I just finished writing my column for Wednesday, I'm watching the Cardinal game. I've had a few beers. I just want you to know what you're dealing with, here.

My buddy Jesse is biking from Seattle to Miami in 40 days in order to raise money for Haitian kids. I haven't seen him in five years. In those five years, he's become a minister and had two kids. Just goes to show: people who don't talk to me for a long while always end up settling down, having a family and biking across the country for Haitian kids. I mean, if I had a nickel and all that.

I'm on my sixth beer. I think.

I never knew who Lance Bass was until he came out of the closet. Do with that piece of information as you will.

Whenever something really cool happens in a Cardinal game (like four doubles in a row), I call my brother, Tom. If something bad happens right after I call, we hang up. No sense fucking with the cosmos.

Yesterday, I popped a tire in a pothole on a residential street on my way to get beer. Changing a flat in someone's front yard while they do yard work is just weird. There's no way around it. No matter who the person is and how they treat you, they will seem strange. I mean, how is the dude supposed to act? What's accepted behavior there? Hell, he did loan me a socket wrench that was better than mine. Maybe that's all you're supposed to do. Who knows?

And finally, because logic and fluidity just handed me my seventh beer, I leave you with the following, which a friend of mine told me regarding Jesse's bike trip across the country:

“Forrest Gump jokes would just be too easy, right?”


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