There I was on Thursday afternoon, weeping softly at my desk, as is my usual custom. To cheer my mood -- and take my mind off my throbbing sinuses -- I was listening to a few MP3s. Specifically, I had Fatboy Slim's Better Living Through Chemistry queued up, and playing loud. Maybe I was in a techno mood. Maybe I was comforted by the promise in the title -- a little NyQuil (or tequila, or possibly lye) could be just the ticket to a happier, phlegm-free future. Whatever the reason, those catchy tunes were the only bright spot in a sad, sniffly, scratchy-throated afternoon.

"It's uptempo, with a good beat. If I could dance at all without looking like an epileptic ostrich, I could dance to it."

At least, they were. Until I re-learned, for the umpeenth time, that timing. Is everything.

(Oh, and don't worry if you're not into ten-year-old techno electro nu break funk jungle house bass beats, or whatever the hell such songs are classified as nowadays. I'll walk you through the scant bits of info that are germane to the story.

I promise not to bop or crunk or beatbox or anything along the way. Lord knows no one wants to see that. Also, I could break a hip.)

So, there I was. Alone in the office. Weeping. Listening. Sniffling. Minding my own business. After a while, the song "Give the Po' Man a Break" came on. I like the song. It's uptempo, with a good beat. If I could dance at all without looking like an epileptic ostrich, I could dance to it. Good tune.

But Fatboy's lyrics are not the highlight, so much. In fact, the only words in the entire song are those in the title. Three or four minutes in, the first vocal sample emerges:

'Gee po manna break! Gee po manna break! Gee po manna break! Gee po manna break!'

No, Mr. Slim isn't revered for his enunciation, either. As a genre, the techno electro nu break funk jungle house bass beaters aren't typically 'Hooked on Phonics', as it were. It's usually easier to just call the tunes instrumentals, and treat the lyrics, such as they are, as another instrument or rhythm. That's what I do, anyway. But folks less experienced with the music might have a different view.

Someone like, say, the new kid who started working in our office last week. Turns out he -- who I gather isn't so experienced with the Fatboy Slim oeuvre -- needed to ask me a question that Thursday afternoon. So he walked into my office. While "Give the Po' Man a Break" was playing.

None of which is all that troubling -- except for one thing. Fatboy, you see, being an artiste, wasn't content to simply loop the same vocal sample over and over and over through the second half of his ditty. Instead, he reprised it in shorter and shorter versions -- treating it like another instrument or rhythm, just like I said. Me and Slim, we're on the same page here.

The new kid, not so much.

Of course, it might have helped had he poked his head into my office during the actual instrumental part. Or the part where the whole phrase is looped, as above. Or even the next step along, when the tune shouts:

'Gee po manna! Gee po manna! Gee po manna! Gee po manna!'

That would have sounded like gibberish, sure. But the new kid would have probably figured I was listening to some funky Latvian pop music, or playing MP3s backward, or something. I have a bit of a reputation for doing weird shit around the office.

I know. Go figure.

But he didn't walk in at any of those points in the song. Instead, he came in toward the end, when the sample is really chopped down and rapid-fire. So when he appeared in the doorway, my speakers were veritably blasting:

'Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po!'

Which, to the naive ear unwise in the ways of the late-'90s techno milieu, sounds an awful lot like a guy shouting:

'Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn!'

At eighty decibels. Over a pulsing backbeat. On my speakers.

I didn't realize the misinterpretation right away, of course. It took a while to deduce, from the way the kid opened his mouth to ask a question, then stared wide-eyed at my computer for a bit, and then backed slowly out of the room. But I eventually figured it out, and realized how it must have sounded from his standpoint. So now I've got a whole new genre of odd stares and wacky rumors to work through, no doubt.

On the bright side, the new guy hasn't been back to ask me a question for a whole week. Looks like this po' man got a break, after all.

Not deathly, gasping my last breath, 'I'm coming to join you, Elizabeth!' sick, maybe. But still -- sick. I've spent much of the past ten days coughing up bits of things that may or may not have been attached to my internal organs. And someone evidently replaced my sinus fluid with some sort of napalm-'n'-molasses mixture, to see if I would notice.

Trust me, I noticed. Shove a bean up it and blow, Folgers.

"You might think that the universe would take pity on a guy like me in his hour of weakness, when all I wanted was twenty hours of sleep a night and some sort of honker Hoover to schlurp the phlegm right out of my face."

Anyway, I'm better now. But it was a tough week and a half or so. You might think that the universe would take pity on a guy like me in his hour of weakness, when all I wanted was twenty hours of sleep a night and some sort of honker Hoover to schlurp the phlegm right out of my face.

Yep, you might think karma would cut me a break for once.

You might think that. But then you'd be an idiot.

Instead, I found myself last Friday morning -- at the very height of my infirmary -- standing in the driveway in the midst of a steady downpour, hacking and sniffling and contemplating the very, very flat left rear tire on my car. I was heavily medicated, had pressing work at the office and had already put on my 'out in public pants'. Still, the sight of that soggy saggy deflated rubber doughnut led me to strongly consider giving the world the big fat finger and crawling back into bed.

But no. That's just what karma would want, the little bitch. Instead, I got in the car and drove to a tire repair shop down the street. And things were all downhill from there.

I have this theory, you see. In the long and storied history of mankind, I contend that there has never -- ever been such a thing as a 'repairable tire'. I've personally flattened a few, busted a bunch, punctured a passel, and deflated a dozen or more. Not one of those holey wheels was deemed patchable. And neither was this one. The resident tire care triage expert broke the bad news -- as usual:

Tire Guy: Sir? I'm sorry. We couldn't save your tire.
Me: Ah. I see.
Tire Guy: We can sell you a new one, of course.
Me: Well, of course you can.
Tire Guy: Let's see... looks like the only tire we have in your wheelbase is the Blingerator here.
Me: The Blingerator?
Tire Guy: Yeah, it's great. Platinum-belted radials. Gem-encrusted treads. And the inner bladder is gold-plated.
Me: But... you can't even see it.
Tire Guy: True. But you know it's there.
Me: Peachy. I assume this thing is outlandishly expensive, then.
Tire Guy: Oh, you know it. Way more than those 'peasant tires' on your ride right now.
Me: Fine. Look, how about we just call in one of those ghetto tires, anyway? I like to match.
Tire Guy: Whatever you want, buddy. I'll order one for you, and it'll be here before you know it.
Me: Good. Because I've got an important meeting this afternoon.
Tire Guy: Oh, no problem. I'll check the computer now. Just so long as it's not back ordered.
Me: Okay.
Tire Guy: Uh-oh.
Me: Yes?
Tire Guy: It's back-ordered. You won't see it before August.
Me: Nice. Aren't there any other models you can get?
Tire Guy: Oh, sure. I can think of three others that'd fit your car. Lemme see here.
Me: Great, thanks.
Tire Guy: Hmmm. Back-ordered.
Me: *sigh*
Tire Guy: Back-ordered.
Me: Of course.
Tire Guy: Hey, then there's this one.
Me: Back-ordered?
Tire Guy: Nah. 'Recalled due to spontaneous explosions'.
Me: Really? That's it?
Tire Guy: Also? It's back-ordered.
Me: Naturally. The Blingerator it is, then.
Tire Guy: Wonderful. I'll just need the deed to your house, one of your kidneys and the rights to your first-born child. Nice doin' business with you.

An hour later, I snuffled my way back the car, poorer in mood, wallet, and probably health. But I did have a fancy new tire, I did make it to work, and I did sit through that big, important, interminable, excruciatingly boring meeting.

Yip. Fricking. Pee.

The next time karma comes around, remind me to smack it around with a gold-plated bladder. Kick me while you're down, will ya?

In the bathroom in the office, the janitors leave bags -- I said bags! -- full of unused, unopened toilet paper in the stall. Bags full. I'm not kidding. Seriously, look:

So many squares to spare.

Now, think about that for a second. Recall the offices in which you've worked, and reminisce over the modus operandi of the typical cleaning staff there. If they were anything like the jani-Nazis I've encountered in my previous jobs, then they were more than slightly stingy with the sanitary supplies. You might find a square, or even a pair. But squares to spare? Squares to tear and share? Pretty freaking rare.

Not so in our bathroom, my friend. In addition to the generous two rolls deployed in the industrial paper holderator device, there's this bag of extra papery goodness hanging out in reserve. Just in case.

My first thought is: Damn, these are some trusting janitors.

And my second: Why the hell haven't we thrown those rolls all over the stupid furniture by now?

I'm pretty sure this is why we can't have nice things. Ah, well.

So, when I was in the rest room this afternoon, I took a quick look in the bag. First, I made sure the stall door was shut, and no one was around. You've got to dig pretty far into the bag to pull out a roll, and the last thing I want anyone to hear from my stall is rustling.

(Okay, maybe not the 'last thing'. Let's not think about that too hard, eh?)

Anyway, I managed to fish out a roll, and found another surprise. Evidently, we're not only getting quantity here, we're steeping gently in quality, too. Check out this pic:

Oh, yeah. That's the good stuff.

First, there's the New England charm. 'HARBOR' brand bathroom tissue, with that classy picture of the lighthouse.

(Unless I'm seeing it wrong, and that's not actually a lighthouse. In which case I suspect it's a lot less classy than I'm giving it credit for.

Moving right along.)

More impressively, we learn from the label that this plucky parcel of paper is also 'Facial Quality'. And they just leave this stuff lying around in a bag. You can almost feel the swank dripping down the bathroom walls.

It started me wondering about what constitutes 'facial quality' tissue, though. Even letting sleeping entendres lie -- and who expected that sort of restraint at this point? -- I have questions. Are there grades between 'regular' toilet tissue and our obviously superior 'facial quality' class? Are less fortunate souls issued tissue only rated for, say, arms and toes? Is my 'facial quality' paper appropriate for all of my above-the-neck wiping needs? Or for that matter, any of them?

I didn't have time to answer these questions this afternoon. I was busy with my hand stuck in a plastic bag, snapping cell phone pictures in the bathroom stall. As you might imagine, I didn't tarry any longer than was absolutely necessary. That's not exactly a situation you want to explain to anyone who might walk in.

(Plus, I can't decide whether it helps or hurts my case that I was alone in there.

Seriously, I thought about it all evening. It's a toss-up at best.)

At any rate, I'm betting a few rolls of that 'HARBOR'-y goodness would look mighty fine wrapped around the machines in the copy room, or strung between the legs of all the conference room chairs.

Yeah, I'm pretty sure this is definitely why we can't have nice things. C'est la vie.

I'm talking about Amazon -- or more specifically, the 'Recommended for You' bug prank 'feature' on their website. That nasty little bastard can go straight to hell, and I hope as many pitchforks as possible poke it right in the ass on the way.

"I thought from my previous experience that the worst thing Amazon could do is ignore me. I was wrong. So very, very wrong."

Don't get me wrong. I like Amazon; I shop there all the time. And I appreciate automagical systems that can figure out what I might like -- when they actually work, that is. I only ask three things of a recommendation system -- or for that matter, a friend, spouse, or government -- and in the past week, Amazon has failed me on all three. Observe:

1. Pay attention to what I'm telling you.

A few days ago, I logged onto Amazon, looking for some CDs. Here's the conversation (only slightly rephrased) that I had with the recommendation system:

Amazon: Hi, Charlie! Welcome back! Can I help you find a CD?
Me: Okay, sure.
Amazon: I bet you'd like Bridge. It's by Blues Traveler!
Me: Oh. Um, yeah, I don't think so.
Amazon: No problem! How about Save His Soul? It's great!
Me: I dunno -- who's it by?
Amazon: Blues Traveler!
Me: You know, I'm really not a Blues Traveler fan.
Amazon: Say no more! I know of a great CD you'll love!
Me: Fine. Just tell me it's not by-
Amazon: The CD's titled Blues Traveler!
Me: *sigh* Let me guess. It's-
Amazon: That's right! It's by Blues Traveler!!! Gosh!
Me: Look, seriously. Not a Blues Traveler fan. I swear.
Amazon: But you said six months ago that you own Four.
Me: Yeah... I did. But-
Amazon: And that's by Blues Traveler!
Me: I know. But it's my wife's, really. And I listed dozens of CDs I own.
Amazon: I know how you feel! Probably like buying Travelogue: Blues Traveler Classics. Right? Right?
Me: Dude. I gave Four two stars. Out of five. Two.
Amazon: That's more than one! Bet you'd love Blues Traveler's Greatest Hits. Betcha would!
Me: No. I wouldn't. Look, see here? I'm telling you not to use Four to suggest music any more. Okay? I happen to own one disc, but that's it. No more Blues Traveler, got it?
Amazon: Absolutely!
Me: No greatest hits, no tribute albums, no cover bands, nothing. Okay?
Amazon: You're the boss!
Me: Great. So. Do you have any other recommendations?
Amazon: Sure! You're gonna love this CD Zygote! It's super!
Me: Okay, I'm game. What type of mu-
Amazon: It's by John Popper!
Me: Wait. Isn't he-
Amazon: He's the lead singer... of Blues Traveler! Yippee!
Me: God, I hate you.
Amazon: How many copies should I put you down for?
Me: I absolutely fucking hate you.
Amazon: Don't forget One-Click Checkout™! It's the best!

I nearly strangled my monitor with the mouse cord. Evidently, I should stop being so fricking honest with Amazon about the music I technically own.

Lord help me if it ever finds out my wife has the entire Madonna catalog somewhere under our roof. Jesus.

2. Don't throw 'paying attention' back in my face.

I thought from my previous experience that the worst thing Amazon could do is ignore me. I was wrong. So very, very wrong.

See, I'm a big British comedy fan. Mostly the older shows -- Monty Python, Fawlty Towers, Kiss Me Kate, Keeping Up Appearances, just about anything. The subtle stuff, the bawdy stuff, the outlandish stuff, it doesn't much matter. I once even managed to sit through nearly an entire episode of Are You Being Served?.

Just once. And I called in sick to work for the rest of the week. But you get the picture.

So, last night I was poking around Amazon again, trying to find a DVD with clips from the old Alas Smith and Jones show.

I'm not even going to bother trying to describe it, other than to call it 'two-man sketch comedy' and point you to the BBC's take above. My wife walked in last night while I was cackling giddily over a Smith and Jones 'Swiss News' clip on YouTube, and -- after I replayed it and made her watch it -- all she said was:

'It's kind of cute. But not laugh-out-loud cute. You're weird.'

Probably. But that's not important right now. The only important detail to note is that the show featured well-travelled Brit comedy stars Mel Smith and Griff Rhys Jones.

(Hence the name, you see. Clever ones, those British are.)

The astute film buffs among you may remember Mel Smith from his role as 'the Albino' in The Princess Bride, where he tended lovingly to the Pit.... of Despaaaaiiiir.

The less astute among you -- including me -- may not know that there's also a Mel Smith (a different Mel Smith, presumably, what with her evidently being a woman and all) who writes gay cowboy erotica novels, and sells them via Amazon.

Astute or not, I'd like to believe that if my recent browsing history included the phrases 'John Cleese', 'British comedy' and 'Blackadder', but not -- I can't stress this enough, now, NOT -- any phrases such as 'burly cowhand', 'assless chaps', or 'rope my dogie, Tex', then you would probably guess the context of the 'Mel Smith' search correctly.

As opposed to waiting until I logged in tonight and saying:

'Hi! Welcome back! Can we recommend 'To Love a Cowboy' for you today? It's a wild, steamy tale of a young boy and the older man he... no? Okay! How about 'Twice the Cowboy, Twice the Ride'? You'll lose yourself in... not interested? No problem! 'Stallions on the Range' it is!'

A 'Mel Smith' search is one thing. But I still can't see why Amazon loaded up so far on gay cowboy fare. Maybe Blues Traveler fans watch a lot of Brokeback Mountain. I dunno.

3. Make me feel cooler by taking your advice.

Following the Blues Traveler debacle above, I finally managed to straighten Amazon out regarding the kinds of music I like. And generally, those kinds fall into one big category -- old.

I remember the days, back in the mid-to-late '80s, when I would laugh -- laugh! -- at people listening to the Beatles, or the Doors, or early Rolling Stones. 'Geez,' I'd say with a wrinkle-free sneer, 'some of that crap is twenty years old. Get with the times, already!'

I still listen to a lot of the same music I did back then. Which was, it turns out, just about twenty years ago. It seems the sneerer has become the sneeree. Ouch.

In my defense, at least I'm not listening to the drivel you probably cringe over when you think of '80s music. I figure it's pretty hard to point and laugh over somebody 'still' listening to a band, if you have no idea who the hell they were in the first place. I'd like to claim that was a carefully planned strategic decision; actually, it just turns out that I have weird tastes in music as well as comedy, apparently.

The point is, this is where I thought Amazon might actually be able to help me, for once. So while I whipped up an order for a few CDs (by the Broken Homes, Royal Court of China and Buckwheat Zydeco, from 1988, 1989, and 1987, respectively), I asked -- nay, begged -- Amazon to find me something hipper. Something I'd like, but could brag about to all the young whippersnappers at the parties with their droopy trousers and ball caps askew.

So I hit Amazon with my (ever so slightly) more modern preferences. I may have one foot in the auditory grave, but there are some bands I like that have seen the light of this millennium, if only barely. So I rated up my 'cool' bands, like Soul Coughing and the Propellerheads and the Crystal Method. Find me something like these, I told Amazon -- something good that I've never heard of, and that all the cool kids are into these days.

The Recommendorator beeped and booped for a while, and finally spat out a name that wasn't simply the 'limited edition' version of one of the albums I'd claimed. Nor the import issue of the same album. Nor some Blues Traveler shit. Instead, the name was: 'Fluke'.

Nice. I'd never heard of Fluke. The ratings looked good. I saw comparisons to Fatboy Slim, Chemical Brothers and the like -- another positive sign in my book. So I amended my order to include the suggested disc from this hot new act, this 'Fluke' that was no doubt all the rage at the raves and clubs and raves and yes-I-know-I-already-said-raves and clubs and raves and I-just-have-no-freaking-clue-where-else-kids-hang-out-these-days and raves where the kids are hanging out these days. Smugly satisfied with my newly purchased street cred, I eagerly awaited delivery of my CDs.

They came today. Four CDs in total. The old stuff is great -- just like I remembered, catchy and clever and steeped in nostalgia. Better yet, the Fluke CD is awfully good, too. After a couple of turns through the disc, there are only a couple of songs that I'm 'enh' about, and three or four that really stand out as gems. As a newly-bought and never-heard disc, it's really quite a catch.

And as a conversation piece and ticket to street cred, it's a steaming pile of dingo shit.

Turns out this 'new' band that's all the rage with their new CD was, in fact, all the rage back in 1997. They released their first single back in 1988. And the Wikipedia blurb including the CD I bought is two full sections before 'Current work'.

Damn it.

Fluke's not new; I'm just old. And they happened to stay off my radar for, oh, twenty years or so. But I never would have realized the tragic depths of my unhipness, were it not for Amazon's trusty 'Recommendations' system taunting me with decade-old CDs and laughing and pointing.

So thanks for zippo, Amazon. Take your ballad pop and your cowboy porn and your aging techno albums and shove them up your mail slot. Next time I want recommendations, I'm going to fricking Pandora.

(But I can still come back to buy CDs, right? That Super Shipper Saving™ is awesome!!!1!OMGeleventy!)

"If you're not a baseball fan, then nothing I could possibly write is going to make you give a flying badger turd about the career on-base percentage of Atlanta's backup second baseman."

If you're not a baseball fan, then nothing I could possibly write is going to make you give a flying badger turd about the career on-base percentage of Atlanta's backup second baseman. (For the record, it's .330, over a scant 101 at bats in limited action -- but now I'm just torturing you needlessly.)

The point is, I'm making an exception. My latest B&C post isn't about the Braves at all. Mostly, it's not even about baseball. It's about a shirt -- a really, really stupid shirt -- that ESPN sent me for winning a fantasy baseball league on their site. Or, in other words, for wasting my summer and fall knowing useless things like Martin Prado's career on-base percentage.

(Or rather, slightly less useless things, because if I spent any time during the fantasy season worrying about Martin Prado, then I surely wouldn't have earned the shirt in the first place. He's a nice guy, I'm sure, but not exactly the ore from which championships are forged.

Let's just say that if Prado's grandmama plays fantasy baseball, she ain't drafting him, either. Ouch.)

At any rate, if stupid shirts float your boat -- or oodles of sidelong Spinal Tap references, for that matter -- then please have a gander at:

The Answer Is None. None More Dork.

It's a lot more like the typical fodder here than anything baseball-related, I promise. I don't bother bringing up things like on-base percentage at all in the article, so you know it's entirely stat-free. But hopefully, it'll tide you over until I can carve out some time to get something meatier done here. Play ball, kids.

As you may -- or may not -- recall, my dog has lymphoma.

That's not the bit I need help with. I certainly don't expect everyone reading this site to be practicing and expert veterinary oncologists.

This time.

Rather, I need a bit of advice on dealing with the staff at the local animal hospitorium. The front desk ladies, specifically, because they're killing me. Which is their prerogative, I suppose, since they're not committed to the well-being of human visitors. Just my luck to tangle with receptionists whose Hippocratic oath only applies to tabby cats and stray shih tzus. Super.

"Just my luck to tangle with receptionists whose Hippocratic oath only applies to tabby cats and stray shih tzus. Super."

Anyway, the way they're killing me is this: every week, for each of the last sixteen weeks, I've wrangled my plucky mutt to the animal clinic for some doggy chemo care. Every week, they ask for my name, which is reasonable. Every week, they ask for my pet's name -- which I suppose is necessary, should the crazy cat ladies around the neighborhood start hauling in new kitties every other Tuesday. So while it's tedious to give them the same old boring name every time, they get a pass for asking.

But then, every single stupid week, at the beginning of every visit, they ask:

"And are you still at <my address for the past five years>. And is your phone number still <the only phone number I've had this millennium>?"

Mind you, there are only three or four ladies working the desk at this particular facility. It's fairly large, by animal hospital standards, but it's not that big. We're not talking about the Meow-o Clinic here; I see these same women over and over and over, every trip. And I understand that they see an awful lot of under-the-weathered-animal owners -- but they also ask the questions after they've pulled up my dog's record.

So every week, they see 'APPT. FOR WEEKLY CHEMO' and 'LAST VISIT: CHEMO LAST WEEK' and 'REMINDER: SCHEDULE NEXT APPT NEXT WEEK'. And still, they smile sweetly and stare at me and coo, "So, have you packed up your house and canceled your phone plan any time in the last hundred and twenty hours or so? No? Well, I'll just update your record, then, thanks."

It would be different if we hadn't stepped paw in their lobby for a few months. Or if I were leaving the dog behind and needed to be notified, rather than waiting to take her back home when she's done. Or -- seriously, or -- if all of the appointment reminders and notifications the hospital leaves weren't sent via email, which the triage troupe never asks about. After a couple of months of "No, I haven't freaking moved since last Tuesday," I decided to have a little fun with them.

And that's where I need the help. I'm starting to run out of smartass replies with which to entertain myself.

Oh, sure, the first couple of times were a larf. I said that, oh yes, indeed I had happened to move, and patiently recited back the hospital's own address and phone number as my own. For most of the receptionists, the flicker of recognition (and administrative frown following) were near immediate. One lady only caught it in the middle of asking what zip code that is, and heeeeey, just what are you trying to pull, sir?

(That's the nice thing about being a smartass at an animal hospital; it's your dog or cat that's being treated. They're not going to take it out on you, like they might at a doctor's office, or even a restaurant. What are they gonna do -- spit in my dog's chemo cocktail? Bichon, please.)

I lay low for a few weeks, hoping the desk staff would forget which guy was the jerkbag. Sure enough, they were back to asking me the old routine questions sans stinkeye before the month was out. I took the opportunity to tell one of them, "Oooh, I'm glad you reminded me!" I explained how I was just about to move -- to Nome, Alaska, as a matter of fact, and there really isn't much veterinary coverage up there, and I really like the care my dog is getting here, so... how much postage would she think it would be to overnight a Staffordshire terrier round-trip every Wednesday? And how many holes would she suggest punching in the box? And should I insure the package for just the value of the dog, or should I include the cost of the Snausage tub I'd have to include, so the pooch didn't go hungry?

That was a couple of weeks before Christmas. Since then, when that woman sees me coming, she glares at me and puts her 'Next Window' sign up in a huff. I'm pretty sure I can't go back to that particular well again.

Still, that leaves a few hopefully-still-unsuspecting rubes ready for a ruffling. I'm just not sure quite how I want to go about it yet. I've thought about welling up and pouting next time one of them asks my address, so I can explain that my wife kicked me out and all I have is the dog now, and I'm moving around a bit, but that if they want to reach me, they can always come knocking on my VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER!

That might be a bit much, though. Eventually somebody will sabotage my dog, just to get the hell rid of me. So I should probably find something more subtle, but still entertaining. And I only have until next Wednesday to do it. I was a good boy at the appointment today; when they asked about whether my various life details had suddenly changed, I just gritted my teeth and assured them, calmly but firmly, that they hadn't.

But I can't do it two weeks in a row. There's only so much conforming to polite society that one smartass can bear. I just need to find an acceptable -- yet still entertaining! -- level of snark, and get it out of my system. I only hope such a thing exists.

You know, for the dog's sake.

Most Wednesdays. According to my New Years resolution, at least.

Anyway, once I was squeaky cleaned and toweled dry, I ventured off to find clean underpants. They're the foundation of a healthy winter ensemble. But I found, to my still-dripping dismay, that there were no clean underpants in the drawer. Socks, yes. T-shirts, sure. Some sort of weird multicolored fuzzy thing that might be a scarf -- or a month-old sub sandwich? Check. But underpants were conspicuously and troublingly absent.

"Somehow -- was it my darting eyes, the nervous tics, or the periodic dancing-Elaine-Benes-esque kicks I used to subtly extract my underwear from up my netherhole? -- people seemed clued in to my silky little secret."

That is to say, normal underpants were absent. The only crotch-covering clothing in the underwear drawer -- just sitting there, waiting, smirking at me -- was the pair of emergency boxers. Silk boxers. Red silk boxers, with little hearts and "I LOVE YOU!"s printed all over.

Clearly, I faced a dilemma.

Would I don the cartoonish monstrosities, normally reserved for a ten-minute annual Valentine's Day stint?

(Note: Don't ask about the stint. Just... don't.)

Or would I choose one of the other, even less attractive, options? Wearing dirty undies? Going without altogether? Walking downstairs to the basement and fishing fresh underpants out of the dryer?

Jesus. I'd already gotten out of bed and showered. What do I look like over here, fricking Superman?

So I took what I thought was the easy way out, jumped legs-first into those novelty boxers, and crammed clothes on over top. It wasn't my finest moment -- and I had no delusions about what I was getting myself into. When a woman slinks herself into a set of silky undies, she feels sexy, and pretty, and self-confident. When I yank a flimsy set of love pants around my waist, all I feel is drafty. And bunchy. And self-conscious, to boot.

The whole rest of the day, as I mingled at work and outside with the normals, I could swear that they knew. Somehow -- was it my darting eyes, the nervous tics, or the periodic dancing-Elaine-Benes-esque kicks I used to subtly extract my underwear from up my netherhole? -- people seemed clued in to my silky little secret. I couldn't get out of the office fast enough tonight, so I could race home and get out of those damned telltale pants. Now I'm finally, mercifully home, and free of their heart-encrusted clutches.

Still, I put in a full day today. And I'm a lazy guy. So it's not like I'm going to bother to walk all the way down to the basement for fresh reinforcements. That's crazy talk. But the missus won't let me into the bed without underpants -- I mean, it's not Valentine's Day yet, now, is it? What's a sorry, slothful silkophobe to do? It's getting awfully drafty 'round these parts, and the dog is starting to give me funny looks.

Good thing there's a brand new roll of paper towels on the holder in the kitchen. I'll wrap a few dozen of those around me toga-style and bluff my way into bed. And maybe by morning I'll have mustered the energy to swap out my Bounty boxers for something more conventional.

Either that, or I'll be the most absorbent son of a bitch in the office tomorrow. At least they won't catch me sweating during another long staff meeting. And that's the sort of 'silky smooth' I can snuggle up next to.

I put 'captain' in quotes because there's really not a lot of captainosity involved. I pay the team fee to the league. And I send out emails every week to badger people to show up. That's the full extent of my 'captainly' duties. Just once, you'd think I'd get to perform a civil marriage service or keelhaul a mutineer or something. I'd even settle for getting to wear the funny hat and drinking rum on the job. But no.

"Just once, you'd think I'd get to perform a civil marriage service or keelhaul a mutineer or something."

The trickiest part of my responsibilities is getting the right number and proportion of people to play. It's regulation volleyball, and a co-ed league, which means that ideally, we need six players -- two or three women and three or four men -- to field a full squad. Six people working as a team is what you call a 'system' -- the front left, middle and right and back left, middle and right positions have certain responsibilities, and each gets just enough space to cover that we can mostly do it without calling time outs for emergency CPR treatment.

Less than six people is what's known in volleyball parlance as a 'screaming bumblefuck'. Does the rightish-back-middly person cover the corner on this play? Who comes over to block the middle when the setter's playing double duty on the wing? Why the hell is our server curled up in a fetal ball on the ten-foot line chanting, 'so many holes... so many holes...'? And where do they keep the oxygen tank and Band-Aids around this damned gym, anyway?

Needless to say, I do my level best to ensure that six warm-to-tepid bodies show up every week. Mostly, that's accomplished by keeping four hundred and thirteen people on the active roster, and begging for players several days in advance. But there's still the question of the ratio of attendees, and -- as is always the case in a life like mine -- we can never seem to find enough women. If you're sporting less than two in our league, your team is penalized a few points every game. Also, the refs say disparaging things to you. And the girls on the opposing team give you strange looks, like maybe you locked your team's women in the trunk of your car, and they're next. It can be awfully distracting, when all you're trying to do is play your game and focus on teamwork and drown out the muffled sounds coming from the back of your Honda in the parking lot. Enough, already.

Which brings us to this afternoon, when one of the regular guys called to ask whether we needed him tonight. Some other obligation -- a late night at the office or a pregnant wife or massive internal bleeding or something; I really wasn't paying much attention -- was vying for his time, but he said he'd try to swing by if we were going to be short-handed tonight.

So I tallied up the email replies I'd received for the week, and found only four definite 'yes' calls. Plus me is just five, so I let him know that we could absolutely use his services, once the project was finished or the baby popped out or his intestines were sewn back up, whatever. Since I was tearing him away from something he might deem 'important', I tried to soften the blow with a little humor.

"Definitely show up if you can. You know how we miss you when you're not around."

He chuckled politely, and probably thought that was the end of the conversation. Which it should have been. But I was busy doing math in my head, and realized that though we'd have six people with him, we still only had one girl showing up. Without bothering to explain this line of reasoning, I said:

"Although, you'd be more useful if you had boobs."

Another chuckle -- which I later realized was far more nervous than the first. At the time, though, I was drunk on the high of getting two laughs in a row. The jester in me took over, and I went for the hat trick:

"Of course, I've always said that about you."

Silence. Probably of the stunned variety.

I said goodbye and hung up the phone, figuring I'd just bombed the joke. It wasn't until I replayed the conversation in my head that I realized how batshit crazy it must have sounded. Now I wonder whether the guy will bother to show up tonight at all. Or ever, frankly.

If he does show up, it could get pretty awkward. And if he shows up wearing a padded bra, it's going to get really awkward.

But hey -- if he's convincing enough, at least we'll get the points back for the extra girl. Sometimes, even making an ass of myself has a silver lining.

Not often. Just sometimes.

But even I have my limits. And one of those was sorely tested at lunch today.

See, I have this theory. It's more of a governing rule, really, and that rule is this:

'The packaging of a food or food-like object should never be the only force holding the stupid thing together.'

"If it shows up quickly and fits in my mouth, that's usually plenty good enough for me."

Maybe I'm being unreasonable. But that's just how I feel. And so does the bottom half of the grande burrito I bought for lunch today. And so does my desk. And my keyboard. And the new shirt I was wearing today. We took a little vote around twelve-thirty, and they were all on my side.

The top half of the burrito abstained. But considering that it had just toppled over and slathered itself all over that desk and keyboard and shirt the moment I peeled back the aluminum foil, I'm guessing it had a different opinion.

So, apparently, did Senor Chucklenuts at the taco hut where I bought it. Why neatly seal up a burrito with its own tortilla, he must have asked himself, when you can cram the ingredients together all higgledy-piggledy and cover it with foil and be done with it? Maybe the guy can send out those grease-powered time bombs and live with himself. But I don't see how.

And now I need another shirt. Also, my desk smells like guacamole. Plus, I think there's a bean lodged under my space bar. I think I'll find a screwdriver and pry it off the keyboard.

And shove it up a chihuahua's ass. Just on principle. Next time, I'm buying a damned Whopper.

Not 'back with a vengeance', perhaps -- the vengeance I bought on Amazon hasn't been delivered yet; probably held up in customs or something -- but I'm back. And when that vengeance shows up -- well, whoo, geez. Look out. Mercy.

In the meantime, here's this:

Mind you, I'm not saying it was a bad gift. And certainly not unappreciated. I'm just saying... well. All I know about scones is that they're what prim, upper-crust old British ladies like to eat with their tea. I fail to qualify on a number of key points in that description. I can manage the 'old' -- and on a good day, maybe the 'crust' part. That's about it.

"When your husband starts doing crazy shit like whipping out mixing bowls and preheating ovens, anything could be happening. Raging paranoia is a perfectly reasonable reaction."

Still, when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. When life hands you a scone kit with miniature jars of spreadable lemon curd, you make the scones and spread the curd and try not to think too hard about whether your pinky is sticking out when you're washing it down with milk straight from the carton.

(Another reason I'd never make it in proper society. Why dirty all those glasses, just for a quick sip of early morning moo juice? It's not like I have the mouth cooties.

Upper-crusters make things so damned complicated.)

Anyway, this past Sunday I woke up hungry and desperate and with no properly pre-processed food in the house. So I followed the directions (more or less), and made the scones. In the oven. All by myself.

My wife was gobsmacked. And understandably so.

For you see, though I'm a fair fan of several Food Network shows -- Iron Chef, Dinner: Impossible, and Good Eats (obviously) -- my own culinary skillz are sadly lacking. As in non-existent. As in, the only time I would normally step foot into the kitchen is to retrieve the pizza takeout menu.

So I wasn't offended when the missus refused to try a scone until I'd eaten a couple myself. I don't know whether she figured they were physically inedible, or thought I was trying to deliberately poison her. When your husband starts doing crazy shit like whipping out mixing bowls and preheating ovens, anything could be happening. Raging paranoia is a perfectly reasonable reaction.

Eventually, though, she tried a bite. Evidently, she'd never encountered scones, either, because she said:

"Hey, these aren't bad. Scones are sort of like biscuits, huh?"

Oh, dear. That's where my Food Network quasi-knowledge kicked in. I gave my wife a kindly smile and a pat on the head, and proceeded to lay out for her the real culinary genealogy of scones.

Biscuits, I explained in my most professorly tone, are prepared using something called "the biscuit method". But there's also -- as all well-traveled bakers know -- a little procedure called "the muffin method". I gave her a moment to digest these fairly self-evident facts before moving on.

(And also to make sure I hadn't mixed them up in the explanation. Before that morning, remember, my personal breakfast food preparation experience had been limited to "the Pop-Tart method" and "the leftover pasta reheating procedure".)

I went on to assure her, based on the events of the morning, that the preparation of scones clearly bears a far greater resemblence to the latter than the former.

Then she said what I was really hoping she wouldn't: "Okay... why?"

Shit. It's not like I know what the hell the muffin and biscuit methods are -- only that they exist. I was kind of hoping that would be enough for her. But no. She actually can cook, so she was interested in the gory details. Damn my pedantic streak. Now I had to come clean.

"Well... er, hrm. You see, the 'biscuit method', as I learned it years ago, involves, uh, breaking open the can in the fridge and pulling out the raw biscuits to bake. On a baking sheet.

And the 'muffin method' is completely different. There, you... well, you take the bag of muffin mix out of the box, and mix in water and those little blueberry-flavored rabbit turd-looking things, and spoon it into muffin cups. That's the classical 'muffin method'. As taught by Julia Child, I believe. Or maybe Betty Crocker."

She wasn't buying a word, obviously. This was turning into that history essay test I thought I could fake my way through by knowing there was such a thing as the Industrial Revolution. The devil, I discovered, is apparently in the details.

But why quit when I'm behind? I could still back up the original nonsense I pulled out of my ass.

"As you may have noticed, the scones kit consisted chiefly of a bag of scone mix -- to which I added water, and spooned into a pan to bake. Clearly, given the steps in the preparation, the method for making scones is more similar to muffins than biscuits."

I gave her the 'clearly' shrug, to drive home whatever nonsensical point I may have just made. She shook her head sadly and frowned. I shrugged again.

"I mean, clearly."

Nothing. She's a hard woman, that wife of mine. I conceded defeat, as gracefully and nobly as I could.

"Oh, just eat your damned scone, smartypants."

So in the grand scheme of things, I still don't know how the hell to make real scones -- or biscuits, or muffins, or anything else, for that matter. But I did prepare my own Sunday breakfast, and it didn't kill me, and I haven't horked it back up yet. I'd call that a win.

Plus, now the wife is worried I might actually spend time in the kitchen again soon. One more bout of baking 'n' bullshitting, and she'll have the pizza delivery joint on speed dial daily, just to shut me up. I call that little plan my "scone method". Look for it in a cookbook near you.

Just for instance:

"The forecast calls for heavy taunting throughout the afternoon, with a one hundred percent chance of embarrassment overnight and into morning."

Today around noon, a few of us at work were sitting at the office lunch table talking about the blizzard heading our way tonight. One of the guys down the hall arrived late, and nodded as he sat down beside me.

Late Coworker: How's the weather?
Me: Four to six inches, apparently.

Dead silence around the table.

(Female) Coworker at Table: WHAT?
Me: Um, I... what?
Late Coworker: I said, 'How's it hanging?'
Me: Oh. Damn.

*the usual laughing and pointing*

Me: Well. It's a lot less than four-to-six now.

Naturally, the aftermath has been excruciating. People have already stopped by my desk to ask whether I plan on any 'overnight accumulation', whether the 'forecast' depends on how much 'barometric pressure' has built up, and all manner of unspeakable acts involving snow plows, salt trucks, and a Doppler radar dish. One guy even pulled me aside to inform me that the Eskimos have fifty words for it. Frightening.

I suppose it could have been worse. I could have said, 'flurries likely' or 'a squall advisory for travelers'. Or even 'less than an inch and it probably won't stick'. Yes, that would have definitely been worse. Thank goodness there's a Nor'easter on the way, and not just a dusting. I might be getting cracks about 'reduced visibility', to boot.

Meanwhile, my coworkers' cups iceth over with cackling glee. The forecast calls for heavy taunting throughout the afternoon, with a one hundred percent chance of embarrassment overnight and into morning. I'm thinking of calling in sick tomorrow and letting things cool off over the weekend. Call it my own special kind of 'snow day'. Meh.

(For the record, the 'usual' kind of TiVo anxiety usually involves weather reports slipped into the commercial breaks by the local news boobs. Once or twice a week I'll be up late, watching something on the hard drive and neglect to zap through the ads. More often than not, I wind up hearing something like:

'Look out, Boston! Big storm on the way tomorrow! Sleet, snow, plagues of locusts! How bad will it be? Tune in at eleven!!!'

"For every gratuitous palm tree or bikinied ass shot I missed, there were at least three David Caruso patented 'whip off the glasses and smirk' quips I didn't have to hear. So that was a plus."

That's when I get my wife out of bed, shove her and the dog and a week's worth of canned asparagus in the basement, and board up all the windows while shouting, 'Shit, another storm?! We just had a big snow and locust blizzard last week. What are the freaking odds?!?'

Eventually, the missus will sigh, punch up 'Info' on the remote control, and remind me that the show I'm watching was taped last week, before the storm. Then she'll bop me on the forehead with an asparagus can and go back to bed.

Clearly, the woman doesn't understand how traumatizing a tape-delayed weather emergency can be.)

Anyway, the new anxiety is not that kind. Not until the next blizzard hits, anyway.

Instead, it's the kind of anxiety that comes from your favorite household appliance making a loud '*gggggnnnnngggg* *gggrrrrggghhhh*' noise while it's supposed to be doing its job.

Of course, if your 'favorite household appliance' is a device of a more... personal sort, I suppose it would be perfectly normal for it to make that sound while it's 'doing its job'. But my favorite appliance is the TiVo. So, not so much.

(What?

I was talking about espresso makers. What?

Oh, you people are nasty.)

Now I'm worried that the TiVo is about to go on the fritz. I've been down that road before, and it's no freaking picnic. The last unit didn't have the decency to make painful gurgling noises when it was about to croak; it just randomly skipped a few seconds here and there in our favorite shows as it railed against the dying of the light. So we'd be engrossed in the climax of a CSI episode and wind up seeing:

"...so the DNA test clearly shows that the murderer is..."

*fifteen seconds of silent darkness*

"Stay tuned for a preview of next week's episode, which is good... but really, what could beat that blockbuster bombshell you just witnessed, folks? Now, that's once-in-a-lifetime entertainment!"

(On the bright side, watching CSI: Miami was a little easier. For every gratuitous palm tree or bikinied ass shot I missed, there were at least three David Caruso patented 'whip off the glasses and smirk' quips I didn't have to hear. So that was a plus.)

So far, the noise is the only indication our TiVo is thinking of giving up the ghost. The programs haven't been skipping, and I haven't noticed any more smoke than usual coming from behind the TV set. I'm hoping it's just a wonky cable or a loose hamster in the power supply or something. Christmastime is depressing enough without considering being without my three months' worth of Simpsons and Married... with Children reruns. That'd be one big fat lump of stupid coal, there.

Besides, if the TiVo goes, how the hell would I keep up with the weather reports? Those blizzards are sneaky, dammit.

This is in addition to the usual male grooming issues, of course -- keeping the chest hair combed, flossing between the toes, Q-tipping the armpits, all the regular 'guy stuff' we do. And that takes plenty long enough every morning. Especially when you have chest hair as wild and unruly as mine.

"Some people use little bits of toilet paper to clean up after shaving; by the time I'm done I need two cheek tourniquets and a plasma transfusion."

So this new problem has gotten very old very quickly, and here's how it started: For the past couple of years, I've been using an electric shaver to whisk away the facial hair. It doesn't cut as close as a razor blade, perhaps, but it does have the significant advantage of not spilling three pints of blood from my face every morning. Some people use little bits of toilet paper to clean up after shaving; by the time I'm done I need two cheek tourniquets and a plasma transfusion.

The electric shaver, then, is a good idea. And for a long time, the process was just peachy. Swipe the face a few times, rinse the heads, and put the shaver back in its little recharging doohickey. Easy.

Of course, that's when the aforementioned recharging doohickey actually worked. For nearly two years, the fully-charged unit shaved for longer than I ever needed -- up to five minutes or more. The past few weeks? The juice lasts somewhere around twelve seconds. That's barely enough time for a unibrow strafe. What's an ever-hairier, no-beard-wanting doofus to do?

I'll tell you what I do. I shave in twelve-second increments over and over until I've hacked away enough chin scraggle to go to work. Sometimes it takes five sessions, sometimes six or eight, charging in between. So I find myself spending a lot of time leaning on the sink, with one furry and one clean cheek, waiting for the freaking Norelco to charge. I get quite a bit of thinking done that way. And you know what I've been mostly thinking lately?

Massive blood loss and disfiguring facial gashes are starting to sound pretty damned good again. It might not be a painless way to go, but it's better than this 'death by a thousand waits' I'm suffering through now. I swear to god, from the time I start shaving in the morning till when I end, the whiskers actually get grayer.

Dangerous sharp objects and early-morning jitters, here I come. Anybody know where I can score a 'Band-Aid of the Month' subscription?

Up with the sun to prep the turkey for the Thanksgiving Day feast. This year, I told the missus to leave the bird to me. No fussing around in the kitchen this time, sweating over a stove with her arms elbows-deep up a turkey tush. I'm taking care of all the biggies this Thanksgiving -- a nicely brined and grilled whole turkey, butternut squash and sage stuffing, and gravy. Dinner's in twelve hours. Let's cook.

"Pale, dimply and wrinkled, it looked like an overfed shar pei. Or my grandfather's bald head. So much for poetry."

I looked through the kitchen window and saw a slow rolling mist covering the back yard. It was beautiful, conjuring images of majesty and poetry in the early morning light.

Also, it made me have to pee.

After taking care of that, and washing up -- food safety first, kids! -- I took a look at the turkey thawing in the fridge. Pale, dimply and wrinkled, it looked like an overfed shar pei. Or my grandfather's bald head. So much for poetry.

7:21am

The brining recipe called for at least two gallons of liquid, in something called a 'stock pot' or a clean bucket. I'm afraid I wouldn't know the first one if it conked me in the giblets. And the second, well... I have sort of a flexible definition of 'clean', when push comes to shove. But the only bucket I knew of in the house is used for mopping. Or was, sometime during the Clinton administration. And the mop's been stuck in the bottom of it ever since.

Barely dawn, and already time for Plan B. Peachy.

7:48am

I managed to get the brine ingredients all prepped and mixed. I had to increase the recipe by a few fold, and ran a little light on the apples and cinnamon sticks, but I think it'll work out fine, anyway.

My wife shuffled in, bleary-eyed and yawning, just as I was submerging the bird into the liquid.

"Um..."

"Yes, dear?"

"So... why is there a turkey in the bathtub?"

I patiently explained the bit about the 'stock pot' and the mop bucket, and assured her that dinner was well under control. She muttered something about needing a shower and 'better not taste like Tilex', but she was too sleepy to put up much of a fight. The turkey -- that's the bird, not the missus -- thus settled in, I returned to the kitchen.

8:14am

Gravy calls for giblets, which I'm told are some of the little bits you find crammed in your turkeyhole when you bring home a Butterball from the store. The only question is -- which little bits? It wasn't quite gravy-making time yet, but I thought I'd better have a look.

It didn't help.

I laid the little fleshy bits and raw organs out on the counter, but I had no clue what I was staring at. There were some parts that could have been giblets, I guess. One of the bits might have been a cow wang, too, but I wasn't about to make that call. I'm pretty sure it was throbbing, though.

The missus told me later it was the neck. She also told me that all the extra parts are called giblets. But by that point, I had the neck in a pair of tongs, looking for a drum of holy water to dip it into.

Maybe we'll have gravy next year.

9:23am

My wife returns from brushing her teeth to report that the tub turkey is looking 'a little fuzzy'.

"Fuzzy?"

"Sort of hairy, yes. I'm not about to look any closer... but did you clean the bathtub before you put that thing in there?"

"Hmmm. My kind of 'clean', or your kind of 'clean'?"

She sort of stomped off after that, so I went to check on the turkey. It looked fine to me. Some of what she thought were 'hairs' were probably bits of rosemary or apple peel.

And some of the rest were probably hers, anyway. Plus, it's not like they weren't clean hairs; they were in the shower, weren't they?

Jeez. You'd think she was a health inspector or something. It's not like I knocked her loofah into the tub when I went to check. Not as far as she knows, anyway.

10:15am

I forgot the giblets were still on the kitchen counter. I returned to find the dog chewing something that looked like a gas bladder. Do turkeys have gas bladders? Maybe it was a tentacle. What do I know about turkey anatomy?

3:25pm

Returned from the animal hospital, after the vet assured us that since the dog didn't manage to eat the raw turkey bit, the risk of salmonella or other food poisoning is relatively low. The vet also claimed that turkeys don't have gas bladders, or tentacles.

And she was none too impressed with the John Holmes parody I did with the turkey neck. Wife's response to her was:

"How do you think I feel? He's cooking for us today."

The vet gave us a bottle of ipecac as a 'precaution'. I'm pretty sure it wasn't meant for the dog.

3:42pm

Time to fire up the grill for the turkey. The mutt's caper ran us a little off schedule, so I wanted to get the coals running hot as fast as I could. I briefly considered using a touch -- just a touch -- of gasoline from the lawnmower canister to goose things along. But I thought that might make the bird taste a mite... gamy. So I used the lighter fluid, instead.

Rather a lot of lighter fluid.

Seriously. A lot.

You don't need eyebrows to cook, right? I'll pencil something in before the wife even notices they're gone. No problem.

3:57pm

While the coals were incinerating heating, I gathered the ingredients for the stuffing recipe.

Heh. Butternut squashes are kind of funny-shaped. I never noticed that before.

3:58pm

"Hey honey, look at me! I'm John Holmes!"

*sigh*

4:15pm

I lifted our deliciously brined and now slippery turkey out of the bath, taking care not to drop it on the bathroom floor any more than was absolutely necessary. Which turned out to be three times. On the bright side, that probably shook most of the hairs off.

I left the apples and herbs and peppercorns in the tub for my wife. Because girls like taking baths in smelly stuff like that, right? It's on all the shampoo commercials.

As I lugged the turkey out to the grill, I became aware of a teensy logistical snag. The turkey weighed about fourteen pounds, with a wingspan of maybe two and a half feet.

The grill was a rusty little Hibachi I picked up in college, and weighed around three pounds -- with charcoal -- and a radius of maybe sixteen inches. Also, it's missing a leg, so it wobbles a little. That's a lot of turkey. And not so very much Hibachi.

Clearly, I was going to have to trim some parts from the bird to fit it on the grill.

4:18pm

The wings snapped right off. That was easy.

But the turkey's still too big.

4:26pm

Off go the drumsticks. Still too much bird.

4:38pm

Okay, I don't know the technical term for the bit of the bird I just cut out.

So how about I call it 'the bit that keeps the turkey from disintegrating into tiny pieces'. Which are now strewn all over the kitchen table. And much of the far wall.

(The missus informed me later that was the 'sternum'. Huh. Ster-num. Whaddaya know.

I wonder if that's a 'giblet'?)

5:11pm

I managed to salvage a hefty chunk of the turkey breast, plus the drumsticks and some fleshy strips of darkish meat that I can't easily identify. Skin? Feet? Dorsal fins? Whatever.

There's not a lot of meat left, but at least it finally made it to the grill. And it's okay, because there are only two of us. Plus, the coals were mostly dead, so if there was any more to grill, we'd be feasting at three in the fricking morning.

Time to start drinking.

5:25pm

The squashes are split, scooped, and baking in the oven. And I managed it completely incident-free.

I'd call that a win. Another drink to celebrate.

5:31pm

The rest of the stuffing ingredients have to be mixed. I don't think I know where the mixer is. I should probably ask my wife.

Or... I could have another drink and figure it out on my own.

5:42pm

I found the mixer! Yay, me!

Another round, barkeep.

5:51pm

Heeeeey. Lookit them little spinny things go around and around, all fast like that.

I wonder if there oughta be something in the mixing bowl with 'em.

And what smells like squash?

And where'd all the cooking sherry go?

Oh. Right.

Heh.

6:33pm

The missus pulled the charred remains of four butternut squashes from the oven. The other stuffing ingredients were neatly arranged on the counter, next to the abandoned mixer, still stuck on 'Whip'. Meanwhile, I was busy in the back yard, looking under rocks and trees to try to figure out where all the mist went to.

Who really needs stuffing, anyway? The turkey's the star of the show, right?

6:53pm

The three-legged Hibachi finally gives out, toppling over and sending the lid, the charcoal, and the turkey tumbling into the yard. The dog took a break from licking the kitchen wall to pounce on a drumstick and drag it off to a safe place to cool and eat. Probably our bed.

The wife and I managed to find two tiny scraps of meat that weren't crusted with dirt or coal dust, and had a taste. Delicious. If only the other thirteen and three-quarter pounds were still in play, we'd have had one hell of a Thanksgiving feast.

7:40pm

Thank heaven for Burger King. And for a wife who bans me from the kitchen -- but who still lets me finish her French fries. Finally, something to be thankful for.

Happy Thanksgiving, all!)

This should shock none of you who have been reading here regularly. Or ever. Or noticed the picture of myself that I chose to adorn this page. Dumb things and I go together like Howie Mandel and OCD. Thick as thieves, we are.

Anyway, I hurt my back yesterday at work. That's not the dumb thing.

(Though I'm not really sure exactly when I hurt it, or how. So it could well be another dumb thing that I just wasn't paying enough attention to catch.

"Dumb things and I go together like Howie Mandel and OCD. Thick as thieves, we are."

That'd be just like me. Ganking my back moshing in the office or bench-pressing secretaries on a bet, then forgetting all about it. More likely, I picked up a stapler the wrong way and wrenched a disc. I'm a pretty delicate flower, when you get right down to it.)

All I know is, when I got up around three in the afternoon to make a caffeine run, I could barely stand up straight. Or walk. Or shuffle like Igor after a bad stroke down to the vending machine, which is what I ended up doing. Searing spinal pain is one thing, but going a full afternoon in the office without caffeine? Not gonna happen, friend.

I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to baby my back, the way you're supposed to. I took regular breaks to stand (mostly) up and (gingerly) stretch. I sat straight in my chair, more or less, and kept the shoulder slumping and fetal position curling to the bare minimum dictated by the job.

Which is rather a lot, really. But I cut out most of the heavy sobbing, and the rending of sackcloth. That business is tough on the old vertebrae. And I was taking care of myself, dammit.

Then I went to the gym and played two hours of volleyball.

(That's the dumb thing, if you're keeping track at home. Wouldn't want one to slip past you there.)

In my dummy defense, we were playing in a league. And at the start of the night, we had the minimum number of people -- so if I didn't play, my whole team couldn't play. By the middle of the night, a couple of stragglers showed up -- but I was warmed up by then. I'd already broken a sweat. And so long as I didn't run... or jump, or stretch, or fall, or move, or breathe, or any of the other things you have to do to play volleyball, my back didn't hurt. Much. Sometimes. If I didn't think too hard about it.

By the end of the night, I was pretty well crippled. I made it home, driving upright and proper like a charm school-trained debutante with a net pole up her keister. I struggled -- barely -- up the stairs, very carefully peeled off my clothes, and eased into the shower. The piping hot shower, and stayed there for a really long time.

So long, in fact, that my wife came to see if I'd fallen or something. Which is odd, because I hadn't had a chance to tell her about my back yet. Evidently, she was working on her laptop a couple of rooms away and the shower steam was fogging up her screen. Either that, or the pitiful groans finally caught her attention. Probably thought we had a zombie infestation in the shower. Or bathroom banshees. Something perfectly reasonable like that.

At any rate, she poked her head in to check on me -- and saw me, bent over away from the shower head with my palms on the wall, whimpering softly while screaming hot water poured onto my lower back. The heat and the bending and the steam were really helping; for the first time in hours, my back felt almost right.

But it looked oh so wrong.

At least, it must have. Because she stood there for a full thirty seconds, not quite knowing what to say. I managed to look up at her -- but I wasn't thinking what she might have been thinking at that point, so I didn't explain myself. And I was in no condition to move. Finally, she cocked her head a bit and said:

'So. You hurt your back again... right?'

'Umm-hmm.'

'Oh, thank goodness. Take some aspirin when you're done. I'm going to bed.'

I didn't tell her that I'd hurt it before the trip to the gym. Not yet. I figured she had enough unpleasant thoughts about me running through her head just then, so I put my head down and stayed under the water a while longer. When I felt I'd mustered the resolve to slog all the way to the bedroom, I got out, got dressed, and settled in beside her for a long night's uncomfortable squirming.

If past injury is any indication, I'll be paying for this gaffe for another three or four days -- assuming the dog doesn't trip me down the stairs or I don't take a header on a pine cone on the front walk.

And I'm giving up bench-pressing office staff, until at least December. I may lose a few bets, sure. But it's time I wised up and did something smart, for once.

(Aw, hell. Maybe just one admin assistant, for Thanksgiving, if the odds are good enough. They're small, right? What's the worst that could happen?)