Nope, you people can go read blogs in which the people spend all of their time describing what they bought while shopping or you could read blogs that are nothing but link after link of newsstories you'lll never have time to read. But what do you get here?

Kickball Playoffs, baby!

(Keep in mind, these are highlights only. I tried to start writing about the day's events but had already gotten up to six pages without even gettomg to the ultimate Kickball
Showdown between Good and Evil, let alone the party afterwards in which the guy whose apartment it was had a crap's table in the middle of his living room).

-First game starts at 12, against what turns out is our archrival. They're the one's that said they were okay with us being down a player, then protested when we beat them. The same issue that went all the way to League HQ in D.C. The same issue in which my Captain's fairly snippy e-mail that he sent only to the other team's captain and few other league Captain's managed to be passed around to everyone in the league.

I forgot about all that, but got pissed off about a few plays they did. During the game, with the bases loaded, their pitcher intentionally drops a flyball and doubles up two people on third. It takes us ten minutes to figure out whether it's legal or not, whether there's an Infield Fly rule, and to explain to the poor girl at third why she's out even if she didn't move. It's all perfectly legal, but still kind of cheesy.

-Game ends when the very-same woman accidentally (for real) drops the ball and winds up doubling up someone on second. The other team protests the play. Or those who weren't trying to start a fight with my captain were. I look over after the game and a couple of team-members are holding back my captain and a few other people were holding back the other team's captain. I have no idea what the hell it was all about as I did what I usually do in situations like that- go very far away from what's going down- but it took about ten minutes for everyone's tempers to cool.

-We win and have to wait an hour before our next game. We start drinking beer. It's about 90 degree's outside and the team that's playing (the Gray team) starts bbq'ing. The Grey team is down a run in the last inning with two outs when one of their women players gets called safe on a controversial play at 2nd. There's an argument. A couple of minutes later, she does a headfirst dive into third, but gets beaned by a thrown ball in mid-dive.

Now, technically you're allowed to throw at someone. This, after all, is kickball. However, you are not supposed to throw at anyone's head and if you do, they're called safe. She was hit in the head, but hit while diving. The rule's do not specifically say what happens if someone dives headfirst into a base. An other argument breaks out. And out. And out. For twenty minutes it went on. At one point, I look over at the argument going on and see someone on the Orange Team lying on the grass, prone like Superman, trying to explain the Magic Kickball Theory. I start a chant for a do-over, realizing that a do-over is what people did when something like this happened in 2nd grade, the last time we've all played kickball. Ten minutes later, the Head of the League says she's safe and the game resumes.

-The team that lost was so pissed off at the team that beat them that they decided to hang out by the bench and root for us. And also drink way too much beer. They tell us that the other team is made up of a bunch of big boppers who can kick over everyone's head and that they trash talked through the entire game. They also brought a megaphone and used it to make sure everyone heard their trash talk. Not to mention get play-by-plays account of the game or hear their bad imitations of your typical baseball organ songs. We decide that we're gonna kick some Major League Kickball Ass.

The game starts and we're already in a foul-mood. The team we play is made up of a bunch of guys all over 6 feet (the pitcher, who is injured and kept on going over the pitching line is 6' 7"), all buffed out (as we can tell since half of them took their shirts off at various times of the game). The women, of course, are all blonde. They do the megaphone bit, even blasting the siren sound anytime someone scores. When someone on my team goes out to ask why the 6' 7" pitcher was taken out for a pinch-runner yet continued to pitch, he was told "I have a pulled Quad and you can rub it out for me if you want."

But even worse, they were all a bunch of Man-bunters. Yes, a bunch of guys all buff and over 6 feet spent the entire game "bunting" (lightly tapping the ball so it goes about five feet in front of the catcher and forces someone to have to get it and throw the ball- something not as easy as it sounds). It's clever, it works, and it's lame. It's like when pitchers always intentionally walk Barry Bonds, but worse. It's like when the Argentinean soccer team spends the entire game falling down, hoping to get penalty kicks, but worse. It's worse because IT'S KICKBALL. And not only that, they drank Keystone.

We get pissed, frazzled even. Especially since they score a bunch of runs yet never kick the ball out of the infield. Our captain protests the megaphone and they finally stop using it, albeit after a bunch of snide comments brought on by the fact that they were completely unable to see why a megaphone could be considered lame. My team-mates spend half the time on D yelling at someone to move up to take the bunt and whine at the other team when they get on base. Finally, they crack the game open when, in frustration, our outfield finally creeps into the infield and a woman kicks it over our head for a three-run home run. The worst part about it was that one of the guys on my team actually could have caught it, but he was too taken aback at the smack he was thrown at him by the gun on 2nd. When the guy on my team complained about the man-bunting, the guy on 2nd just looked over at him and said "have you ever played competitive sports?" Gobsmacked by the comment, the guy on my team was unable to pick up his jaw long enough to go after the ball, let alone explain to the guy that one doesn't usually associate kickball with competitive sports.

They beat us, of course, and go onto win the whole thing. Teams like that always do, they always win. It's the Way of the World, how the Universe Works.

Or, in the mighty words of Bill Murray: And even if we win, if we win, HAH! Even if we play so far above our heads that our noses bleed for a week to ten days; even if God in Heaven above points his hand at our side of the field; even if every man woman and child joined hands together and prayed for us to win, it just wouldn't matter because all the really good looking girls would still go out with the guys from Mohawk because they've got all the money! It just doesn't matter if we win or if we lose. IT JUST DOESN'T MATTER!

Tough night of TV viewing, what with "Wicked Tempations" being on MoreMax at the very same time "Sinful Temptations" was on Cinemax-East Coast.

Decisions...decisions...decisions

Great, now that I've turned 35, I am greeted by this line in an article in the New York times about the Next Big Thing- screamo music (aka, bands in which the singer screams all about the pain and alienation in his life due to being born a middle-class white boy in the 'burbs instead of singing about the pain and alienation in his life due to being born a middle-class white boy in the 'burbs).

"More important than any history of screaming, says Tom Beaujour, editor of the hardcore magazine Revolver, is the fact that rock music has always been about the raising of the sonic threshold. ''Little Richard's inflections,'' he says, ''were at least as appalling to grown-up consumers of music in the 50's as the screaming is to a 35-year-old rock fan today. So the history of screaming is really just the history of rock getting louder and more outrageous. It's almost like an arms race. What can I do that is the next level of sonic rebellion?''"

Ouch.

And yes, bands that scream all the time like those bands make me think more of fingernails across a chalk-board than actual music.

Ah, blessed miracles- the fog is back.

While the fog and it's inherent cold wetness does grate, after three or four days of incessant 90 degree weather, I have never been so happy to see the fog come rolling over the hills of Twin Peaks. There has been no respite from the heat. Because we here in Northern California believe in the infallibility of the perfectness of the weather, we do not believe in things like Air Conditioning. Which kind of makes sense here in SF because it really doesn't get that hot, but on those days when it gets hot there's no place to go to get away from it. On the East Coast you went to the movies. Or to the mall. Anyplace where it wasn't hot. Here, in San Francisco, there's nowhere to go. It's just hot everywhere.

The worst thing has been my apartment. Like most apartments in the city, especially those that face to the West, it's cool in the mornings and afternoons, but beastly at night. Most of the nights of the week, it's been hotter in my apartment than outside. Which, while a good excuse to get out of the apartment, it makes it darn near impossible to sleep. As a result, some of my inherent crankiness this week (see below postings) are merely the whining of a sleep-deprived, sun-baked wuss who was averaging three to four hours of sleep a night due to the heat.

And so, as the wind starts whipping up and a breeze flows through my apartment and my I find brushing my hair too painful due to yet another bad, bad sun burn, I say thank goodness to the fog.

The mongrel cat came home
Holding half a head
Proceeded to show it off
To all his new found friends
He said I been where I liked
I slept with who I like
She ate me up for breakfast
She screwed me in a vice
But now
I don't know why
I feel so tongue-tied
I sat in the cupboard
And wrote it down real neat
They were cheering and waving
Cheering and waving
Twitching and salivating like with myxomatosis
But it got edited fucked up
Strangled beaten up
Used in a photo in time magazine
Buried in a burning black hole in devon
I don't know why I feel so tongue-tied
Don't know why
I feel
So skinned alive.
My thoughts are misguided and a little naive
I twitch and I salivate like with myxomatosis
You should put me in a home or you should put me down
I got myxomatosis
I got myxomatosis
Yeah no one likes a smart ass but we all like stars
But that wasn't my intention, I did it for a reason
It must have got mixed up
Strangled beaten up
I got myxomatosis
I got myxomatosis
I don't know why I
Feel so tongue-tied

Once again, I bleed.

This time from a zit. I popped it in the shower and while toweling my face off I see blood stains on my not-so-nice green bath towel. Once again, I have to sit around the apartment waiting for the blood to dry before venturing out to work.

I leave for work, feeling cocky despite it all. So I decide to bust out my brand-new $70 CD walkman. I've been dying for an excuse to take it out for a test drive, especially as it comes with some new-fangled "safety latch" that'll make sure I can be mobile with it- even Jog! On my way to work, about a block in front of the office, the "safety latch" doesn't latch and my brand-new $70 CD walkman goes splat onto the sidewalk- batteries and lids everywhere. And right in front of one of the fake-blonde, fake-tanned, botoxed PR women I work with. I bend over to pick up the pieces of my once brand-new CD walkman and discover that the lid doesn't shut anymore.

Once at work I find out that the work on the ventilation system is over and my recently moved desk can now be moved back to where I used to sit. I call the two Office Manager's to move my desk back to where it should be. When I come back and see the desk had been moved, I go to turn on my computer only to discover it won't turn on. I spend fifteen minutes on the floor plugging and unplugging everything. My boss spends fifteen more minutes on the floor plugging and unplugging everything. Nothing. We call Tech Support. Fifteen minutes later, one of the Tech Support people comes down, takes a look at the computer and announces that we had just forgotten to turn some switch on the back of the computer on. And with that, ten seconds after appearing, the Tech Person leaves as my computer turns on. Stupid PC's.

Naturally, the computer spends the next fifteen minutes crashing constantly. And because it's a PC and part of the glorious world of Microsoft, everytime it does, I get notification after notification asking me whether I want to send a report into Microsoft. I don't want to send a report into Microsoft. Like I care. Like Bill Gates cares.

When the computer finally comes on, I finally get an e-mail from someone who I've been trying to go out with. After spending the past couple of weeks trying to figure out a time to go out and agreeing to a date, she sends an e-mail saying she wants to reschedule- my carefully crafted Next Week plans all shot to hell. I send back a snippy response, wondering all the while if I should have waited before finishing my coffee before responding. Why is lately that trying to go out with someone is more difficult than getting doctor's appointments? Is it too much to ask for someone you're supposed to have a date with be slightly excited about the prospect? Going up the elevator, my Wannabe Office Infatuation flirts with me.

The morning goes by quickly. At 12:30, I have my One on One weekly meeting with my boss. Last week didn't go so well. This week's did. I've worked my butt for the past week and it showed. I feel good that it showed. She tells me what a great job I'm doing dealing with the guy I'm sort of looking after- your typical caffiene addled, nicotine stained Prima Donna artist stress-case with a Martyr complex-and how I've been keeping track of what he's doing and trying to help him out. She likes that I'm always checking in with what's going on with him. Being pro-active. I feel good. My swagger is back, my strut.

An hour later, my bosses boss comes over to my boss's desk and calls me over. "We've got a serious problem" he tells me. Turns out the just bubbling underneath the surface-personality-clash with the caffiene addled, nicotine stained Prima Donna artist stress-case with a Martyr complex came to a head, fueled by his overloaded work schedule and an inability to figure out that I'm supposed to help him. Turns out I'm driving him crazy. He's not liking my keeping track of what he's doing, he's not liking me constantly checking in on him, he's not liking me trying to help him out. In short, he's not liking anything I'm supposed to be doing, what I was hired to do. I try to explain that I've only been trying to help but that he's not buying into it, that some of what he said is completely not true, that he's just not paying attention, and that part of it is because he's not used to having someone manage him. But it's no go. He's the Golden Child. He's an Untouchable. I'm still the new guy. His word is the Truth. The bosses boss wants him to keep up his Jesus Christ Pose. It's not him, it's me. My swagger, my strut is gone.

Meeting over, the phone rings. It's one of our vendors who kind of misled us and charged us for something we didn't think we'd get charged for. A conference call ensues. Nothing is concluded, the payment is still on the books, and the person on the other end is in tears. The call ends not with an ending, but just. We don't have anything to respond to her near-hysterics.

After the call, my boss- bless her heart- takes me for a walk to calm me down. She tells me she meant what she said and that I'm doing a great job. She tells me that she agrees with me about what I've been trying to do and blames herself for pushing me into being so pro-active about it. She tells me to do what her boss says and to back off and we'll figure something out later. I decide that if the guy wants to keep spending a night every week pulling an all-nighter, it's his problem not mine.

The rest of the afternoon crawls. I leave early to play kickball. I take a cramped, overheated MUNI bus that manages to take an hour just to go three miles. Kids from the Projects bombard us with water balloons. Scotch tape is the only thing keeping my CD Walkman from staying shut while playing music.

I get to the game and my allergies kick in- fierce. I'm out of kleenex. As I stand out in the outfield, what feels like a million mosquitoes go All-You-Can-Eat Buffet on me. While waiting for the bus home, a bus that doesn't come and results in me walking halfway home, I feel a scratch on my forehead and as I flick whatever it is off, I pull my hand away only to see globs of blood and mosquito guts on my hand.

I get home an hour later into my sauna like apartment. My apartment is way too fucking hot to be able to do anything like sleep for another couple of hours I float in the new Radiohead disc, hoping it'll take my day away.

And how did my day go you may be asking? Gusher. Total gusher.

I have this knick on my face, right beneath the left-side of my lip. It's always been a sensitive spot, ever since I was a kid. One false move and it's Let it Bleed. Today it bled. It bled so much I was fifteen minutes late to work.

Let's face it, there's not a whole lot you can do when you're gushing out blood like that from a shaving cut. You can't brush your teeth because you're bleeding too much. You can't put on clothes because you're either too busy holding a kleenex on the spot or too afraid of getting your clothes bloody. And you certainly can't leave your apartment until the gusher stops gushing. I mean walking down the street with blood dripping down my chin does not look good.

The gushing, unfortunately, pretty much set the tone for the day- a ten-hour, no break, computer crashing, files slow to download, kind of day. Actually, check that. What set the tone for the day wasn't the little shaving nick, but the having to come into work fifteen minutes late only to discover that there was no coffee left. Coffee pots coffee pots everywhere, but not any coffee to drink. We were out.

That my friends, is when you know it's gonna be one of those days.

And here's proof- I actually did this today. We had a quicky meeting today with my boss, my bosses boss, and someone in my department to go over scheduling. My bosses boss, who I'm still a little shaky with, gives me a bunch of orders to follow through on, in kind of a "let's roll" tone of voice. So I rolled. Walked right away from the meeting and started to do what he told me to do.

Problem was the meeting wasn't over. I got myself psyched up, I split the meeting smack-dab in the middle of it, leaving everyone else there wondering just where the hell I was going.

D'oh!

Did you see this? I'm sure you did because it's been a big story everywhere, or at least should be a big story-

White House cuts global warming from report

"Environmental study censored, say critics

The White House has removed damaging references to global warming from a major US government report on the environment due to be published next week."

And then there's this one-

White House won't release Medicare memo

"The Bush administration's top Medicare accountant has calculated how millions of senior citizens would be affected by bringing private managed care into the program, but the administration won't release the information. "

Can someone in the Bush White House please get a blow job from a 21-year old intern so the press could finally get off their asses and do something?

San Francisco is a very small city. Sometimes too small. Dangerously so. There you'll be, enjoying the company of a good friend or two, having a drink and then blammo- the Last Person in the World You Want to see walks in. Fear it.

And yes, as you can guess, I'm writing this because it happened tonight. I was at a bar half-a-block from the ballpark, having a drink with a friend I haven't seen in a long time, having a merry ole time of it when the Last Person in the World I Want to See walked into the bar. We're even talking about someone worse than someone I might have dated/struck out with. We're talking about my good ole boss from the Web Agency days.

He strolled on in, all short and munchkiny, to meet a friend of his for a drink before the game and walked right past me. He then stood and talked to his friend, his back right to me. Now I'm pretty sure he never saw me- I'm good at being stealthy when I want to be- but at some point, it's gonna happen. He was so close his man-purse would occasionally brush me in the back.

This guy is SO the Last Person in the World I Want to See. He hired me to work at that awful place, fired me without having the guts to do it in person, read my trashing him and everything about his company, and then sent a nasty e-mail about what I wrote. It's easy enough to make extremely uncomfortable small-talk with someone you dated, but it's not so easy with someone who very subtly threatened to sue you.

So I did what anyone else would do in a situation like that- completely and totally panicked. Did the ole deer in the headlights thing. I tugged at my friend's sleeve, whispered in her ear that I had to go-now, that I'd explain later and then quickly ran off to the other side of the bar where luckily some coworkers had gathered for some drinks. I left before she even had time to react.

I made it, he didn't see me. Or at least, I don't think he did. Still, I have to remember this simple little fact- do not ever go to Curve before a Giants game.

And once again, on the verge of passing a milestone/breaking a record, Barry Bonds does it the night before I have tickets to the game. So far he's done it with his 500th home run, his 71st home run of the 2001 season, his 600th home run, and now his 500th stolen base. What's up with that?

I would be a little bit more upset, but is there anything better than coming home and seeing your package from Amazon sitting there, right at your front door? Especially when one of the things you ordered is the new three-disc live Zeppelin CD?

I think not.

We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow.
The hammer of the gods will drive our ships to new lands,
To fight the horde, singing and crying: Valhalla, I am coming!

You know, in all honesty I have nothing to say tonight.

Sorry :)

Wow, check out today's big story in the NY Times-

"U.S. Bombs Convoy of Fleeing Iraqis

WASHINGTON, June 22 — An American Predator drone aircraft firing Hellfire missiles destroyed a convoy last week that was believed to be carrying fugitive Iraqi leaders, and experts are trying to determine whether those killed might have included Saddam Hussein or his sons, United States government officials said today."

Okay
1)Been there, done that with this story. At this point, unless you got Saddam's head up on a pike, don't be giving me "experts think there might be a chance Saddam was killed."
2)And our intelligence should be trusted on this one because.....
3)If you really do think you have Saddam Hussein, maybe using a jet-controlled flyer do the dirty work isn't such a good idea. Among other things, you don't really know what happens because it's not like there's anyone around to see it. Now, I know Rummy is a genius, but if you really do think you got Hussein in a convoy, don't you think maybe, just maybe, you should like use some troops to get him? That is what soldier's are for, right? That's what they're used for. I mean, if you got soldier's on the ground and you think that there just might be a chance that the leader of the country you have just invaded might be there, then maybe it would be a good idea to send some of those soldier's to get him? Wouldn't that make a much more compelling heroic story than Jessica Lynch's "heroic rescue" or Smirkboy going all Iceman on us? Did the Romans ever have to use DNA to discover whether or not the leader's they defeated were defeated? Is that how they knew they finally got Hannibal? Do you think the inability to actually use real-live soldier's could have something to do with the fact that every bad guy we're after keeps on disappearing? After all, we've all seen Convoy, we know how easy it is to hijack one of them.

I don't know about you, but all this week I'm seriously looking forward to VH-1's "Top 100 VH-1 'Top 100' lists." Man, it's gonna rock. Besides counting down the best lists, they'll recount all the great moments that happened during one of the VH-1 list shows. Like Melissa Etheridge talking about how powerful and heartfelt some artist is, especially when it's by an artist that nobody else would ever say something like that about, like Journey's "Don't Stop Believing," and how she has nothing better to do with her career than appear on these shows. And maybe, if we're lucky, we'll get to see that guy from the Goo Goo Dolls talk about how one of the bands/songs/album/TV moment inspired him for his fifteen minutes of rock star fame. Then there'll be guys like Alice Cooper or Meat Loaf talking about how cool some artist is, despite the fact that the particular artist is so much cooler than they could ever hope to be (because nobody gives Kurt Cobain more street cred as a great artist than when Alice Cooper called him one). And, of course, there'll be the usual smattering of Mad TV people Kathy Griffin, sitcom stars from sitcoms nobody ever watches and, of course, that Joel Stein guy. You know, the guy whose in Time Magazine and Entertainment Weekly and is considered the Great Satirist of our Time by pretty much nobody.

Of course, the highlight will be seeing if "Vh-1's Top 100 Songs," "Vh-1's Top 100 Albums," "Vh-1's Top 100 Bands," "Vh-1's Top 100 Hard Rock Groups" or all three hundred other Top 100 things will be number one.

Or, probably 2nd considering that the all-time Top 100 moment in a VH-1 Top 100 List has to be Carmen Elektra's outfit during the "Vh-1's Top 100 Hard Rock Groups."

Want to find out what San Francisco's really like? Consider this, courtesy of the always game Bay Guardian.

I guess sometime over the past couple of weeks the San Francisco Board of Supervisors (themsleves a comedy routine in and of itself) decided to take time from such trivial matters as huge budget crunches, the homeless, and the increasingly worrisome lifeless Giants offense to take up a really important matter- getting soda machine's out of public facilities. Because, you know, drinking Coke is really bad for you and if we lived in a world without the temptation of delicious soda, we'd all be much happier, healthier and well-adjusted, not to mention there'd be an ushering in of world peace and understanding.

Editor's Note- I actually don't like drinking soft drinks and haven't for years. I have nothing against them, however, other than having to constantly explain to someone that it doesn't matter if they don't have Coke, only Pepsi, because there's no frickin' difference and if you'll drink one, you'll drink the other and half of us call all soft drinks coke anyways.

In this week's Bay Guardian we get an editorial about the debate, from a Fat Activist (and yes, we do have them) objecting not to the banning of coke machines or the time being wasted by the Board of Supervisors, but because in the debate, several objectionable things were said about fat people. She does, however, come out and says she supports the ban (drinking soft-drinks is unhealthy, after all, and as someone who is fat, she doesn't support things that are unhealthy). So, to sum up, this is what the editorial is stating- that it's okay to prevent people from having the choice to drink soft-drinks and it's even okay to waste valuable time debating the issue. The only thing you can't do here is say anything wrong about fat people.

Ahhh.....San Francisco........

Will the person who called my house first at 12 at night, then 2:30 in the morning, and finally at 9, 10, & 11 please stop calling? In case you haven't figured it out- it's a fucking wrong number.

I know cell phones are handy, and I know that they're convenient, and I know how important they can be to make plans or, God forbid, if there's an emergency, but still….

Instead of calling while home, using a real telephone, most people now only call using the cell phone, in places far far away from home and in places that don't really lend itself to phone calls. Why call someone from the comfort of your own house when you can call someone while driving down the PA Turnpike at 85 MPH? As a result, half the phone calls you have with people these days sound like this

Mom: Hi….happy birthday!
Me: Thank you mom
Mom :Can you hear me? (said while screaming over the phone)
Me: Yes.
Mom: Can you hear me?
Me: Yes, mom, I can.
Mom: so what did you do for your birthday?
Me: I saw a play called "Wicked."
Mom: What? Thicket?
Me: No Wicked
Mom: Becket?
Me: No, Wi-cked
Mom: Bend it like Beckham?
Me: No…..W-I-C-K-E-D
Mom: Wicked? Never heard of it
Me: It's a play based on a book about the Wicked Witch of the West
Mom: Can you hear me?
Me: Yes mom.
Mom: It's a play about what?
Me: The Wicked Witch of the West, you know, from the Wizard of Oz.
Mom: The what?
Me: The Wizard of Oz
Mom: Can you hear me?
Me: Yes mom, I can hear you, can you hear me?
Mom: Yes, I can. So the play was based on what?
Me: The Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz….
Mom: Can you hear me?
Me: (hangs up)

I'm not going to give a review of a musical most people don't know of based on a book most people haven't read, but I will say this:

This is why I hate musicals-

There's a scene where a character, through magic, discovers that she can now stand up from her wheelchair and walk. As the scene started to unfold, I kept on thinking to myself, "oh no, here it comes, don't sing…..don't sing…..don't sing…..don't sing." Sure enough, the orchestra cues up and blammo, the character starts to sing a song about suddenly being able to walk.

That's why I hate musicals.

Well, that and songs about wanting to fly.

I'm back in the saddle again
I'm back!
I'm back in the saddle again
I'm ridin', I'm loadin' up my pistol
I'm ridin', I really got a fistful
I'm ridin', I'm shinin' up my saddle
I'm ridin', this snake is gonna rattle

Yep, I'm now officially 35, or so it says on my driver's license. I can't say I'm happy about it, but what are you gonna do about it? 35 is kind of a scary number, about as mid 30's as it gets, closer to middle-age than youth. It's also kind of a joke. I'm SO not 35. I don't feel 35. I don't even know what it's like to be 35. I sleep on a futon, work for a video game company, and Coldplay puts me to sleep. 35 my ass.

The only time I realize that I'm 35 and what it means is when I run into other people who are 35. Seeing them, I get kind of a mirror image of what I should be. I can see it in their receding hairline, the buddha belly, the two kids and golf habit. And I see it more in women. More and more I see someone who I find hot, but then realize there's a good chance they were in Elementary school when I was in High School. Or I'll see someone who I'll automatically think looks kind of cute for someone their age and then realize that they're actually still younger than me. Or, I'll look at someone and go, "man, they're getting kind of old looking" and realize that they were the same graduating class as me.

Which is why my resolution this year is to hang out with people much younger than me.

I'm kind of liking the Busta Rhymes song "I Know What You Want," the problem I have with the song is that I just don't know what it means.

Check out these lyrics-

"Baby if you give it to me
I'll give it to you
I know what you want
You know I got it
Baby if you give it to me
I'll give it to you
I know what you want
You know I got it"

So what I mean? And people think Radiohead's lyrics are abstract. I mean, what is he going to give "baby" and what does he know? And what does he want "baby" to give to him? And just what exactly does Busta have?

I just don't get it.

Damn, rap lyrics are sometimes so complex.

Yeah, I know my Web site needs major redesigning as it's all askew, but it's barely enough I put anything up on it.

Anyways, finally, just in time for the new Harry Potter book, it's a look at Hogwarts and how Harry and the Gang are merely Cogs in the Wizardry Machine. Ladies and Gentleman, I present to you The Hogwarts Club.

Trust me, it's funnier than it sounds.

Well, maybe.