I'm a little miffed. McCain has been blasting Obama till he's blue in the face over Obama's youth and inexperience. He then turns around and chooses for a running mate somebody not only younger, but also far less experienced than Obama.

I haven't seen this level of 180-degree flip flop hypocrisy since Miller Brewing ran their "Man Law" series of commercials, one of which depicted a table full of walking hard-ons proclaiming "Don't Fruit the Beer." With their very next breath, they fruited the goddamn beer with Miller Chill.

I can't help but draw a parallel. All marketing, no principle.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm sure Mrs. Palin will make a fine VP. From what I've learned over the day, it appears she's been quite the butt-kicker in her current capacity. I'm not criticizing her in any way*. I just find McCain's choice of her, seemingly out of thin air, to be little more than a plainly obvious (and absolutely brilliant) move to pick up independents and still-grumbling Hillary supporters.

---

Had a back spasm wednesday night that dropped me to the floor and left me unable to move for about a half an hour. Went to the hospital thursday morning still barely able to walk. Got prescriptions for Ibuprofen, Vicodin, and Flexeril. Wouldn't you know, through the miracle of $4 generics, all three scripts together cost me a whopping $15.99. I'm feeling much better now.

---

Today, the one of the women who works the rental office here was holding this little dark ball of fuzz, so I walked in to see what it was. She'd rescued a baby bird that had fallen to the ground, and was feeding it specific baby bird food with a syringe.



She wants to nurse it until it can fly away on its own. I'll let you know when she names it. :-)

---

*Quite the opposite, in fact. My big thing to say is "Why don't we let presidents stay in power for more than eight years? Why not thirty, or even forty years? Oh yeah, it's because we want to keep a regular flow of fresh ideas into the Oval Office." Sarah Palin fits that bill, and she certainly showed no fear in taking on (and taking down) Alaska's corrupt "Good ol' Boy Network". She's fresh, and a true reformer. If Obama could have picked her, damn, that would be the ticket, man.

Never trust anybody over

Happy birthday to me!

---


Today I am thirty years old. I am a thirtysomething! This changes my life in one particularly fundamental way:

I must re-think my perception of 'milf'.

See... on one of our first nights out back in '06, I told Dark Haired Girl that she was gorgeous. She replied to the tune of it making her feel good to hear that from a guy in his twenties. Now that I'm a thirtysomething, women in their 30s, even into their 40s and 50s, have become my peers. They are no longer older. We're all just kinda lumped into the same general age group until we sprout silver hair and liver spots. Dark Haired Girl and I are now in the same bracket, and she can now no longer crack the joke about being my own personal Milf. Hell, for all practical purposes we became the same age overnight. I like it!

---

But I'm just being silly. On a more serious note, I'd always imagined (mentally preparing myself, really) that whenever she in the future would meet other men, I'd of course casually react all happy for her, all the while pretending that I wasn't feeling jealousy's stabbing pain. Well, Sunday she was telling me about going out Saturday night with friends, and a conversation she she struck up with a guy who seemed really nice. As predicted, I teased her, saying "Did you get his number??" (as she had said to me about the dance club girl)

Not predicted, though, was the surprising pang in my heart... when she said no, she didn't.

If anything, while ribbing her about the guy's number, my brain was going "Say yes! Say yes! Say yes!" I was genuinely hoping she would tell me she'd see him again. I realized that when push came to shove, the pain I felt was not the prospect of her meeting somebody else.

What hurts is the thought of her being lonely.

Birthday celebration Saturday night pretty much a bust. The dance club must have been having a private event because I walked in (the doors were open) and a DJ was playing some ethnic dance music, but a bouncer told me they were closed and that I had to leave. Kinda sucked the flavor out of the night, but that's what happens when you go out with expectations. Lesson learned.

This morning I hopped on the bike and got lost in Parma. Happened upon a middle eastern restaurant called "Sittoo's (Grandma's)" and stuffed myself silly on a bowl of lentil soup with feta, a big ol' plate of hummous and pita, and a piece of baklava. Passed this church sign, and had to take a snapshot to show you.

HAAAAAleluja!

(get it?)

At a nearby international festival (which was your typical church parking lot carnival), people were reacting quite visibly to this inflatable slide, which does say "Titanic / Liverpool". I thought it was pretty damned tasteless, myself.

---

The Olympics have ended, Bob Costas has given the final sign-off from China, and all I have to say is that American gymnast Shawn Johnson is the most adorable person on the planet. I don't mean this in any creepy weirdo ooh-la-la kind of way (she's a high school sophomore). She's just so damn cute when she flashes that big toothy smile. You just want to pat the top her head like a puppy.

---

It's funny. I entered my 20s a newlywed Airman in the U.S. Air Force, living outside Kansas City, Missouri, and clueless as to what the future held. Well... here I sit a short decade later in Cleveland, Ohio with exactly four hours left in my twenties, no longer married, and just as clueless about what lies ahead.

I think I’ll take a moment, celebrate my age
The ending of an era and the turning of a page
Now it’s time to focus in on where I go from here
Lord have mercy on my next thirty years

Lord have mercy, indeed, because I'm going to be living it up big time, man. This is gonna be fun. :-)

It's enough to make me go to church.

This is the weekend of my thirtieth birthday (Monday the 25th), and I've been conservative enough, after paying my bills, to retain enough dough for another significant party incident this weekend. This I reserve for tomorrow night, given that the (apparently newly opened) hot-as-hell dance club within walking distance plays... and I quote from their MySpace page:

"SATURDAy - international night
music techno, russian
greek, ukrainian, servian"

I mean, seriously... I live within a ten minute's walk from a dance club that plays Eastern European Techno?

THERE IS A GOD.

Rest assured that 24 hours hence, I'll be drunk off my ass, getting down and shaking my money maker like there's no mañana.

Pierogis and Slavic Supermodels.

Work today was quite the milestone: I shot my first live sessions as a scheduled (and therefore solo) photographer. And I kicked no uncertain amount of butt. These seniors, whose parents are paying a pretty penny, are most definitely going to get the quality from my sessions that they pay for.

[pats self on back]

---

After work, it was such a gorgeous day that I rode my bike to the library. Picked up a few books, considering my penchant for works that represent not novels, but rather collections of thoughts of the author, from Tim Allen's "Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man" to Chuck Klosterman's "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs". (well recommended by the Ex to me, and by me to you. Commentary at a later date). Biked over to the Arabica coffee shop across the street, Pearl Rd., a rather historic byway being the original highway from Cleveland to Columbus to Cincinnati (US Route 42). Don't you just love factoids?

No? Ok.

Anyways, as I sat reading one of the books on Arabica's outdoor patio, the seats at a table across the way began gradually filling up one-by-one with these unbelievable six-foot-plus, slender, and slinky runway looking supermodels until there were no less than eight of them. They were not so much sitting, but rather had lithely and gracefully draped themselves upon the patio chairs like female Jack Skellingtons, speaking amongst themselves in some Slavic language in that sexy, rolling, deep, husky, and throaty Russian accent.

Just when you think you've got it all figured it out, Parma, Ohio throws you random curve balls like this.

Well, you know me... Rico Suave that I am. I totally had every intention of approaching the lot of them and disabling them en masse with my wily charms, were it not for the following conditions: (a) I was wearing black socks with tennis shoes. (b) I was riding a purple bicycle. (c) The only other language I speak is Photoshop. (d) I was frequently laughing out loud at the book I was reading, the cover art of which made it appear as though I were sitting alone intently reading a paper grocery sack.

You do the math.

---

I got on AllRecipes.com and made my own pierogis from scratch last night! They turned out pretty darn well, I must say.

In their raw state. Aren't they so cute??

Step two is to cook by boiling them, and pray your crimped edges don't bust open.

Final cooking... a light pan frying in butter.

... and being a total dough novice, afterward it looked like an all-purpose flour bomb had detonated in my kitchen. It was EVERYWHERE.

I'm half Polish. It's hardwired into my genetic code whether I like it or not.

I am the most sane person on Earth.

I find it interesting that when Bridget Jones rattles off the list of quirks of men with whom she will never again become romantically involved, the number one aspect is "alcoholics"... a troupe to which she obviously is a member. Call me crazy, but that's one of the very aspects of her which I find so humanizing and endearing. See, it's said that if you've ever drank/drunk alone (I'm too lazy to look up the proper verb conjugation), you're an alcoholic.

Well DUH.

If you're fortunate enough (or unfortunate, depending on your point of view. I claim fortune.) to be a singleton such as myself, and you want a drink or two or three or four or five or six in the safest place possible from where operating a motor vehicle is a complete non-issue (your own humble abode), then you drink alone. I call this being supremely smart, not alcoholic. But that's just me.

ANYHOO, I am posessed of, if not heaven-blessed with, the gift of hindsight. I remember "back in the day" when I introduced Sophie (remember her? I still miss her.) to the joys of Bridget's counterpart English movie Love, Actually. Funny thing is, at the time I hadn't watched it since I'd become her boyfriend, and when I reviewed it with her, embroiled in a functional (and mistakenly, supposedly lasting love relationship), I realized just what truly and fantastical bullshit it was, replete with unrealistic situations and snappy (but nevertheless brilliant) British humor.

Well, regardless of which side of the romantic fence on which I reside at the given moment, I never lose sight of the other perspective. So, now that I'm all Sarah Jessica Parker again (in the City of Cleveland, minus the Sex), I'm watching Bridget Jones's Diary again and withering into a total mushy-pants over it. At the same time, I can envision the perspective I'd have, given the hypothetical situation of being arm-in-arm with some lucky strumpet, and I (most mentally healthy) realize that this movie is still complete bullocks.

So, I can be all mushy-femmy-"why-can't-this-stuff-happen-to-me" despondent, yet with a self-amused smile on my face, completely cognizant of just what total bullshit it realistically is. It's a good setup. :-)

---

At times like this, continuing with one's life seems impossible... and eating the entire contents of one's fridge seems inevitable. I have two choices: to give up and accept permanent state of spinsterhood and eventually be eaten by wild dogs... or not, and this time i choose not. I will not be defeated by a bad man and an American stick insect! Instead, I choose vodka. And Chaka Khan.

Or in my case: Instead, I choose Milwaukee's Beast Ice. And Paul Oakenfold.

---

P.S. The greatest piece of deeply (and personally) insulting bullshit on that DVD is the bonus feature titled "The Young and the Mateless (an expert's guide to being single)". They actually give women the following advice:

Never say that you love your cat?

Never say that you are a good cook??

Men like the words 'cute' and 'adorable'??? (well, ok. That one's true.)

Take your picture with a big dog, not a small one????

Men think it's pathetic if you're compassionate?????? (WTF?!?!)

The claim that: "I think that women who don't believe that any of those things are important, that don't think it's important to really wear the right clothes and don't have the right hair and makeup are kidding themselves."

I'm speechless. Utterly. fucking. speechless.

This is getting ridiculous...

I could go out this evening, but I'm still recovering from last night. Instead, even after learning just a little earlier that I'm within walking distance from a hot dance club (I freaking LOVE this neighborhood, man), I would honestly rather be right here talking to you, my dear readers (all four of you), over my new DJ Keoki CD and some Paisano's pizza, which is the bomb-diggety shizzle, yo.

---

This whole awkwardness and social ineptitude has got to stop. It's not cute anymore... it's really starting to piss me off. Friday night alone I was handed on a silver platter no less than four (and maybe more) opportunities to strike up conversations with women, but blew every last one of them. I'm not trying to "pick up" anybody just yet (still need a little more time), but a little social interaction with the fairer sex would be nice, you know?

Friday was payday, so my night started by biking over to the C.H. where I was watching the Olympics. About three beers in, I used the bathroom and came out to find the seat next to mine occupied by an attractive girl. She smelled wonderful and I complimented her perfume (Britney Spears... kind of a spicy vanilla). We chatted pleasantly for a second about that and then she swiveled her back to me to talk to the people on her other side. I didn't interrupt her for the rest of the evening, but she shook my hand and said goodbye and see-ya-around when she left. Shortly after, two milfs came in. I was watching tv, but could see with my peripheral vision that they were scanning the crowd, and kept glancing at me. This made me really nervous, so I left.

Blown opportunities 1 and 2.

So I walk over to the bar where I played beer pong two weeks ago. As I was enjoying a plate of pierogies, two young ladies came in and sat down across the bar. While I hesitated, a guy went over and started talking to them, and immediately the girl next to him tugged up her tank top and pulled her denim jacket closed across her chest. They were giving this guy every "fuck off" signal in the book... texting on their phones while he talked, glancing at each other with ewww faces and shaking their heads no, trying to turn away from him, etc., while he just stuck to them like glue and kept talking, visibly irritating the piss out of the girls. I decide to try to run a little interference on the girls' behalf, and on my way back from the bathroom tapped him on the shoulder and asked if he played beer pong and wanted to form a team. He said yes, but not tonight. Oh well, I tried.

So I check out another bar which I haven't been to before, between the Irish place and the C.H. It was your typical "meat market" scene with a dance floor and hip-hop DJ, packed to the gills with young people. One beer in and I was getting really sloshed but in a great mood, so I decided to keep going, just at a slower pace (mistake). I notice this gorgeous bbw across the room, and she stayed put in her seat at the bar the whole damn night, just looking around. She may as well have been holding a blinking neon sign "Approach me!" Did I? Nooooooo.

I'm feeling antsy and hit the dance floor. Up to that point, it had been occupied only by women, the men standing outside the partition pointing and hooting "Hey bay-bee!!" I wanted to dance, dammit, so I did. A while later the floor was packed, I'm out there drunk off my butt, lost in my own little happy world, and shaking my tail feather, when this smoking-hot black girl dances up to me and tells me "Damn, you're the best dancer out here!" I beam her a big smile and say "Thank you!" ...and leave it at that. On the phone today I told Dark Haired Girl about it, and she got on me for not trying to get her phone number.

I dunno. The dance floor girl simply complimented my sense of rhythm, and two seconds later was dancing with another guy. I don't want to be one of those choads whose ego translate every nice thing a woman says to him as "I want to touch your penis." Ok, in my defense, I was really too drunk at that point to communicate properly, but who am I kidding? If I were stone cold sober I'd have done absolutely the same big fat nothing. And she wasn't the only one as the night wore on.

Blown opportunities 3, 4, 5, 6....

I mean, I really would have liked to do something about it, but I don't know what to do after 'hello'. I don't know what to say. Nobody ever tells me this stuff. Do I say something nice back to her? You can't exactly chitchat when you have to shout to be heard over the music. What constitutes dancing back when somebody starts dancing up toward you, making eye contact? I watch other guys start dancing right up against women and putting their hands all over them. I could NEVER violate a woman like that.

At least, and to my advantage, I've learned that women here seem to like a guy who can dance independently. Big plus there. :-) I leave the bar confused but flattered by the attention. I unchain my bike from the street light pole over by the C.H., but can barely stand up straight, let alone stay vertical on a bicycle. I stumble back home walking the bike down the street, singing songs to myself like a good Irishman.

---

...and then wake up with screaming inner-thigh cramps this morning, which I've yet to discover how to stretch out. You just have to pace back and forth with tears streaming down your cheeks for about five minutes until the spasms relax. I'd gone ice skating after work. Overexertion + alcohol dehydration = HOLY SHIT! OW! OW! OW!

---

I spent today driving aimlessly around Cleveland and wound up in Dad's old neighborhood on the east side. I went to Wildwood park and marina where I remember he and I going back in the 90s. There was a beach there, so I walked over, put away the camera (there were lots of kids), took my shoes and socks off, and waded around in the shallow water for a while taking in the sight and scent of Lake Erie, kicking and splashing at the surf. It was such an incredibly pleasant and enjoyable moment, although lonely... but more of a sweeter, "wish you were here" kind of lonely.

Went back to Troy last weekend to photograph Blonde Haired Girl's wedding. Remember her? She's Dark Haired Girl's best friend, and is actually the one who stopped me on my way out the door that fateful evening back in 2006. I miss everybody so much, but especially Dark Haired Girl.

This time the wedding took almost 100% of the weekend, and Dark Haired Girl apologized later for us not having any alone time, but I begged to disagree. With my sore back, I'm a fitful flip-floppy sleeper through the night, so we always stay on opposite sides of the bed... but saturday morning after her daughter had gone into the shower, I curled up with her and fell into the most blissful and contented sleep I've had since moving up to Cleveland. That's what I miss from her more than anything else.

This is Roxie, BHG's new puppy.

My two women, the blushing bride Blond Haired Girl, and the ravishing Dark Haired Girl

---

After an emailing the Ohio City website with a photo, I finally found out who the dancers were a couple of weeks ago: the MorrisonDance Performing Company. Google searching all conceivable combinations of the terms Ohio City, dance, modern, contemporary, school, etc., didn't pull up a single relevant result, but I wasn't going to let it go at "Oh well." I really wanted to find out who they were to pass on my compliments, and offer them a CD of the photographs. Turns out this was part of a summer series called "City is Our Playground", and has been going on for several years now. Their next appearance is in September. I'll make sure to catch it. :-)

---

Also went back to the Ukranian grocery for some more of that awesome smoked bologna. They're starting to know me there :-) They were out of the kind that I usually get, and the girl there again tried through her broken English to describe to me the other kinds they have. "Vee hev kind vis bits of hem..." I must have looked puzzled because she said "I don' know you say in English. I geev you taste." It was the same stuff, only with pieces of two different kinds of meat mixed in. I don't even want to know what it was, but it was tasty so I bought a half pound.

The problem is this: she is Zoolander really really ridiculously good-looking, and I start acting like a blathering idiot whenever she's there. It's embarrassing. This time I'd managed to hold it together through the deli counter and then picking out a pack of cheese pierogies, but at the cash register it overtook me. I could feel my face catch fire as I fumbled for my debit card, dropping it on the counter. Handing me back my card and receipt, I could barely squeak out "Thank you" before beating feet out of there. Looking in the mirror in my car, sure enough my entire face and down my neck was red as a goddamn stop sign.

You have no idea how irritating that is.

So tonight I'm watching a little HDTV at a local watering hole of well repute, over a beer or two (watching the budget). Now, I've been annoyed about this since really paying attention to HDTV at M's in back in Troy: as a trained digital photographer, I noticed that HDTV pulls a few fast ones on us. First of all is how fast action tends to be prone to the JPEG "compression blockiness" degredation inherent in highly compressed JPEG images and MPEG video transmissions. Think low-res video clips on YouTube. Most of all, for the sake of the illusion of clarity and definition, the image is WAAAYYY over-sharpened to the point of appearing harsh and irritating. A quick lesson in sharpening... Sharpening is the boosting of contrast between color boundaries. Take for example this unsharpened image that I took of the dancers a few weekends ago:



Let's take a look at a detail of the unaltered digital capture:



Now, let's oversharpen that detail a bit. One telltale symptom of oversharpening is the glowing halo effect between distinct color details, which I have pointed out:



See how the boundaries between edges take on a particular glow? Now let's see the entire image oversharpened, to appear as closely as possible to what I've been looking at on the HDTVs lately:



Now... the next time you watch a baseball game, notice how the same effect applies to the uniforms against the green grass, and et cetera with pretty much anything else HD. It's their way of amplifying the effect to make the image "pop" off the screen.

I dunno. Maybe I'm being a know it all. It's true that traditional televisions show about 200,000 pixels while HD's have damn near 2,000,000. I guess my point is that I resent having the wool of cheap digital trickery pulled over my eyes by doctoring the digital output (to the point of degrading the image) to extract every last bit of that "Wow!" effect.

Back in less content days, whenever I would watch Bridget Jones's Diary, my favorite scene of all is the title sequence. You know... where she's there, drinking a bottle of wine, watching 'Frasier' on her TV, and then breaks into a glorious lip-sync of Celine Dion. I would always be so jealous of her, alone off in her own little corner of the world, completely lonely and miserable yet still able to poke fun at herself, oblivious to how wonderful her situation really was.

I tweaked my back yesterday at the driving range, so all day today I've spent hobbling around leaning on things. To frost that cake, I woke up with a raging case of heartburn, and when I don't feel good I get crabby. So here I am tonight, moping around my apartment feeling like crap, alone and laying on my bed watching TV and feeling completely lonely and miserable... when 'Frasier' comes on.

I suddenly think of the movie, and how I'm there now... and have a good contented laugh at myself.

Market Day

This being probably the last Saturday I'll see off in a good long time, I decided to spend the day visiting Downtown Cleveland again, specifically to visit the West Side Market which I remember visiting with Dad back in the day, and which also is conveniently right across the street from one of the stations on the Red Line. Actually, it's in the heart of the first neighborhood I was looking at back in June. So late this morning I hopped on the train at the nearby Park & Ride...








That top cookie? Oh yeah, it was mine. :-) The Market was packed with tourists taking pictures, but one fishmonger told me very firmly to ask first, and to delete the photo. I apologized and deleted it on the spot, slinking away feeling about three inches tall.

---

Walking around outside the market, on a plaza across the street there was a little shindig going on with hippie-ish knick knack vendors. A band called the Sultans of Bing had set up and begun playing. Holy Hell did they kick ass! They were the perfect catchy jazzy funky rocking jam band, without any of that garage band-ish aftertaste. I'm going to have to catch more of their shows... they definitely made at least one new fan today.





Out of no where, three girls appeared doing this whimsical modern dancing that was so much fun and just a real treat to watch. I don't think they were with the band, because they disappeared as quickly as they arrived.












I admit it... I was crushing on them. How can you resist women who possess such plentiful amounts of creativity, originality, and humor, and who let it show without inhibition?

After they vanished and the Sultans wrapped up their first set, I bought their latest CD (to which I'm listening as I type this, and am happily chair dancing away), and hopped the Rapid into Tower City. I took the Lakefront train to where I visited and took pictures the last time, over by the William Mather and Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, but it was just such a perfect day and I really wanted to see the lake again. I don't think the spectacle of Lake Erie will ever get old for me. At the station there, they had a wall of carved translucent glass blocks. I couldn't figure it out at first... it looked like weird shiny metal until I walked up and actually touched it, realizing then that it was backlit frosted glass.




I walked my ass off today, and fell into bed like a tree in the forest when I came home. (and yes, I did make a sound... snoring) I'd probably still be asleep if my brother hadn't called around 9:30 and woken me up.

Beer Pong in this, the Eleventh Hour...

Today wasn't the short day that I had predicted, but it was an enjoyable one nonetheless. Shot an entire session indoors and had a blast. Not a hint of jitters or nerves... just the sheer joy of creating great portraits.

So tonight, I go to a new mall, this time verified as a legitimate mall, not some chintzy shopping plaza as mentioned in the previous post. Shoe shopping, I unsuccessfully tried a handful of stores before finally happening upon Dick's Sporting Goods. The shoe salesman took one glance at my feet and said "You're at least a double-E. I know just what you need." He, although obviously being a little bit of a wheeler-dealer, pulled out no less than five pairs of shoes for me to try on and compare against each other for comfort. I decided on a pair of Asics that cost, on sale, $85. At the checkout, I made sure to tell the cashier who was also a manager, what a fantastic job the shoe guy did in seeing to my individual needs and giving me the attention I needed to make sure I found the perfect pair of shoes. Credit was most certainly due.

---

I'd promised myself a month ago, on the first night that I went to my new favorite neighborhood bar, the Club House, that when I got my first paycheck I'd walk over there and treat myself to a Chicken Paprikash dinner. Tonight I did, and God I could barely finish half of the gigantic plate. The rest I put in a styrofoam container.


DUDE, I PLAYED BEER PONG FOR THE FIRST TIME TONIGHT!
After a couple of hours (and handful of drinks) later at the Club House, I headed over, a half a block down, to O'Feenie's, an Irish bar that apparently draws crowds of college-age young'uns on weekend nights from well out of town. It was beer pong night. This was the first time I have ever been exposed in a live and candid environment to this game. Immediately I was intrigued, and began watching intently to try to decipher the rules. After the formal tournament was over, I had the chance to play in free matches, but I was told I needed a parner. Apparently, this isn't a game you can play by yourself. So some college aged hotshot who was the living incarnation of Fogell from the movie 'Superbad', whose only interest was being a beer pong rockstar to "get hot chicks", and coach me into doing the same, reluctantly agreed to be my teammate.

I have exactly twenty three days left in my 20's before I hit the big Three Oh, and I finally managed to squeeze at least one match of this just-post-adolescent game into my resume of life experiences, before Father Time with his cruel scythe cuts my youth to ribbons this August 25th, my thirtieth birthday.

You're allowed to run all the interference you want. Unfortunately, the only interference I could muster was to grab my man boobs, dance like the nerdiest white guy on the planet, and straight-up flash my entire hairy torso the the opposing team. For this, I received much admonishment from my teammate. I think he was under the mistaken perception that I, like he, was trying to "score some pussy" too. Sure, there were some wicked attractive women there, but I just wasn't interested. My heart is still too freshly broken. That's a whole 'nother can of worms.

Back to my new-found beer pong... in retrospect I think that my "taking one for the team" in the name of humility and thwarting our opponents most likely cock-blocked my teammate. He'll live. In the end, we won! Not so much by our own talent, but rather my mad skillz at distracting and freaking out the other team just as they were about the toss the pingpong balls into our cups... or as I called them: Our Sacred Vessels. Call me crazy, but I'm guessing this guy will never want to play with me again.

I never got the chance to experience this stuff first hand when I was these peoples' age, but now that I'm too damned old, I found it endearing, pathetic, and cute to sit back and observe the silly games early 20-somethings engage in for the sake of having sex with random strangers.

---

On the walk back home, styrofoam container of chicken paprikash (the true sacred vessel of the evening) in hand, a car drove past me whose tire suddenly went "Ka-flapflapflapflapflapflap..." and then turned down a side road a block away. I walked over to investigate, only to find two very drunk young ladies in eye-poppingly short mini skirts freaking out. I introduced myself and calmed them down, sitting my paprikash down on the grass and reassuring them that my only intention was to help. Unfortuntately, the bracket that held the spare tire securely was rusted into place, which I couldn't undo with my hands, and I couldn't change their tire for them. The passenger, who was celebrating her 21st birthday, called her brother, despite the driver being an AAA member. She didn't know where she was, so she said to him over the phone "I'm stuck somewhere, I'm puking on a sidewalk, and some strange guy is here!!"

I asked politely to talk to her brother. I described to him our location (he wasn't very far away), and that I wasn't trying anything funny with his drunk sister. Reassured him that I was just trying to help and stay with them until somebody arrived. The girls kept saying "Thank you, whoever you are! You're so nice!!"

He arrived shortly after, thanking me profusely for looking out for his sister and her friend. I made sure to grab my chicken paprikash container off the grass, and walked the few blocks back to my apartment.

I'm finishing off the leftovers as I type this. Yum-O!