On Friends

Last night I met a bunch of new people. Some of them commented on my shirt being awesome. This felt good. I shook some hands, hugged a bunch of very attractive ladies, saw some old friends I'd lost track of, drank beers, played pong, and had conversations about American history, politics, philosophy, economics, religion, and Ayn Rand. (For the record, I ain't about Ayn.)

There was a pleasant time had, and I hope everyone else had such fun.

Except for this goddam nightingale outside my window that sings at the ass-crack of dawn. Seriously, it perches on my roof.

Oh, and excepting Rand too. Fuck that bitch. I prefer Margaret Atwood, anyway.

On Snowboarding

Sean White may look like Carrot Top's butch sister, but
the guy certainly knows his snowboard jackets.
Also, I guess snowboards.

I went snowboarding yesterday. With boots and a board and a ski(?) left and everything. I paid people to make fake snow for me. It was wonderful. I loved pretty much every single minute of it.

I mean I didn't enjoy the several minutes of combined time I spent in complete agony, but I enjoyed the experiences that cause them. Yeah, I busted my ass and, yeah, I probably sprained my wrist, but totally worth it. Hell, the wrist thing happened during the lesson part of the trip. Honestly, I can barely wait to heal up and go back.

And this from the guy who gets winded walking from the dugout to home plate.


Oh, god! I just realized something: I was about to make a "Typing with one hand" joke–something about it not being an under-practiced habit–but, truthfully, my hand doesn't hurt bad enough that I can't type. More worrisome, though, I do think there would be some problems if I tried to test that joke.