few instances where you are less powerless than in a dentists' chair.

Before I knew it, he was back in there. I'd concluded that I was going to feel the tooth being pulled out, and it was going to hurt. I decided to just deal with it and get it over with. Now, as he's getting leverage to continue to work on the tooth, it felt like the weight of his body and his portly assistant was all resting on my bottom lip. This was pain designed to distract me. Maybe they didn't realize that part of my face wasn't numb either, and they were so focused on the wisdom tooth that they didn't realize that they were now hurting my freaking lip! I've never done this in a dentist's chair before, but I raised my hand up and touched the dentist's arm.

He stopped.

"You just raised your arm up right there. Why did you do that?"

"My lip."

"Did your mother ever tell you that you're difficult to deal with?"

"What?" He understood that. This time, I gave him an insincere "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. Don't apologize." Whatever, dude, I'm sure you really feel that way.

One last time. He pulled on the tooth. My feet curled, my knees bended, I grabbed the armrests, I tried to suppress noise as best I could. I felt it, despite three attempts at the novacaine. Then, I felt him put the gauze in and knew the tooth was out.

Whew.

Today is a much better day already. I'm ready to move from soup to macaroni and cheese soon. I just did my first saltwater rinse and everything is good. I have two or three days of Percoset left and probably won't need them beyond this afternoon.

My advice to anyone to needs to get their wisdom teeth out: get more than novacaine.

Surgery Preps

There are some very basic things I need to take care of before going under the knife tomorrow.

With every surgery, no matter how minor, there are questions that need to be answered and plans put in place as a form of insurance against the unthinkable.
I will not be under the influence of anesthesia. Instead, I will be tripping the light fantastic under the influence of a powerful cocktail of novacaine and nitrous oxide. I am currently in negotiations with Dentaland over whether they will play the "Dark Side of the Moon" album while my parts are slowly removed from my body. Is that too much to ask?

As for the actual wisdom teeth, I would like them preserved in a small plastic container and sent home with me, so that I may place them under my pillow. I have been trying to capture the tooth fairy for the purposes of science since kindergarten. This is the first time in about 28 years that I'll have the opportunity again. What's the tooth fairy paying these days? What is his major source of income? I heard he was recently married to a biker in Massachusetts and the two of them adopted triplets from Albania. How does the tooth fairy juggle his fairy responsibilities with being a mother/father?

I have been told not to eat or drink anything after midnight tonight. I will heed the warning, because I've seen the movie Gremlins and who knows what would happen.

Please refresh yourselves on My Living Will (Mrs. Undaground, this means you). I don't want you to worry about me; I just want to have the conversations we need to have before I get wheeled back into that operating room.

Good Morning

I'm running a little late this morning, so I'll have to keep this short. Mrs. Undaground was out of town for a few days and I lost a little time on my schedule preparing the house for her return. Getting elephant droppings, peanut shells, and the cotton candy machine out was no easy task.

I'm suffering from a major head-cold. I'm not sure what the difference is between a cold and a head-cold, but it just sounds more regal to say head-cold, so that's what I have. Is there anything about incessant sniffing, whooping cough and a my husky Slingblade-voice that isn't regal?

I'm hoping to shake this thing soon, because Thursday is wisdom teeth day. I'm going on the three-day oral surgery diet. I hear it's pretty effective; not quite as good as the jaw-wired-shut diet, but much better than the I-just-got-my-tongue-pierced diet.

Somebody mentioned that I didn't mention the WVU victory. No superstition here, I'm just anxiously awaiting the match-up with Texas and was more relieved than anything that we beat Northwestern State. I don't even know where Northwestern State is from. It sounds like a fictional college from an 80's B-movie. I haven't tied sports superstition to the blog yet, but I am still known to watch portions of a game while juggling field mice and wearing an old boot on my head. That's normal, right?

Undaground Joketime

I'm not a joke-teller. For some reason, I don't remember any jokes and I just don't get animated enough during the process to successfully pull it off. I love telling stories, but jokes for me have always been difficult.

I did hear a joke this weekend that I may attempt to retell. Here it is in written form for anyone that can't remember jokes, like me.

A guy runs into an old friend. They haven't seen each other in awhile, so he's surprised to see that his old friend has a big, round, orange head.

"What happened to you?", the guy asks his friend.

"Well, I found a bottle on the beach and rubbed it, and a genie came out. He said I could have three wishes. My first wish for for a million dollars. That's how I got all this money. Check out my watch."

"Very nice."

"The second wish was for a beautiful wife. Now I'm happily married to a supermodel. Life is good."

"Congratulations", the friend replied.

"My third wish; this is where I could have gone wrong... For my third wish, I asked for a big, round, orange head."

O'Potpourri

Happy St. Patrick's Day
What's it all about? Click here for the History Channel's version.

For me, it means Lucky Charms for breakfast (they're magically delicious, trust me). Later, I will listen to U2 on the iPod while enjoying a Smithwyck's ale. Also, all day long, I will speak in an exaggerated Irish accent. That should be a treat since I'm attending a business luncheon. Later, I will wear my green visor to our poker game and play a little looser, counting on the luck of the Irish (even though I only have trace amounts of Irish in me). Unfortunately, I don't own any work-appropriate green clothing so I have to find other ways to celebrate on behalf of all of my Irish readers. Erin go bragh.

Spread the "word"


In legal terms, the word "chattel" is defined as movable, personal property. Years ago, I heard the definition and thought it meant stuff you keep in your pockets or small personal items. For example, when getting up from having a drink at a bar, one might say, "Hang on a sec, just let me grab my chattel", meaning your receipts, wallet, sunglasses and keys. I like this use of the word and intend to try to get it to catch on. Stuff and junk and things and crap are all words that are overused in our vernacular. Chattel is a snappy word that can also be used in poetry and hip-hop songs since it rhymes with cattle, battle, skedaddle, ping-pong paddle etc. Please use this new word liberally and help me get it out there. If you'd like your husband to get his stuff off of the top of your dresser or the kitchen counter, ask him to clean up his chattel. If they ask you to empty your pockets at the airport, ask them if they have a basket for your chattel. Come on, join the chattel bandwagon now, before everybody's saying it.

Ask the O'Undaground
Dear Undaground,

Why was Crossfire canceled?

Signed,
Shouting at my TV in Shelbyville, Tennessee

Dear Shouting,

I could say that CNN has a new president and is trying to differentiate themselves from FOX by eliminating the point/counterpoint, jane-you-ignorant-slut, right vs. left approach to cable news coverage.

But I'll go with this: They canceled it because you enjoyed it.

I can relate. I'm still mourning the loss of "Ed" and "Freaks and Geeks", both canceled prematurely by NBC. Meanwhile, you can tune in now on NBC to watch "Deal or No Deal", which has all the entertainment value of watching someone play a scratch-off ticket.

I do like "Meet the Press" though.

It's March, and I'm Mad

I'm not mad meaning angry; I'm mad meaning crazy.

I'm not bad meaning bad; I'm bad meaning good.

I'm not fat meaning chubby; I'm phat meaning a poor speller.

Yes, it's that time of year again; time for all the Cinderella analogies to enter the college basketball world. Which team is being fitted for the glass slipper? Whose going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight? Which player looks the prettiest in a sequined gown? You've heard them all.

According to many recent published reports, US workers will lose $3.8 billion in productivity while filling out brackets and following March Madness at work. In a related note, my own research shows that you will waste between 30 seconds and 6 minutes each day reading my blog. This is time you and your employer will never get back. It's gone. I'm sorry.

The official team of the Undaground blog remains the West Virginia Mountaineers. I did receive my education there and have remained a loyal, somewhat-emotional-bordering-on-manic-but-not-in-a-dangerous-way fan ever since.

WVU's game is 2:45 tomorrow and our opponent will be the Southern Illinois Salukis. You may have seen their cheerleader in the news lately. She's the one who kept cheering even after being loaded on to a stretcher. That was kind of creepy, dontcha think?

As a youth, I once pulled a groin playing indoor kickball. It was about the time I grew 10 or 12 inches in a few months so my legs were longer than I had anticipated. Some called me awkward at this time; I preferred the word "coltish". I knew that the whole gym class was counting on me so I pulled my lifeless left leg across the gym floor in order to get to first base. I guess I can kind of relate to the strange Saluki cheerleader. The major difference was that people cheered for her as she was carted off; I just got some strange looks and a pass to study hall.

Another time, I cut my wrist with a Cutco knife. I was trying to slice a rotisserie chicken and the dog distracted me. The chicken fell on the floor, and it sat there for longer than 5 seconds so we couldn't eat it (according to the official 5-second rule). Later, at the hospital, I had to assure the lady at the front desk that I didn't need mental counseling. It was an accident. I just wanted some chicken.

That last story has nothing to do with the cheerleader; I was just thinking about poultry.

Oscar the Executioner

"I see feathers", Mrs. Undaground yelled.

Uh oh. I rolled out of bed and quickly put on my sneakers. I knew what that meant. Our sadistic yet generous cat had brought me another "gift". We had to rectify the situation immediately. I couldn't think of a nicer thing to do on a Monday morning.

This has happened several times before. Every eight weeks or so, Oscar the Executioner, drags some small woodland creature into the house to show his love for us. I guess it's his way of telling us that he appreciates the Friskies and fresh water every morning and he forgives us for the trip to the vet. I haven't been able to effectively explain to him that a gift is not necessary. If he feels he has to bring us something, a bottle of wine or a key lime pie would be fine. No, he prefers seriously wounded, freaked-out wildlife.

I'm sure it's fun for the cats to sit back and watch us in the first few moments after feathers are discovered. We've learned from experience that the gift will be somewhere in the house, cowering and wishing he'd never wandered near our property. As the cats strut around and meow, the dog, Wrigley, quivers in the corner, clearly affected by the killers among us. Mrs. Undaground and I then start tip-toeing through the house, waiting for the sudden flapping of wings. No matter how much I prepare myself for the eventual sighting of the bird, I always manage to scream like an eleven-year-old girl and run away after being startled by it.

This particular injured bird was in our office. We surmised that the gift was for me, since the office is where I drink my coffee in the morning and post to my blog. We've become much better at live bird removal over the past few months and have developed a pretty efficient system. I sneak in and open one window, go grab the fishing net in the car port, come back in and open the other window, and start moving slowly toward the bird with the net while Mrs. Undaground pops the screens from the outside. Then, I use the net as a poker and a shield and shoo the creature toward freedom. After the bird eventually flies sideways through one of the windows, Mrs. Undaground vacuums up feathers while I counsel the dog and thank the cat profusely. No problem, except we feel sorry for the bird who now has to explain to all his bird friends why he's nude.

That day, when I returned home from work, I saw the dog's stuffed mouse lying in the backyard. The mouse normally stays in the house, so this was odd. I walked through the back gate to examine the scene. The plush animal was wounded badly just under the imaginary ribcage. There was white stuffing surrounding it and the squeaker had been extricated from the toy. It was like a kung-fu movie when someone pulls another guy's heart out and it beats in his hand. The other shoe has fallen. Oscar the Executioner has taught Wrigley how to kill.

Wild and Crazy Guy

I'm a little busy today, so I leave you in the capable hands of Steve Martin, with a classic piece of comedy that he wrote for the New Yorker.

Click Here

More Cheesecake, Please.

We got one of these (see above) this weekend.

It's some kind of new-fangled, modern art piece of furniture. Mrs. Undaground tells me it's called a "bike". Up until now, I've been calling it a laundry rack.

I am already reaping the benefits of our "bike".

Instead of just having a burger on the grill for lunch Saturday, I threw a bratwurst on for myself. "It's OK, cause we gotta bike."

When Mrs. Undaground went shopping yesterday, I asked her to pick up some ice cream. "It's OK, cause we gotta bike."

I may enter a pie-eating contest and be guilt-free cause we gotta bike.

I think I'm going to like this bike. So far, it's been delicious.

Survivor Haiku (plus bonus haiku)

I've very pleased to announce that this Survivor Haiku was written by Mrs. Undaground. For those of you who taped the show and don't want to see the results, don't scroll down. So I don't ruin it for you, I'll take up some space with a photo of stormtroopers in a conga line.

...

Exile Saves Sally

"My crazy boy" Shane lives on

Goodbye Astronaut.

...

Can you Haiku? Post your Survivor Haiku here under "Comments". Definition of haiku here. If you don't watch Survivor, feel free to leave an American Idol Haiku like these:

Gedeon was robbed.

Chicken Little has to go.

cute but not so great.

...

Um, is it just me

or did Bo Bice sound pitchy?

Everyone's a judge.

Choking Dangers

So, my wife and I were in our usual spots in the living room, eating small bowls of macaroni and cheese. She looks over at me, and then looks away, and then quickly back at me. She literally does a genuine double-take.

I was telling her some story and I was using both of my hands to talk. Until I saw the look on her face; a perfect mixture of amusement and disgust, I didn't realize where my bowl of tasty noodles had gone, since both hands were occupied.

There, on the crest of my gut, rested my pasta. If I moved the bowl away, I may have been able to place a nice floral arrangement there, or it could have served as one of the rows on a human pyramid. Yes, we had discovered a new "surface area" to put things.

Lucky for me, on my way into the kitchen, there's a full-length mirror on the wall. I get to see the gut in all its glory after every meal. I took a good look before walking into the kitchen. Yep, salad for lunch tomorrow.

Mrs. Undaground put her dish into the sink. "So, are you going to blog about your belly-shelf now?"

"No", I said, "It's not something I'm proud of. To be fair, I was somewhat reclined when the shelf appeared."

"You shouldn't eat when you're reclining. You could choke."

"That's a good point. I should blog about that."

Astronaut Boredom Manual - A to Z

Astronauts for years have opened new doors for all of us. Boredom in space, however, is a growing problem that has consistently plagued space travelers. Consider the following suggestions if you're ever lucky enough to spend any significant time in a space vessel.

During spaceflight, you may find yourself running out of things to talk about. Experimenting and collecting samples will only take you so far. Friendly conversation is essentially what will get you through a long mission. Got a good joke? Have a funny anecdote about space school? I would venture to guess that you'll need them. Just in case you're an aspiring astronaut but not much of a conversationalist, here are some discussion topics for your flight. Krispy Kreme donuts are delicious. Loni Anderson never got the critical acclaim she deserved. Monkeys in space have tainted our legacies. Nylon pants make a funny noise when you walk briskly. Oprah may have billions, but she can't do somersaults while overlooking the Earth, like us.

Perhaps you could pass the time in space by suggesting some fun games. Quite a few famous astronauts before you have spent countless hours playing space poker. Remember to keep an eye on your chips. Some may float away, even after a winning hand. Twister presents some unique problems as well. Use weightlessness to your advantage, but try to stay on the board or you'll lose. Victory is sweeter in space.

When in doubt, you can always amuse yourselves by engaging some aliens in a good old-fashioned space battle. X-wing fighter jets are tricky, so make sure you have a good droid helping you out.

You should know that co-ed missions have opened up a whole new world for astronauts, especially those of you that are unmarried. Zero-gravity sex is fantastic.

Bonus Yard

We are currently enjoying a backyard on borrowed time. We have a beautiful pool, fruit trees, a fire pit, a lush lawn and a lot of privacy. Unfortunately, none of it is ours. Our property ends about 10 feet past our back porch. Since last June, we have enjoyed a "bonus yard" because of circumstances. Now, we can only wait, and root against a real estate sale like it was a sporting event.

The couple that sold us our house also owns the lot behind it; it was their backyard. The lot has been on the market for ten months now, and nobody has figured out how to buy it and build on it. The pool is large enough so that it would be difficult to squeeze a house on the property. My wife and I know that someday, somebody will crack the code and buy the property. When that happens, our bonus yard will be nothing more than new neighbors invading our personal space.

Hidden in this whole situation is a bittersweet irony. Anybody who is interested in the property normally parks in our driveway and knocks on our door. Mrs. Undaground and I have worked up some pretty devious plans to thwart the sale. Personally, I'm inspired by the Brady Bunch episode where the kids haunt their own house to keep their parents from selling.

Our dog Wrigley is extremely friendly and welcoming. If our home was ever broken into, she'd probably show them where we hide the jewelry. That doesn't mean we can't portray her as a vicious killer. When a prospective buyer knocks, all we have to do is hold her back and say, "Just be careful. She hasn't bitten anyone since January, but that doesn't make her sane. We rescued her from the dogfighting circuit. Anytime she sees people adjacent to our property, she attacks."

We've also kicked around the idea of me standing naked in front of the big window in the kitchen that looks out over the backyard. I'm not a big fan of gratuitous nudity, but I might take one for the team here. If they don't seem phased by it, I could walk out on the back porch and ask them if they need a hand identifying any of the wildlife in the area.

The other thing we've discussed is just good old-fashioned rude behavior.

"Hi, we're here to see the backyard."

"Go around to the other street. It's not ours, and frankly, we don't want you here."

"But can you tell us anything about it."

"Yes, I can. If you buy it, I will spend every waking hour making you regret it. I will rise every morning at 4 A-M, stand on the edge of my property, and crow like a six-foot rooster. I will buy a drum set and learn how to play them on my back porch. Then, I will start a band that plays on Tuesdays and Wednesdays at midnight. We will only do songs by Poison, and we will not do them well. I will knock on your door three times a day asking to borrow a stick of butter. If you don't give me butter I will relieve myself on your front door. I will poke around your back window with my remote control and change the channels on your television. I will buy a wolverine. I will set off fireworks on every Independence Day. There are a lot of countries who've gained independence, you know. Now go away before I do something my parole officer will get fired for."

I've practiced the speech hundreds of times.

Saturday, we got a knock on the door from some people interested in poking around our bonus yard.

I answered the door, fully clothed.

"Oh, don't worry. She won't bite. She's a very friendly dog", I said.

What was I doing?

"Well, it's not ours, but here's the phone number to the owners. Sure, take a look around and just let us know if we can answer any questions. Would you like some punch?"

I wish I had an explanation for why I turn into a nice guy when people come to take away our free backyard. I plan to keep practicing my speech, and hopefully, someday, I can properly present it.

When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May

Mrs. Undaground and I watched the Oscars last night. I'm glad we have Tivo, because we both fell asleep and rewound it to watch the big awards.

Earlier in the telecast, Jessica Alba walked out on stage. Mrs. Undaground was quick to point out: "There's your girl."

I would like to make something clear in this public forum: Mrs. Undaground is my girl; Jessica Alba is not. We have never had a relationship or even exchanged phone numbers. She does email me from time to time, but it's usually just forwarded jokes and comments on my blog.

With that being said, when they make "Undaground Blog: The Movie" and its sequel "The Undaground Blog and the Goblet of Fire", I will cast Jessica Alba to play Mrs. Undaground in the film. Since I have extensive acting experience, I will play myself. Morgan Freeman, naturally, will narrate. Finally, Pat Harrington Jr. will most certainly play our neighborhood handyman, Schneider.

Couples Showers

I heard a guy on the radio the other day, saying he had to attend a "couples shower" this weekend. "Couples shower", to me, is a phrase I dread hearing. I'm not sure when it started, but somehow, over the past few years, couples showers are popping up all over the place. I believe it started with bridal showers and then seeped into baby showers.

Men, this is something that each one of us has to do something about. Please, talk to your wives and girlfriends and ask them to stop the madness. If I don't show up to a couples shower and the rest of you do, it just makes me and Mrs. Undaground look like bad people. In order for this "resistance" to work, all of us need to refuse to attend. By the way, women of the world, if you want to trick us into attending a shower, call it a party and have it on a Friday night. Save the game-playing and gift-opening for a ladies after-party the next day.

I have a few questions for the ladies who read this blog. Perhaps you can shed some light on this disturbing trend.

Was there a meeting on this subject that I missed? Were their any men invited to the meeting? Were they given a chance to speak? Was there a vote? How is it that men are now expected to attend baby showers, yet those same men were excluded from the meeting where this was determined?

I have a pretty good idea how this conversation went down. Tell me if I'm right.

Woman #1: Order! Order! We'll have to continue our roundtable discussion about the toilet seat next time. It's time to consider the next item on our agenda: couples showers.

Woman #2: Yes! I was wondering when we were going to talk about this. Who should towel who off first in these situations?

Woman #1: No, no, silly. I'm not talking about bathing. I'm talking about bridal and baby showers.

Woman #2: Now you have my attention. Carry on, please. By the way, I love your hair today.

Woman #1: Thanks, do you really like it? I wasn't sure what to do with it, so I brought my hairdresser a picture from a magazine.

Woman #2: Oh yes. It looks good. Where do you get your hair done? No matter how hard I try, I can't get my stylist to remember me, so I'm shopping around for someone with better recognition skills.

Woman #1: I'll give you her number after the meeting. She's really good, and not that expensive. This time, it only cost me $140.

Woman #2: Thanks. That is cheap! I really like the hair. It looks like the new girl that's on the O.C., you know, the one that was wearing the red dress last night.

Woman #3: You watch the O.C.!? What happened last night? NO! Don't tell me, dontellme, dontellme, dontellme. I taped it. Just tell me if they got back together or not. No. Don't tell me. I hope they did. Did they? Don't tell me. Just tell me if I'll be happy or not.

Woman #2: I think you'll be very happy. I won't tell you, though. You have to see HOW it happens though. It's so sweet. I cried my eyes out.

Woman #3: Awwwww. I can't wait. Don't tell me.

Woman #2: OK, I won't. Where did you get those shoes, by the way?

Woman #4: I was just gonna ask the same thing. I really like them. Does that strap go... Oh, I see. It wraps around the ankle twice, then? You have to tell me where you got them.

Woman #3: You like them? I saw them and I just fell in love with them. I was at the mall because I had to buy a card for my sister. She just got rid of her glasses, and starting wearing contacts. So, you know, I wanted to get her a card at Hallmark, and maybe something little as a gift. I found a cute little pair of earrings for only $30, so I got them for her, and a pair for myself. But, when I was walking out, I saw these shoes in the window. I asked how much they were, and the guy inside said $250, but they're normally $800 so I had to get them. Here's their name on this card. I got a VIP card at the store, so if I buy 8 pairs in the next 12 months, I get a gift certificate for a champagne brunch for two.

Woman #4: Wow. I'm going to stop on the way home. Thanks. We have his company Christmas party in December, and I'm going to need some new shoes. And I also need something casual for my cousin's baby shower.

Woman #2: Oh, that's right. What about these couples showers? I'm intrigued.

Woman #1: The motion reads: "Staff recommends most bridal and baby showers now be co-ed. Women enjoy bridal and baby showers, and staff believes men should enjoy them to. Research has shown that while women are off at showers, men engage in behavior such as playing golf, watching sports on television, napping, drinking beer and scratching themselves in the nether region. To reduce the frequency of these barbaric activities, showers should now be "couples showers". Women are encouraged to direct their men to wear khakis and a sensible button-up shirt, preferably pink or sage in color. Men attending couples showers will be expected to participate in our mature, sensible games, and they will enjoy it."

Woman #3: That's amazing! A couples shower! If they refuse to attend, we can withhold sex.

Woman #4: If mine doesn't come along, I will throw his favorite t-shirt in the garbage. You know what, I'm gonna do that anyway, just to let him know I'm serious.

Woman #1: All in favor...

All Women: Aye!

Woman #1: OK, ladies. We need to wrap this up. I'm not sure when the next secret meeting will be, but, as always, we will communicate with you by embedding messages into the credits of all Sandra Bullock movies.

Woman #2: Question... Can we make bachelor parties co-ed as well?

Woman #4: Also, what about male cheerleaders in the NFL?

Woman #1: I will draft a few motions and get them on the agenda for the next meeting. Don't forget ladies, one week from today is "Passive Aggressive Thursday". Keep a journal and bring it here with you next time. If you choose not to participate, you won't be eligible to win the bottle of White Zinfandel. This meeting's adjourned.

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This week's ominous sign of aging
Yesterday, as I walked out of work, I sneezed. I'm not sure what brought it on. I haven't been sick and I wasn't carrying a cat or anything. Here's the thing: When I sneezed, my nose made that trumpet sound. I've heard many other people do this before, but most of them were much older than me. I always wondered how they did it, and, I must admit, there were times I wish I had the power to do it. This sound, however, took me my surprise. I was walking at the time and didn't break my stride, so that may have had something to do with it. Soon after the sneeze, I looked around and there were no witnesses. That's a shame, because I probably would have questioned them for verification. To me, it sounded like a brass instrument. I haven't sneezed since, so I'm not sure if this is what my sneezes will sound like from now on, or if this was just a one-time thing. As always, I'll keep you updated.

Excellent Gift
At JP's 30th birthday party, my friend Dave gave him a novelty gift: a green baseball cap that said "I'm having a senior moment". It also had buttons attached to it with other senior citizen quips on it. Dave had been given the hat at his own 30th birthday, and was "regifting" it. At the time, I looked briefly at it and acknowledged it. I might have even forced out a small, courtesy laugh. Then, a week later, the night we attended the concert, I realized the genius of the gift. What was a slightly humorous, slightly cliche gag hat was suddenly hilarious to me. JP wore the hat to the concert. Once on his head, the hat came alive. It was not unlike a Harry Potter movie. It was magical. I wish I would have taken a picture, but I'm guessing I'll have an opportunity sometime in the future.

It figures
According to the Sun-Sentinel, the housing boom in South Florida is over. Excellent. It looks like we bought our house just as the bubble was over-inflated almost to the point of bursting, but not quite. Our house was on the market for four days before we bought it, and we were competing with others to get the deal done. Now, there are houses in the neighborhood that have been for sale for months. Crap. This is nothing new for me. I bought a pair of parachute pants in the mid-80's. Two weeks later, they were out of style. We got our photo iPod on a Sunday. Monday, Apple announced the video iPod. Just once, I'd like to be out front on something. I got it. Maybe I'll write a gay cowboy movie.

Goin' Down the Road, Feelin Good (extended dance remix)

(Editors Note: This is a very long story. I had a personal breakthrough Friday night and I wanted to document it in its entirety. Thanks for indulging me. If you want the short version of this post, please click here.)

I'm not sure why, but I had a momentary lapse of reason. Friday night, as we were preparing to leave for a concert, I morphed into an idiot for a short spell and pulled some twisted logic out of my rear end.

"Trashbags. I'll just bring trashbags", I said.

"Why don't you grab your rain jacket?", Mrs. Undaground asked as she lifted her own off of its hanger.

"It has my company's name on it, and I'll be drinking beer, so, no."

"Well, what about this one?". She grabbed my waterproof, tailgating pullover from the college years.

"It's a little tight. I don't feel like carrying it. I have lots of pockets so I'll just bring some trashbags to sit on, in case it keeps raining." It was like an out-of-body experience. Why else would I so proudly declare that I have lots of pockets? I could always leave the jacket in the car. Is there anything remotely cool, fun or comfortable about wearing a trash bag instead of a jacket?
"It's going to stop raining anyway. We'll be fine", I continued. Suddenly, I was a meteorologist.

I grabbed three black trash bags from under the kitchen sink, folded them neatly, and put them in one of my many pockets. Cargo pants rule.

We were in the car a few minutes later, and heading to pick up my brother, Matt. Mrs. Undaground listened as I called him on his cell to let him know we were on the way.

"Yo (we grew up near Philly). We just left our house so we'll be there in about 25-minutes or so. You're where? What? Why are you golfing? It's not 5, it's 5:15. The concert starts at 7. Are you on the tee of the 16th hole or the green of the 16th hole? Well, I hope you beat us to your place. Later."

I looked at Mrs. Undaground, dumbfounded by this behavior. "He's golfing. We're going to a concert. Is it me? It's him, right? I talked to him 6 hours ago. There were no plans for golf. Did someone knock him out and drag him to a golf course? Crazy! Is it me?"

"Your brothers just do things differently then you", she reasoned. "At least it's not raining down there."

Twenty-five minutes into our drive, we had traveled four miles. Mrs. Undaground, as usual, was trying to make the best of the situation. I was battling road rage from the passenger seat. Even though the long line of cars disappeared into the horizon, I was incensed at each car that merged in front of us.

"Look at all those those lanes they've got closed! They look perfectly fine to me. And if they're not fine, why the hell isn't anybody working on them. I hate traffic.", I shouted. "We need to move to Alaska. No traffic there."

"Probably not a lot of concerts either", said my wife. She had a point. I'm glad I married her. Who else could balance my half-full glass with such legendary optimism?

After an hour and ten minutes, we finally arrived at JP and Matt's apartment. As we pulled into their complex, the rain started falling. I could swear the clouds were following us, just to piss us off.

My other brother, JP, was not planning to attend the show, but didn't have a valid excuse as to why not. The minute we entered the apartment, I started to break him down.

"What are you going to do, just sit here all night? It's Friday. Let's go. We're going to have a great time. You love the Grateful Dead. This is supposedly the best Dead cover band there is. Ten years from now, will you remember a concert with your brothers and your sister-in-law or will you remember sitting on the couch watching TV? You have a choice tonight, JP. You can be a zero, or you can be a hero."

After a few minutes, this tact was starting to work. I could see him breaking.

"It's raining", he said.

"It's going to stop raining. I've got trash bags for us to sit on. I've got lots of pockets, see." Why was I so proud of the pockets? What does he care about my pockets? I went back to the "hero or zero" strategy. Then, I tried to appeal to him with multi-colored, bearded revelry: "JP, you love deadheads. Deadheads are hilarious. We'll have a great time. I promise you."

Finally, he relented and went to his room to change his clothes. Now, we had to have a good time. I just beat my brother into submission by holding my opinion of him over his head. I hope it stops raining. Not a problem, though. I've got trash bags in my pockets. Matt and JP grabbed a few more trash bags as we left their apartment and got on the road.

It was 6:50. The concert was supposed to start in 10 minutes. Our drive would only be 20 minutes so we'd be fine.

JP's presence paid off instantly in the car. We were enjoying a spirited discussion about mix tapes. Apparently, JP prides himself in making great mix tapes. It's a skill he sharpened over the years after a traumatic childhood experience. As a kid, his school bus driver would play students' mix tapes on the way to school. JP's entry was booed on the bus and bumped from the tape deck, never to be played again. Since then, he's worked like a mad scientist to improve his mix-taping ability and claims to have achieved some Zen-like mix tape greatness.

Mrs. Undaground and I both take pride in our various songlists. We collaborated on our wedding favor CD, which was a huge hit. Since then, everyone who enters our home expects to be sent away with a fine, musical concoction. We're the mix-tape people. In fact, just a few weeks ago on Valentine's Day, I received an excellent mix-tape CD from my wife. Every song flowed into the next beautifully, and each had special meaning to both of us.

Matt, on the other hand, leaves the quality mixes for others. He proudly declared that he and his girlfriend both "suck at making mix tapes". In fact, he was playing his girlfriend's favorite mix in his car as we had this discussion. Suddenly, we were all waiting anxiously to hear the mix so Matt backed it up to Song 1. We didn't have time for each song in its entirety, so we just got a 20 to 30 second sampling of each song. It was great: Latin pop followed by the Dirty Dancing Theme, techno music to Cyndi Lauper, hard rock fading into Patrick Swayze's "She's Like the Wind". While it seemed like there was no rhyme or reason for the order or contents of the CD, I thought it was pure genius (kind of in the same way I find Napoleon Dynamite funny).

Somewhere along the way, we passed right by the road we were looking for. It was 7:30 now. We were a half-hour late and, somehow, no closer to seeing a concert. We turned the car around and headed back into the teeth of the rain. Yes, it was still raining. I was starting to feel bad for JP. He could have been on the couch. Instead, he was in for a long, wet night. I started to wonder if they'd cancel the concert.

"Where were you with the directions?" Matt shouted to me from the drivers' seat, trying to engage me in a playful, mock argument.

"I told you, take a left on Dixie Highway. That was the extent of my navigation. It's up to the driver to read the signs, process the letters that form words, confirm it's the correct street, then negotiate the turn. I can't see signs when I've driving, let alone from the backseat. Maybe if you weren't so busy playing Patrick Swayze music, you'd have seen the street sign." Well said, if I do say so myself. I believe this little discussion is over, since my statement was both grounded in reason and delicious with sarcasm.

Matt shot back. "Nope. It's the direction guy's job to find the street. You're wrong."

"Matt", I said, "I admire your willingness to be the underdog, and argue unwinnable points". Ah, there it was. Matt laughed and continued to look for Dixie Highway.

Finally, we could see the entrance to the Ampitheater. Of course, we drove by it once before turning around and entering. Just as we started down the drive, the rain picked up again. I touched my pocket to confirm the presence of Hefty bags. I was prepared. As we pulled in to a dirt parking lot and readied ourselves for the long, wet walk to the venue, JP was openly lamenting his decision to be a hero that night.

"I could have been dry right now", he said.

"Pipe down and put your trashbag on", I answered. "Don't kid yourself. This is fun."

We sloshed through puddles and other small bodies of water. Each of us was now soaked up to the ankles. All the while, I was fumbling with my trashbag. First, I tore two arm holes and got those through. Then, I started to rip a hole for my head. As I worked to tear the plastic just right, I laughed to myself about how soaked I was getting. The trashbag was going to hold as much water in as it was going to keep out. Finally, I got my head through, but something wasn't right. The bag was very tight, and barely came down to my waist, and my wife was laughing at me. I looked over at JP and he was happily frolicking down the street, wearing a trash bag that came down to his knees.

"Awww, crap. I'm such an idiot", I yelled.

"What happened this time?", laughed Mrs. Undaground.

"I'm wearing a frigging kitchen-sized garbage bag. Why do we have black kitchen-sized bags? Those should be white. JP, do you have another one of those?"

"I do but I'm going to sit on it. Looks like you'll have to wear the kitchen bag", he said. Everybody but me got a nice chuckle out of this one. I looked like a ghetto space man trash monster, while he was styling in his jet black custom poncho.

Eventually, he handed me the other bag and I made two new arm holes and a head hole. Matt stood in line and a smart person who was aborting the mission sold him his ticket for $10. Had I not pre-purchased the other tickets, we would have never left my brothers' apartment. We would have stayed and watched TV with JP.

Mrs. Undaground and I hadn't eaten. Somehow, I envisioned more of a picnic-like atmosphere. Instead, we sloshed into the concourse and went hunting for food. She settled in the Arepa line and I went to get a hot dog and a beer. Everything was out in the open, so it might have been the worst hot dog I've ever eaten in my life. The bun was soaked through by the time I squeezed the mustard packet on it. I felt like Kobayashi, the competitive eater in the Nathan's Hot Dog challenge, who dips his dogs in water to soften them up. While he eats for trophies, I was eating for survival that night, so I choked it down and tried to drink the beer before my cup filled with rainwater.

As we waited for Mrs. Undaground to get her arepa (a cornbread grilled cheese sandwich, popular at South Florida concerts), the rain picked up again. The arepa was seriously delayed because the guy's grill had lost power earlier. I looked at Matt. "Man, I can't believe we're finally gonna hear some live music. Forty-five minute drive home from work, an hour and ten minute nightmare traffic scenario to your place, convincing JP to come, getting lost, walking through a mudslide, wearing a kitchen bag, arepa delays. I've worked pretty hard to get to this point."

He agreed with me. Just two hours earlier, he was relaxing on the golf course. Now, we were all soaked and cold and ready for a reward in the form of live music.

When Mrs. Undaground finally got her undercooked sandwich, the four of us climbed the stairs into the ampitheater. We looked down at the stage and... nothing. A helpful Deadhead walking by told us that the stage was flooded. They hoped to dry everything out within the hour.

We headed back down the stairs onto the concourse where I bought another beer. That's when the rain really started. It was raining sideways. Unfortunately, the direction it was raining left us completely exposed to it. Under one stairway was the men's room. It reeked like a men's room. We headed over to the other stairway where a large group of shelter-seekers was assembling.

We huddled together, drinking our beers and getting pelted by unnatural sheets of rain. This was ridiculous. It never rains like this in February. The intensity of the rain was, in some twisted way, making the situation more humorous. I laughed at JP, considering I had dragged him there. "JP", I said, "I am having the worst time, ever. Thanks for dragging me here."

After about a half hour, the rain slowed from monsoon to downpour. Ten minutes later, it was just a heavy shower. Ten more minutes and it was just light rain.

My wife and both brothers were now working on me to get me out of there. "Let's just go get something to eat and call it a night."

"No. We're staying. Let's make this fun." And we were having fun. Normally, I'd be the one saying "Let's get out of here". Once I suggested we stay, my companions were all for it.

Remember when you were a kid and rain used to be fun? It just didn't matter if you got wet. We used to run out in the heaviest downpours on summer nights and come home with wrinkled hands. It probably wasn't the safest thing to do, but we didn't know any better. How about tailgating in college? You were in it til the end no matter what. Rain just added to the experience, and gave you a better story to tell.

What would be the point of walking back to the car in the rain? We were already wet. Isn't it better to be wet while drinking beer and surrounded by fun, happy people? If we gave up and headed home right then, there's no way the night could be anything other than a failure. If we dumped JP at his front door after this experience, I'd never be able to peer-pressure him to submission again. If we persevered, there was a chance that we would see a concert. All the crap we went through to get there would just make the prize that much sweeter.
Eventually, we walked up the stairs again and took our seats. Finally, the band took the stage. They thanked us for staying, and started their first song. As they played "Here Comes Sunshine", the rain stopped. The sky opened up and suddenly, it was clear. I looked behind me and most of the seats in the middle had filled up. Where did all those people come from? Were they sitting in their cars? Were they in the men's room? I wonder what they went through to get here tonight.

The band, Dark Star Orchestra, was great. I've been on a Grateful Dead kick lately and they sounded so much like them, it was scary. In total, I probably gave them about four or five of my "concert yells". For those who know me, you know that's a good concert. My "concert yell" is only used at live music events, and I'm pretty stingy with it, lest it be cheapened by overuse.

The night ended with a retro-trip to Denny's. It's been a long time since I went to Denny's after midnight, and I hope it's not that long before we do it again.

I learned a valuable lesson that night amidst all the Hefty bags, rain and beer. The concert was a milestone. I worked all day and into the night to get there. The road was rough, filled with countless annoyances and hurdles. At some point during the night, I decided to enjoy the ride. It was an extremely liberating experience; to make a decision to be happy. It reminded me that unhappiness is a decision, not a condition.

Life's milestones are many -- graduations, first dates, engagement rings, weddings, buying a house, having a baby, and so on. As precious as those milestones are, they take up so little time. Most of your time is spent getting there, working your way through the traffic, evading the potholes and clearing the hurdles. Sometimes, even if you have a lot of pockets, you might find yourself less prepared then you thought you were. Often, your family is there to help you through it.

I'm going to try to enjoy the ride more.

(Disclaimer: This new philosophy doesn't apply to airports. There, I'll remain a miserable bastard).

Goin Down the Road Feelin Good (Radio Mix)

Went to a concert Friday. It rained, but we still had a good time.