katie

Come on people, I'm sure you can dig deep for a Scioscia miscue somewhere.

A vet won't put down a healthy animal.

North of 85 is hot.

The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good and that could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come.

I bet Tracy is better than you

There's no way he's juicing.
 
He hasn't juiced in the past, and even if he had, no baseball player would be stupid enough to juice again after being popped for roiding.
 
Look at Arod, for example. He got caught and never juiced again.

Which reminds me...would Percy make a good coach?

North of 85 is hot.

I had my assistant, Katie send it to you.

You're not going to find any sympathy here about that! Sorry...

http://www.patriots.com/news/article-1/Patriots-ProShop-To-Offer-Free-Exchange-On-81-Jerseys-July-6-7/f0e0d7e3-cb8f-442f-9a48-29f1e551b228

i declared myself king of chowchilla when in college.

Now can we lock this thread

Now can we lock this thread

Katie, he was black and we all know you cant tell em apart. 

That's not really me in my avatar. I'm a 400lb man.

Dude.

I'm sure the people at the show are now less afraid of snakes.
 
Job well done.

Katie,
 
When the game finishes, it takes about 15-20 minutes to bring out the mobil stage from the right field line foul pole area. At this time, they will announce that you can move from the outfield seats to any open seat that faces the stage. When I had season tickets in RF bleachers in years past, I would just move around the 8th inning. This will keep you from having to push your way through the crowd at the end of the game.
 
Hope this helps.

Another long one, folks...thanks for letting me babble and for playing the part of laptop psychiatrist. 
 
 
To paint a complete picture, you’re getting a three-day Weekend Shenanigan, starting on Thursday.  Mentally, Thursday was the best I’ve felt since my wife passed.  I had an energy I hadn’t felt in some time.  An afternoon where I turned up Blondie’s “Hanging On the Telephone” real good with the car window down…semi-gangsta lean.  And it was sunny and warm so I did some air drums and sang out loud.  Adam Sandler has probably used this bit in one of his recent shitty movies. 
 
After a quick trip to the gym there was nothing left to do.  I was just settling in for the Angels game when my friend, Dave the former model, called me from a wine tasting over at Hi-Time.  I’ve written about Dave here before.  Former model, plays D&D, only listens to music from about 1974-1990.  Likes Rush and Stiff Little Fingers among others.  He lives in a small house with his wife and kids so he’s constantly looking to get out.  He knows alot of the regulars there which would embarrass me, but Dave is a social butterfly and loves the energy and attention. 
 
Dave called me from Hi-Time.  “I’m at Hi-Time; had to get the F out of the house.  There’s burgers everywhere (‘burgers’ is our code word for hot chicks).  Get over here!”
 
Hmmm...kinda made up my mind the Angel game would wind down my night, but I have to remind myself that getting out of the house is extremely important right now.  So I went to Hi-Time.  I felt confidant walking in which is a rarity for me when I’m going solo, but I was having a good hair day and had an restlessness due to 35 minutes on the lifecycle at the gym. 
 
You can con yourself pretty good when you really need to.  Now, DR isn’t going to fool himself and think he’s a male model like his friend Dave, so I don’t always get the looks from the ladies like he does.  But I did get a couple glances when I walked down the ramp to the wine bar.  It might have been that I was a late arrival and heads will turn when the new guy shows up.  I was also clutching a bottle of water which probably stood out in this setting, but I’ll take what I can.
 
I found Dave (wearing a pink shirt to my pastel blue so we had a Miami Vice thing going in here.)  He was making small talk with a Hi-Time friend of his.  They had a buzz going.  Dave’s a dentist by trade so when you couple it with his experience as a male model, you’re on the hook for a breakdown of what nearby females look like from a fairly scientific point-of-view.  It usually goes something like this:  “That blonde has a serious northern European upper mandible.” 
 
There was a woman sitting at the bar with a lil’ Indian lady (as my dad says, red dot, not feathers).  She was blonde, fit and as Roger Daltrey sang in “5:15,” sexually knowing.  She carried herself with a dignified but subtly seductive carriage -- along with a pronounced facial structure as Dave the dentist pointed out to me -- just before he made his way over to her.  Although he’s married and very faithful, Dave loves to chat up people, especially women.  He can’t help it.  I stayed back with Dave’s buddy.  The Indian lady bailed to go watch a rigged basketball match.  Ever the wall flower, I stayed back while Dave’s drinking buddy went over to the blonde.  I had to remind myself to be social so I forced myself to make small talk with them.  And then there were four.
 
The blonde and I started talking.  She was nice, interested in my recent travels (I’ve learned that a jaunt to Serbia is an attention getter)...there was eye contact, lingering for an extra beat or two.  This part is noteworthy.  It’s hard to explain but I’ve had some trouble making simple conversation these last months.  This will sound overly dramatic but I don’t know how else to explain it:  I think I have some sort of post-traumatic situation (with no disrespect to our folks in the service who have the real, real thing).  That sounds very dramatic, I know, but I do have to remind myself to just chill, to breathe, to mellow the hell out. 
 
After about a half-hour, it was pretty clear the blonde and I were hitting it off.  Dave and his friend had backed off at this point.  Here’s a great friend moment:  I looked over my shoulder and Dave was about ten feet behind me.  He gave me a wink.  Encouragement from stage left with a nod and a wine shot.
 
Of course, there’s always one bozo who can’t read the room and I got one just before I was going to make a stab for the blonde’s number, despite the shop girl fiasco from the previous weekend.  Unfortunately, this dude had chatted-up the blonde at the tasting before and tonight (probably every night) he’s flying solo so he makes a bee-line for her.  He’s about the size of Napoleon with none of the conquering bravado.  A conversation taker who stands there and waits for you to fill in the gaps.  Compounded with lots of shrugging and the curious choice of a Movado watch.  “Of course! You’re the one who wears that,” I thought. 
 
I couldn’t take it anymore.  I wanted to go and I had drained my bottle of Smart water ($1.68 at Hi-Time).  I stood shoulder-to-head top with Napoleon, not budging.  I wanted to bend down to him and ask him to give me about 35 seconds, but thought better of it.  I was in a now-or-never moment.  I asked the blonde if she wanted to get coffee or something...tomorrow.
 
Tomorrow?!  What the...?  Yep, I said tomorrow.  WTF!?!?!  How desperate does that sound?  Even a high schooler knows you need to pretend to be way less interested than that.  I caught myself in the next breath.  “Well, not tomorrow...I mean maybe next week.”  Yessir, they call me Sir Smooth.  Now, I was stoked Napoleon was there.  He made me look good by his mere presence once I stood up. 
 
I asked the blonde for her number and said (after learning my lesson from last week), “Here I’ll put it in my phone and text you now so you have my number, too.”  Sir Smooth, indeed!
 
I texted her.  She got it.  And I sachay’d on outta there like a bad mofo.  Since I’m doing lotsa quotes in this report, I will quote Toni Braxton:  “Breathe again, breathe again...”
 
I got home and felt relief.  I was social.  I got out of the house.  I got back up on the horse.  And, I got a text from the blonde at about 10pm. 
 
We texted back and forth for a half-hour like a couple of Bieber fans.  One of her texts asked, “Coffee next week?”
 
Moving along to Friday, I woke at 5am from a terrible nightmare.  I dreamt the following:  
I was in the blonde’s house in the middle of the night.  But in bed with my wife who needed help to the bathroom (in her last months, I pretty much walked or full-on carried my wife from room to room, so the dream felt very real).  I had to walk her past the blonde, lying in her bed.  And then back again.  The blonde’s ex-husband walked through the front door.  I showed him that I was there with my wife so there wasn’t any hanky panky going on.
 
I woke up in a panic, not knowing what the hell just happened.  My wife was just talking to me and it was so real.  Her voice was with me, strained from all the meds and the tumors putting pressure on her brain stem.  I teared-up and took a xanax.  In the dream, I was so thrilled to hear my wife again.  Yes, this f’ing cancer business is the gift that keeps on giving.  I’m sure the interpretation of the dream comes down to one word:  guilt.  I don’t know what to do with the blonde’s number at 8am on a lonely Friday morning.  I should probably meet her for coffee if only to be social, but I don’t know if it would be fair to her to take it any further.  My nightmare tells me I’m a mess.
 
I recovered the best I could and went about the day, not texting the blonde.  I wasn’t sure what to do with her number but I really wanted to have some sort of interaction.  More from a social basis than anything else.  Still, with my ‘how about tomorrow?’ idiocy, I wasn’t about to text her today.  And I was feeling pretty crushed through the day with that nightmare lingering on my mind.  I stayed in Friday night, pretending that Thursday’s shenanigans was a good filler for Friday. 
 
Saturday got off to a better start.  I slept in with neither dream nor nightmare, though I did check my phone to see if maybe the blonde had drunk texted me at 3am.  No such luck.  I met a friend down at Cappy’s for my half-stack of pancakes, eating like a champion.  Pancakes are a tricky business.  They’re great going down, but you carry them with you throughout the day.   Good thing I got a long bike ride in with friends.  We went to the river jetty in Newport and back to the Wedge, so the pancakes were a non-event by now.  I worked them off pretty good.  My friends on the bike path:
 

 
 
On the ride, we stopped at a really small tennis club on the Peninsula to use the loo.  One of the friends biking with us runs the club and let us in to use the facilities.  It’s a very low profile joint, without pretension despite the fact that every person on the limited membership roll is worth millions.  Rick Caruso, the developer of The Grove has a house across from the club as does the Shea family who make golf courses, homes, buildings, etc.  You feel like a beach bum while you sit on your beach cruiser looking at those homes.  My friends outside the club:

My friend and I had plans to go to dinner but bailed at the last minute...Oh oh.  That means he’s maybe getting back with his ex.  Not good for no one ever.  She’s a ball breaker and guilts the hell out of him.  And of course it pulls me away from my pancake partner.  Can’t have that. 
 
I couldn’t make up my mind what to do on Saturday night.  Though I was feeling lonely, I didn’t dare text the blonde.  I was doing my best to play difficult to obtain, or ‘hard to get’ as they say on the streets.  So, naturally, I went to Del Taco drive-thru:  1 Del Beef Burrito, 2 tacos and a bacon-cheese quesadilla.  Watched the latest Angel disasterpiece until my plus-size model friend Dave called me on his way back from a party. 
 
Dave swung by with goat cheese, a baguette and the following DVDs:  Tears For Fears in Santa Barbara, 38 Special, Roxy Music.  But first, we started off with Spandau Ballet Live from Sadlers Wells, 1983.  It was rad.  The band has a percussionist/sax player named Steve Norman and he is an amazing performer.  I’m sure I’ll get gay bashed for appreciating Spandau Ballet, but they kill it.  Dave and I had been meaning to watch this concert DVD for a few months and finally were able to focus on it.  I love the song “Communication” (not to be confused with the Power Station’s version of “Communication” which is also filed under G for gnar gnar).  “To Cut a Long Story Short” was an early KROQ hit and they play it in this video.  I played the song loud when I was driving to the Peninsula on Saturday. 
 
Dave popped open a bottle of vino for himself and we air-guitar’d and drummed to 38 Special.  Like Adam and the Ants, this band had two drummers.  I think they’re pretty great as long as you stick to the hits.  “Caught Up In You” is a real rocker.  Reminds me of playing Galaga.
Dave decided to go home to his wife and kids around 11pm; a bargain considering Dave can stick around until 1am sometimes.
 
Sunday started off as usual.  Coffee and a whole lotta ‘what the hell am I gonna do today?’  I give myself props for not picking up the world’s greatest donut.  I’ve found Sunday’s, particularly Sunday afternoons, to be the toughest days.  While most have their families, or wives or girlfriends, I’ve got a cat and a number to maybe or maybe not text.  If you know anyone that lives by themselves, Sundays are a good day to say hi or invite them over.  I really need to push myself out of the house on Sundays but it’s odd…nothing sounds good.  No food sounds good, no outing sounds good.  Nothing sounds engaging.  You kind of want to hang around and shuffle your feet from room to room, hoping that the perfect idea presents itself. 
 
I texted the blonde that afternoon.  She genuinely ‘sounded’ excited to hear from me, and texted right back.  In this modern era, I think that means there’s interest (youngsters, females, etc., please feel free to translate).  She’s busy most days this week but offered Thursday and Friday.  And said she plans to go to the wine tasting on Tuesday.  The wine tasting just sounds like a bummer.  Kind of like meeting a chick at a dive bar and then you realize she actually is a regular at the dive bar.  Not exactly the case here, but it’s not fun to go back to the same well, especially if there’s the threat of Napoleon Movado showing up.
 
As Sunday crept forward, I was hitting a low.  I fought it, but I went to the gym and made the usual small talk with the earth girl yoga/spin master at the front desk.  I’m becoming the bummer dude who walks in and talks about nothing.  I’m like Larry from “Three’s Company.”  There were two other people in the gym.  Everyone else had things to do except us goofballs. 
 
I didn’t get that endorphin rush I was hoping for and had a lot of sadness in my head.  I fell asleep on the couch for about a half-hour after half a xanax.  I’m not a pill popper, but every now and then I need to call in my little friends.  They certainly help as prescribed.  Accept on afternoons and evenings like this.  I didn’t have an appetite though I knew I needed to eat something.  You could’ve rattled off 100 ideas for dinner and I would’ve said, ‘no no no no no…’  But again, I forced myself into the car and started driving.  One way, then another, and back again.  I finally settled on Flame Broiler with zero enthusiasm.  Sundays are so silent for me when darkness falls.  I sometimes pretend I’m a character in a Michael Mann movie.  Or, maybe Crockett on Vice.  A man alone, sitting on a boat, waiting for the tide, or whatever might come along.  I wish I would have had a longer ‘conversation’ with the blonde.  Each exchange has lasted about a half-hour.  I think she ordered one of the 2000 books about how to deal with a man in a relationship and read a chapter that says “Text for only one-half hour at a time.”  I swear this crap is out there. 
 
That might have been part of my funk.  Who knows?  You’re up, you’re down.  That’s how it is for anyone.  But since that nightmare, my downs have been crushers.
 
I went to bed after dinner, just laying there with too much swimming around that boat of mine.  I got my headphones and played music in the dark.  One after another…Roxy Music’s “Same Old Scene” which has an impossible bass line, some Shriekback. “Trouble” from Lindsey Buckingham: 
 
“I really should be saying goodnight. 
I really shouldn’t stay anymore. 
It’s been so long since I’ve held ya. 
I forgot what love was for.”
 
 
 

I saw a lady leave a not so nice comment on his restaurant's yelp page. She said she would never eat there after watching chopped.

They should have gotten Chris Brown, maybe he could teach Hamilton how to hit.

Somewhere to the right in this picture is Mandalay Bay:
 

 
It was the last hotel my wife and I stayed in together.  I surprised her last year for her birthday, taking her to see the Cirque de Soleil show “O.”  She had always wanted to see a Cirque show.  Her brain tumor was really acting up and she had a seizure while playing a slot machine.  She was in between chemo treatments, and threw-up on the plane to and fro Vegas.  When we returned home we went straight to the emergency room because the wound on her head from her most recent surgery showed signs of infection.  While going through security at the airport, the TSA dude told her to remove her hat which she had on to cover for her hair loss and bandaged wound.  In short, the trip sucked. 
 
But she was so strong that night we saw "O," dressing up for a night out, adjusting her wig just so.  She was always a ‘fancy girl.’  She loved perfume and wore make-up with sparkles in it to Angel games.  I have a photo of her in our guest room which I kiss every day.  Every once in a while, I spray perfume on her picture.  She should stay fancy.  I know it probably sounds a little bananas to the outsider, but to me it makes sense. 
 
The last 24 hours of my trip, it was hard being back in Vegas, thinking about my wife and what she had to endure.  How much fun it would have been to see another show with her, watch her put on her fancy make-up and to smell her perfume.  What I would give to take her out to a dinner and watch her make smiley small talk with the wait staff. 
 
So, at present, asking a girl for her phone number is no small feat.  But it just sort of came up in that store in Vegas.  Sometimes the best times are the ones you don’t make plans for.
 
After the outlet mall, Utah and I met back up with the Arab, more rested but still tired.  I recently purchased an iPhone so I put my boys to work.  The Arab is an IT guy and he told me how to put a ton of music on the phone without too much trouble.  “Create a file, move it here...” and so forth.  We continued with our ‘Banshee’ marathon until it got dark. 
 
I got the nerve up to text the chick from the J.Crew store.  Man, it’s so much easier to text someone.  It’s not like the old days where you had to grab your balls, dial a number, sweat the rings out and fumble around for the right wording.  Hoping maybe she won’t answer but praying to hell that she does. 
 
But then, you miss something without calling.  I wussed out and texted and that was okay by me since I wasn’t even sure I wanted to do anything.  I just wanted to feel like I was in the social flow of the world and I haven’t felt that in a while.  Like a scene from a movie, I started the text one way, erased it, started over, erased, etc. 
 
While I was writing and re-writing my text, the Arab and Utah somehow landed on the subject of our friend Jerry.  Jerry stands about 5’-5” and weighs around 250 pounds.  Nicest and most gullible dude in the world.  He loves the tv show “Alf.”  A few years back, he was with the Arab and Utah in the Star Trek bar at the Hilton Hotel.  They’d had a few drinks and chipped in some money to buy Jerry a Star Trek uniform.  The plan for the day was to go the bar then hit up the porn convention.  You know, the usual Saturday.  One of the caveats of Jerry getting the Trekkie uniform was that he had to wear it to the porn convention.  And he did.  I need to ask if there’s a photo of him there.
 
Saturday night we motivated and went to the Crown & Anchor pub where my friends go on occasion.  They have a pretty good curry dish and the Arab has a crush on a bartender there, only, she’s been fired.  So he was bummed about that.  I guess she left without giving him her number.  See how that works?
 
I had texted the shop girl some hours ago at this point.  She still hadn’t texted back.  A real kick to the ego/balls.  I’d like to think I haven’t heard back from her because I was wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Tubbs on it when I met her.  Classy stuff.  Who knows?
 
Man, it was so much better when I could rely on my wife to put on her fancy sparkles and perfume.  What a gift I had.  Now I’m getting all worked up about not getting a text from some chick I don’t know.  What a difference eight months makes.  It’s not that I was thinking, “Oh yeah...this chick’s the one.”  Ya just want to feel like you’re included.
 
Of course, when she didn’t reply I went into a mini-depression but luckily I had Utah and the Arab with me to distract.  We participated in pub quiz at the Crown & Anchor, with the subject being Disney.  We got 10/15 which isn’t bad considering Disneylandia isn’t exactly our wheelhouse.  Btw, “The Black Hole” is the first what in the context of all Disney movies?
 
After losing the quiz we headed over to Arizona Charlie’s casino.  Another off-the-strip joint with a lack of clientele.  The Arab had a need to play some blackjack so while he and Utah were doing that, I meandered around, losing a few bucks with the slots.  I like to zone out with a slot machine.  You just gotta remind yourself that the slots have the worst odds of anything in the house. 
 
I joined my friends at their table for a bit and met Erika, a Vietnamese dealer with a great personality.  She laughed and said funny things.  After a few minutes, she was switched out with Christina.  She was really pretty but a bit too skinny.  I checked my phone to make sure I didn’t get a text at 2am from the shop girl.  Nope.  No drunken texts.  “Who cares anymore?” is what I told myself. 
 
Christina has a degree in education and a terrible tramp stamp tattooed on her back.  I spotted another odd tattoo near her left pelvic bone and I just scratched my head.  I wanted to ask why, with a nutrition degree, she’s  flipping cards at Arizona Charlie’s but you never know what the answer might be.  It’s probably not going to be anything positive and likely involves a now ex-boyfriend who she followed out to Vegas from Wisconsin (yep, I found out that’s where she’s from).
 
I told her she had a nice profile and then she was switched out for some chick who likes comic books and other nerdy stuff.  My nerd friends were in nerd happy land.  There was a version of Comic-con happening that weekend in Vegas.  Stan Lee was the special guest star.  Utah got very upset at the mention of Stan Lee.  Some years ago, my friend wrote a script when he was a burgeoning screen writer.  He did some work for Stan Lee, writing a feature script.  Mr. Lee wouldn’t pay my friend unless he signed paperwork essentially giving Stan Lee permission to receive the “Written By” credit.  My friend was heartbroken.  Stan Lee was one of his heroes.  Being young, naive and not yet a member of the Writers Guild, Utah didn’t know his rights.  My friend would’ve won in arbitration if he’d gone ahead and signed the paperwork.  But instead, he declined to sign and the script died at the hands of Stan Lee.  Showbiz, babeeeee!
 
Despite Utah pounding an energy drink at about 1am, I drove us back to the homestead and didn’t have to suffer through an all-nighter.  I drove the Arab’s newly delivered VW Passat.  It’s a nice car and has all kinds of bright lights on the dash.  The pick-up is pretty great for a diesel, too.  I’d be happy with one of these cars.
 
Utah and the Arab decided they were hungry and wanted a late night snack, but DR asked to go home first.  I dropped myself off and they went to a Hooter’s.  I went to bed and thought about how weird it is to be asking for phone numbers.  Taking chances sometimes kicks you in the ass.  Maybe the Arab had it right after all.
 
Sunday, I got up way too early.  I knew with their late night Hooter’s run, the two nerds wouldn’t be up early for breakfast, so I drove myself to a Del Taco:  bacon and egg burrito, hash brown product, taco.  So f’ing good!
 
I watched “Trading Places” while waiting for the goofballs to rally.  This movie is such a gem.  Eddie Murphy when he allowed himself the restraint to work with an ensemble cast.  Utah eventually made it downstairs.  We were excited that one of the bit characters was in an episode of Miami Vice (“Hit List”). 
 
Around noon, the Arab made it downstairs.  Of course, it took us about an hour to figure out what to do for lunch and we finally settled on a Middle-Eastern market and sorta restaurant about 10 minutes away.  I had a beef and chicken kebab with a kibbeh (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kibbeh).  Not as good as the joints in Anaheim’s Lil’ Gaza, but it did the trick.  Afterward, I spotted a tiny Thrifty Ice Cream shop in the same center.  “WTF?!?  How rad is this!?”  I thought.  The Arab and I walked over to investigate while Utah went to a bar a few feet away.  When in Vegas...
 
Turns out there’s four of these Thrifty Ice Cream places in Vegas.  It’s like being in the old Thrifty stores, but alot smaller and they only sell ice cream.  I got a massive single scoop of mint chip and it was damned refreshing.
 
We claimed Utah from the bar and made our way to a used record and CD store called Zia or something like this.  I nearly purchased a hard to find Deborah Harry CD, (released as Deborah Harry, not Debbie Harry) but I didn’t want to spend $4 for the one song I wanted.  It really made no sense...Blow a bunch of cash on a slot machine but fret over $4 for a used CD?  Ahhh, the human mind.  I like a song on the disc called “He Is So” which my wife turned me on to.  Good tune. 
 
By Sunday night I was getting restless.  Missing my wife coupled with the shop girl not texting me back made me wish for home.  I was done with the trip.  Over Vegas.  Ready to have my own bed.
 
But we had a little more work to do.  That night, we went to a place called Ellis Island, tucked away from the MGM Grand.  It’s a dump, but it’s ‘our’ dump.  There’s an oddly placed pizza joint inside which sells 2-for-1 pizzas on Sundays.  There’s no way we could have finished both in one sitting, even with the help of the Arab’s ample appetite.  I took down a few pieces and felt even worse.  Allah be praised, the Ellis Island doesn’t have an ice cream parlor!
 
While I wanted to return to the Arab’s for a good night’s sleep, Utah demanded we keep on rollin’ since he was ‘on vacation’ as he reminded us over and over.  So, back downtown we headed.  It was way quieter on a Sunday, and the band Arena wasn’t on.  Instead, we got this:
 

 
They did a pretty good version of an LMFAO! tune and I even shuffled my feet a little.  Unfortunately, do to our late start, we only caught a couple songs.  Next, we went over to another joint so Utah and the Arab could play poker.  I was more than bored but I didn’t want to cramp their style.  So I walked around with nothing exciting happening to me...just lots of old Asian folk on vacation.  Mostly Hawaiians.  This trip would end on a whimper, not a bang, sadly.  My weekend shenanigans had shenani-goned. 
 
I pretended to doze off so my drunk friends would have some sympathy.  Finally, I told them I had to leave.  Vegas had taken its toll on me in so many ways. 
 
Crashing at 3:30am isn’t ideal if you want to wake up early and get on the road.  So I didn’t get on the 15 freeway until about 10am, after stopping at a Taco Bell and a Chevron for a full tank of Nevada priced petrol.  There was alot of traffic on the road; more than I expected.
 
I got home around 2pm, greeted by a very excited cat and my wife’s picture.  I gave it a kiss.  I missed it.
 
 
 

"It wasn't over. It still isn't over."
-The Notebook

Do your business cards say "professional scalper"?