Micah and I are out for a drink.

Micah: What did you do today?
Me: Scent of a Woman was on. I watched it.
Micah: Booya!
Me: (confused) I'm sorry?
Micah: Booya! ...Isn't that what Al Pacino says in that movie? Booya?
Me: Um, I think you're thinking of "hoo-ah!"
Micah: Oh. Right.

But imagine what a movie it would have been if a blind Al Pacino had been walking around yelling "Booya!"

The other night Stephanie and I pondered the important things in life.

Steph: So you don't like cowboy boots?
Me: Nope.
Steph: Me neither. But everyone has them now.
Me: What's up with that?
Steph: It's like, Jessica Simpson wears them in a movie and suddenly the whole world has to start wearing them.
Me: So if Jessica Simpson jumped off a bridge-
Steph: The world would be a better place.

Ba dum, ching!

A few days ago I posted this over at Subcrawl. Then, after writing it, I thought to myself, "Hmm, maybe that's why I saw that shopping cart sitting lost at the corner of Oakdale and Pine Grove last week."

Several days after posting about H I received an e-mail from her. She confessed that she felt bad about the way she treated me in high school. I confessed that I didn't remember half the stuff she was talking about.

Nevertheless, she's invited me out for a drink and we're meeting later this week. Several friends have offered their theories as to why H wants to meet me for a drink. Those theories include (but are not limited to):

a) She's just looking to make some friends now that she's moved to Chicago.
b) She's realized that the guys who were nerds in high school turn out to be 'really hot' later on.
c) "What if she saw that episode of One Tree Hill a couple weeks ago where they're all mean to this guy and then he brings a gun to school?!" (Riveting, but I highly doubt it. Thanks Nicole)
d) She's in Alcoholics Anonymous and she's on step 9: Forgiveness.

Though if she were a recovering alcoholic, why would she suggest we meet up for a drink? Hmmm.

A couple hours before I'm supposed to go on a date, Kami and I come up with a list of things to say that would get me out of the date early, if need be. They include:

"I have raging diarrhea."
"I just remembered I have herpes."
"Do you have a brother?"
"I like the fact that you're not too good looking."
"Is it okay if my girlfriend meets us at 8?"
"So, um, is your friend Becky into threesomes, or...?"
"How do you feel about incest?"
"Speaking of careers in the porn industry: Funny story..."
"Wait, they're real?"
"Did somebody leave the door open or is that just your personality?"
"I love you."

Feel free to use any of these lines if you need to get out of a date. You can thank Kami and I later.

Has anyone ever seen Date My Mom? It's this show on MTV where teen and 20-something guys go on dates with 3 moms, and decide which of their daughters to date based on how the dates with the mom goes.

Besides the concept being disturbing on several levels, the episode I stumbled upon was downright terrifying. First the guy took the mom to a shooting range to see how well she would do with handling a gun. Charming!

Then the 20-something, who looked like he was doing his best Seann William Scott impression, tells us that "Moms are just hotties with stretchmarks!"

Does anyone else miss the days when MTV had good, er, well...oh who am I kidding. Like watching Kevin Seal injure himself while water skiing was really "better" television.

The other night I'm walking down Halsted during a particularly bad thunderstorm. In the course of one minute my umbrella is blown inside out five times.

In a moment of rage I take my umbrella and begin beating it against the brick wall I'm standing next to. Over and over again, I wail my umbrella against the brick until it's just a broken and bent pile of metal and fabric.

I let out a sigh and look up to see a Guitar Center employee on his smoke break, standing in the rain, staring at me with a look of confusion and fear.

I instantly think of the scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade when Indy, dressed as a zeppelin ticket-taker, throws a Nazi off the zepplin and, when he gets the same look the Guitar Center employee is giving me, shrugs and says, "No ticket," causing all the passengers to quickly hold up their tickets.

Indy wasn't crazy, and neither am I. I drop my former umbrella into the next trashcan I pass and continue my walk home soaked, but content.

Today Dina (a former CPRer in her own way) let me know about this blog: Chicago Public Radio at SxSW.

The blog is a chronicle by Roman Mars, a producer for Re:Sound, who has hightailed it down to Texas for South by South West. Let's see what happens, shall we?

Yesterday I arrive at the gym and get on the last open elliptical machine, which happens to be next to a pregnant woman. Just after I get on, another pregnant woman walks over and begins talking to the one working out next to me. I suddenly think, "Did that pregnant woman want this machine? Are they pregnant workout buddies? Did I just mess up their plan?"

I know you're supposed to give up your seat on the bus or the train to a pregnant woman, but are you obligated to give up your machine at the gym to a pregnant woman?

"So what have you done today?" Dina asks me. "I've accomplished nothing," I tell her. "Nothing?" she asks. "Well not nothing." I pause. "But nothing of value to anyone but me." Dina's voice gets a worried tone, and she asks, "Are you taking more Friendster photos?"

I assure her that I'm not, but I don't admit to what I'm actually doing. The truth is that I'm working on a project. Much the way that Presidents will publish their letters with other famous people after they leave office (Reagan wrote a letter to Bob Woodward?! Great!), I decided that I should publish my e-mails with my pal Leah over our love of the Fox show 24.

So please, go, read about the love that Leah and I share for 24.

[note: this will only be interesting to those who actually watch 24. if even those people.]

I tell Bernadette that I have a date tomorrow night and I need suggestions on restaurants.

Bern: Well tell me something about her.
Me: She's a vegetarian.
Bern: ...Oh.
Me: Don't say it like that.
Bern: Say it like what?
Me: (imitating Bernadette) ...Oh.
Bern: Saying your a vegetarian is like saying you have an STD.
Me: No, actually saying you're a vegetarian is nothing like saying you have an STD.
Bern: First off, everyone responds the same way: ...Oh.
Me: That's not true.
Bern: You know it is. Second off, no one knows exactly how to take it. "What exactly is that disease? How do you pass it? Can it be treated?"
Me: Oh geez.
Bern: Likewise, vegetarian questions arise. "What kind of vegetarian are you? What exactly can you eat? Can it be treated?"
Me: Cut it out.
Bern: (reflective pause) Remember when we were vegetarians?
Me: Yeah.
Bern: We should do that again.
Me: Well I can't now. If I see this girl again it'll look like I'm just doing it for her, and I don't want to be that guy.
Bern: C'mon, it's be fun.
Me: No.
Bern: Boca burgers.
Me: No!
Bern: Boca wings!
Me: (sigh)

The other day I was talking to a friend of mine who, for the sake of all involved, prefers that she, her coworker, and the band he was in, remain nameless.

F: Yesterday I casually mentioned to my retired rockstar manager that I had been to a comic book convention. He stopped walking. In the middle of the store. Turned, and laughed.
Me: (after "retired rockstar manager" I stop listening to her story). Retired rockstar manager?
F: Yes. Retired rockstar.
Me: Who is he?
F: (name I'm not allowed to repeat here).
Me: From (band I'm not allowed to repeat here, but trust me, it's a very famous 80's band)?!
F: ...Yes.
Me: Get out of town! You work with a member of (again, I'm not allowed to say the name of the band)!?
F: Retired. Rockstar. Now my manager.
Me: Wow. That's...wow.
F: I can't believe you've heard of (they're 80's icons!).
Me: You mean you haven't heard of them?!
F: No.
Me: Sigh.

It's like if I was working with Morten Harket from a-ha and never realized it.

This morning on the phone, my sister is telling me how my nephew is growing up so fast.

"The other day I caught him singing along to this song on the radio," she tells me. "And he was singing about how he was sorry for all the things he had done, and sorry for the life he was living."

He may only be 5, but Christopher has lived one hard life.

Last night, after a few late-night drinks, Bernadette comes back to my place for pizza and #1 Single. As my elevator is broken, we were forced to use the old doorman-operated skeleton elevator. As the doorman follows Bernadette and I into the elevator she realizes she's never met this doorman before.

Bern: (turning to me and putting on a faux-ditzy voice) So this is your building, huh?
Me: (shooting her a cold, angry look).
Doorman: What floor?
Me: (from between clenched teeth) Eight.
Bern: (sapping up the voice even more) This is reeeaaally nice.
Me: (under my breath) Stop it.
Bern: So...how long have you lived here?
Me: Stop. It.
Doorman: Eight. (the door opens).

Once we're safely into my apartment I tell Bernadette I hate her. "I was going to do so much more," she tells me. "I know," I admit, "that's why I was curbing you while I could." Bernadette sighs. "You usually love that kind of stuff!" "True," I say, "but I have to live here."

Besides, this is the new doorman who reads the Bible while he's standing around. Last thing I want is for him to think I'm covered in sin.

The other day I'm on the phone with mom. "I gave your e-mail address out to somebody today," she tells me. Anxiety stirs in my stomach. "To who?" I ask. She tells me that a friend of hers asked for it to give to a girl I went to high school with. I groan inwardly.

For the most part I don't like to talk to people from high school. I run into them awkwardly on the street back in the town where I grew up. They pretend to be curious about what I'm up to, and I return the favor. It's awkward conversation for a few minutes and then we both move on. I'm curious who the person who actually wants to get in contact with me is.

"H," my mom says, unsure if she's giving me the right name. "H wanted my e-mail?" I say, confused. Mom asks, "Do you remember her?" I tell her I remember asking H to homecoming and getting turned down. "Well maybe she wants to make it up to you," mom says. I laugh. "Yeah, six years later."

H wanted my e-mail? Who knows what I can expect.

The other day I'm in a weird mood, and I'm talking trash to Bernadette.

"Watch it there J," Bernadette warns me. "You're mouth is writing checks your ass can't cash.
"For you information," I tell her, "my ass has overdraft protection."