Can't sleep

Well, it's 4 a.m., and I'm not in bed. I'm drinking coffee already.

Baby steps

http://www.tpmcafe.com/blog/coffeehouse/2006/jun/22/five_good_news

Mark's Confession

JNB17 has the far better article here, but here's my reply, anyway:

Funny thing is, I have tried to win love with this argument: "You can not win love with argument." The line I used was "I can't debate my way into your heart."

I'm embarrassed. You can guess to whom I spoke this, or how many women heard this ... feh! It's like hitting a thin five-iron.

Not to bring this Blog entry down to my dirt.

My hockey experience is that while living in Iowa I watched Detriot win with Yzerman and Chelios and Scotty Bowman in the 2002 Finals -- with that "flinging octopus onto the ice" tradition in Detroit.

My best college make-out story is this, which I've never told:

I graduated from Marist College in the spring of 1990 and lived a bohemian summer on the road (maybe like this summer this year), moving from Tom Goldpaugh's house to other friends'. A girlfriend, A.S., tried, I now understand, to keep up with me, even sending me photos of herself in the mail. I was untouchable. A.S. was unconventionally pretty, a swimmer, deaf. I was not a star at Marist; in her way, she was. That said, she was my date to the formal, where the guy organizing our ride was Rik Smits.

Ok, so I get into SUNY New Paltz, where some female professor whose name I can't recall, a China history specialist? -- John, help me out here -- interviewed me and let me in, thanks to Carley Bogarad's intervention. I get my house with Kevin Dwyer and three other roomates up on Rt. 32 and I have a home.

J.D. was still a student at Marist applying for a New Paltz TA-ship. She's living off-campus, away from Marist, in downtown Poughkeepsie. A nice, neat, old house, with foyers and pilasters and alcoves and sit-in windows.

I have spent years bemoaning my idiocy regarding J.D. She and I touched everything but each other. She was smart, beautiful, stylish, and apparently wanted to be with me. I thought she was fat.

Before all that happened and didn't happen, J. was still at Marist and I was at New Paltz. I was still "dating" A.S. I hadn't touched a woman in my life. J. hosted a party for Marist undergrads on the subject of entering graduate school; I was the keynote speaker. Marist professors were there: T.R., D.A., J.S.

J.D. was hosting an after-party, also. God, would she remember this? I hope, for her sake, at 2.20 in the a.m. that she isn't.

J.D. grabs me and asks me to stay for the next party; never one to say no to drink ... I stay. Maybe I can hijack another Metro-North train (you remember that story). We see everyone off, I think.

Coming back into the living room, I see T.R. tonguing J.D. This throws me. I go someplace else (those old Poughkeepsie houses have many rooms). He departs and J.D. and I find each other. I say nothing. We are alone in the house. We begin kissing. For a half-hour. Clothes off.

We know the next party is going to arrive, and it does, with terrible timing. The first ring of the doorbell came from A. S.

And so I learned the art of ...

Thank you, New Paltz.

Sorry I couldn't connect a sports event to this story. It would have made it perfect.

There's a cricket outside my room ...

... and many loud cars on Rt. 9W.

Laundry tomorrow.

You don't know how many typos I can produce as a result of this laptop. I love/hate it.

Well, there's your haiku for this week.

A toke on the zeitgeist

I don't feel like writing. And I'm writing about how I don't feel like writing. I'm not interested in what I'm thinking about.

Listening online to the Dixie Chicks, "Not Ready to Make Nice," via the wonderful online repository that is YouTube. Now I'll watch some Bill Monroe ...

This has been a GREAT week and I need to A.) recount it here, and then B.) find a money-making purpose for this blog. A theme, a thrust, a toke on the zeitgeist that will make people read my words and even pay to read my words. What is my theme?