Kyle and Casperson are a godsend right now. In addition to working out (thereby making me workout too), they are good drinking/tv watching companions. Erin watches TV with me occasionally, but everything she says has a suspiciously feminine slant to it.
Zach: “Sweet! It’s the Surgical Operations Show on Discovery Channel!”
Erin: *throws up*
Zach: “Nice, it’s the 12th showing of today’s SportsCenter”
Zach: “Woo-hoo! Howard Stern Show has big boobie strippers tonight!”
Erin: *punches zach*
In know way am I “dissing” erin right now, it’s just a joke. And in order to salvage any sex from here on in, I am required to state that.
If you’ve been wondering what the whole “Behind the Music” uproar has been about lately in the comments, I can offer up an explanation. See, we were drunk one night and I started singing “Blame it on the Rain (yeah,yeah)” only I substituted the word “rain” with “poop” or something equally as funny when you’re drunk, but not as funny when sober. Madd Scientist, not to be outdone by my mastery of pop culture, responded with some bullshit about how he saw Milli Vanilli Behind the Music two days prior on VH1. We all called him on his “look at me, pay attention to me” bullshit, and ever since then Behind the Music has taken on an eerie, funny-by-itself quality.
I’m writing this part of the posting on laser printer paper with a Sharpie as I ride into the city on the BART to meet everyone for dinner. It is currently slightly north of 6pm and the working stiffs have pretty much abandoned the BART system to random semi-hoodlums, crazy bike-riders, and deaf, angry hobos. Two seats ahead of me a semi-hoodlum is having an instense conversation with a crazy bike rider. The semi-hoodlum has actually asked these questions:
“Are those biking shoes?”
“How fast can you go?”
“You got all the equipment!” (more of a statement)
“You sure you’re not on one of those bike teams?”
Instead of being generally creeped out by the above semi-tough, the bike-guy enthusiastically responded to all questions thrown at him. And to finish up this short story, they both departed the train at the 16th Street Mission station. If the bike guy is not buried in a shallow grave, and the semi-hoodlum does not have a new bike by the end of the night, I will be surprised.
So I’m going to the doctor on Thursday. I’ve had a mark on the back of my hand for about 3 months or so now, and I’ve finally decided that I think it is skin cancer. I hope it isn’t, but I will find out tomorrow. I am also coughing up blood currently, so hopefully herr doktor will have a hypothesis or two about that malady too. All in all, I’m convinced that I have skin cancer, lung cancer, and prostate cancer. I can’t tell you why I think I have prostate cancer, it’s just my newly found hypochondriatic tendencies. Erin made me my doctor appointment, so big ups to her.
Sayeth erin: “I do not think you have any of these cancers, so I have made you a doctor’s appointment to alleviate your stress. He will say ‘You don’t have cancer!’ and I will say ‘I knew it!’”
On the way home on the BART, a deaf, sticker-selling hobo got angry at us because we didn’t buy his stickers. I didn’t think he was deaf, merely a hobo with above-average intelligence. He grunted angrily because none of us paid him for his tiny trinkets. Note to self: never walk in downtown San Franhoboland at night, alone. The sticker man he’s a-waitin.
And, to wrap up, in case you didn’t see ZubaZ’s comment on the last story, I will reproduce it here in full:
Sayeth ZubaZ: “I am very excited to announce that I just had one of the most amazing conversations of my life. Currently Wendall Bryant is in the hotel. It is 11:00pm and just as I am about to leave guess who walks in…. Ron Dayne. But better yet, he was stoned out of his FUCKING mind. It may be the highlight of my year. I walked around the desk and escorted him to the elevators to key him up to the exculsive Governor’s Club. As I did he seemed to wander towards the Grand Staircase in his blue jump suit and with bright red blood shot eyes. I began to guide him to the Governor’s Club elevator, which proved to be a daunting task in and of itself. As we meandered over, I told him Wendall Bryant’s room number and that he was expecting him. I also asked him if he had just arrived in town to which I received this THC soaked answer: “Town..?. Yea, thanks I love it here, ya know?.!” As we waited for the Governor’s Club he seemed to have the balance of a epileptic with an inner ear infection. Then he turned to me and said ‘So… how you doin’ man?” I said I was doing well and asked him how he was doing, to which he replied ‘I couldn’t be doing better…. wait.. yes I could.. I could still be playin’ ZubaZ: Yep, you guys got ripped off. Dayne: Well, ya gotta the bad with it I guess ZubaZ: I hear ya Good Luck next year, nice to meet you. Dayne: Yea, see ya then kid I have no idea what that Twilight Zone of a conversation means, but somehow it meant something to me. I love Ron Dayne more now than I ever did. You go Dayne Train, you stoned piece of shit, I love ya!“