4:58

That's what time it is. And according to the high-tech countdown clock to my right, only 4 hours and 2 min remaining until this Super (not so) Secret Desert Baseball Fun Retreat begins. However, my vacation starts right now (now = 4:59). A little early (although not quite as early as my roomate's which started this morning at 11:37AM when he was doing the walk of shame home from a lady friend's house to our apartment in his business suit). Anyway, I'm leaving for Vegas. I hope to have many hysterical and embarassing stories for you when I return on Tuesday (hopefully they don't involve me and money loss, or Kirk and homosexuals).

See ya. Love you. ;)

Trent

Are you an Asshole?

Knowing you people I am guessing that most of you would say, "No, of course I'm not an asshole. You are an asshole for insinuating such a horrible thing." And some of you (Celine) would be right, but I am guessing you all think a little too highly of yourself.

I was reading an article about Asshole bosses and co-workers (in the article they had to say "jerks" because apparently you can't write the word asshole in the mainstream media) and it linked to a site where you can test yourself to determine if you are an asshole. The saying goes that there is one in every office and if you don't know who it is then its probably you.

So I took the test and scored a 2 (where anything over 15 means you are a certified asshole). A good low score that according to the test means "You don’t sound like a certified asshole, unless you are fooling yourself." I don't think I'm fooling myself, of course I work in a small office where everyone is either my direct boss or works directly for me so I don't have any peers to which I might be an asshole. I could be an asshole to my secretary I suppose, but I wouldn't do that so I think my score was right on. I can confidently say that I am not an asshole...at work.

As I was talking the test I kept thinking, of course I wouldn't act like that to people I work with, but to Pushpop...? You're damn straight I would act like that to Pushpop so I took the test again with how I act with my friends in mind.

Now, I am proud to say that the results were not nearly as bad as I thought. Of course I scored much higher with a strong 11 meaning "You sound like a borderline certified asshole, perhaps the time has come to start changing your behavior before it gets worse." It could have been much worse, I assumed that I would be a certified asshole on the retake but apparently I'm not as much of an asshole as I thought. This thing says to change before it gets worse, but it seems to me like I have at least 4 more points until I am a certified asshole so I am good to go.

One that I thought was particularly funny was "You enjoy lobbing "innocent" comments into meetings that serve no purpose other than to humiliate or cause discomfort to the person on the receiving end." Of course you have to substitute "meeting" with "gathering of friends or other social scenario" but you get the point. I think that was the first one that got me and I have to admit that I do enjoy that. That alone probably makes me a certified asshole but according to the test I am ok for now.

There a bunch of asshole things that you would never do at work, but are pretty funny and true when you apply them to your social life. Some are just evil so I don't think I know anyone who could score 100% but it is a possibility... you just never know how evil some of you assholes are. The test is here, lets see how you do.

Vegas Weather Report: Friday- 77, Saturday-84, Sunday-86, sunny all three days.

SSDBFR countdown to flight takeoff: 2 days, 4 hours

St. Patrick's Day tidbits

Fried egg cheeseburgers are one of the best foods on earth. Especially if you get it with bacon.

Riding the el drunk is not nearly as fun as it should be, but it is still much more fun that riding the "L" sober.

We went downtown around 2pm, the river, oddly enough, was green, but more like the swamp green that it always then the kelly green that it was supposed to. Quite a mystery.

Don't comment that a generally skinny girl has a gut in front of a woman. They find this particularly offensive, although you can make sun of random girls for almost anything else including cloths, hair and even bad teeth.

Apparently Wrightwood Tap does not let its customers drink canned beer which was brought in from outside. If you do this, you will be asked to leave. But, apparently it is ok to have an orgy on the couch in back. That is no problem I guess.

Lincoln Tap is a dark and weird bar.

It is funny when at 8 o'clock in the evening the Burrito Place on Addison is packed with drunks like it's 3am.

And in answer to your question, I got a huevos y chorizo burrito and it was delicious

News of the Weird

Woody Harrelson's dad was a convicted hitman who killed a federal judge. Makes you feel a whole lot better about your family.

The Parade and River Dyeing

This year's 52nd annual parade starts at noon Saturday at Balbo Street and Columbus Drive, continuing north on Columbus. A viewing stand will be at Buckingham Fountain.

The Chicago River will be dyed at 10:45 a.m. The best place to see the river dyeing is at Michigan and Wacker. Of course, according to Shitbox's schedule we probably won't be downtown that early.

This spectacular transformation ranks right up there with the parting of the sea by Moses and the Pyramids of Egypt. For the past 43 years the Chicago River turns green for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade celebration. One would ask how this is different from the rest of the year when the river is always a murky shade of green. The difference is both significant and breathtaking because the color green is identical to the greens of Ireland from where it got its name “The Emerald Isle.”

In 1961 Stephen Bailey was approached by a plumber who was wearing some white coveralls, they knew this only because they could see some of the original color. These coveralls had been mostly stained or dyed a perfect shade of green, an Irish green to better describe it. It was when Stephen Bailey asked how the coveralls got this way, that they discovered that the dye used to detect leaks into the river turned green, not just any color green, but the perfect color green. “A tradition is born”

Today this miracle belongs to Mike Butler and his crew, which he claims to always have a little help from a leprechaun who seems to just appear at this time each year. If you were watching this for the first time you would think this is a mistake or a bad joke. You see the dye is orange and its initial color on the surface of the river is orange and you would think to yourself what heathen would do something like this. After a moment or two you then see the true color magically appear.

Two miracles appear that day, the river turns a perfect shade of green something that many other cities have tried but have not been successful at doing, and the second miracle by starting with the color orange giving the impression that river will be orange only to convert the river to that true Irish green. We believe that is where the leprechaun comes in.

As the late Stephen Bailey has said, the road from Chicago to Ireland is marked in green. From the Chicago River to the Illinois River, then to the Mississippi, up the Gulf Stream and across the Atlantic you can see the beautiful green enter the Irish Sea, clearly marking the way from Chicago to Ireland.

See you Saturday at Ryan and Mikes for a morning toast. Dress to impress and to not freeze your ass off because there will be a lot of outdoor time. Also be there or be square.

Cool Random Chicago St. Pat's Day Fact: Green River is a bright green, lime-flavored soft drink originating in Chicago and was named after the "Green River" that can be seen once a year on St. Patrick's Day, when the Chicago River is dyed green.

Update

Hi there. I would just like to send over my personal apology for the lack of rich, entertaining, Fremonteer content over the past week or so. I think I'm not alone when I say we've all been a little overwhelmed with St. Patrick's day plans, countdowns to the SSDBFR (only 13 days now by the way), and this nonsense-to awesome-back to nonsense weather we're having. While you may see less action on the Fremonteer as summer nears, and people decide to go to Cubs games more (instead of going into work and doing responsible things like post to the blog), I assure you that a little bit of Fremont still flows strong through our blood. We may soon be entering a debate on which weekend will work best for this year's magical journey to Fremont (what many would consider the homeland of their soul). Before the 4th? After the 4th? Does it really matter? What's important is that we're spending some quality time together drinking cheap beer, endangering the lives of others, coining new nicknames, angering girlfriends, and giving the townie girls a little bit of love.

I would now like to invite all Fremonteers and Hallowieners alike to 3510 N Sheffield this Saturday at 9AM for nothing short of glorious celebration, and good times.

I hope you enjoyed this totally pointless rambling.

Love,
(s)Hitbox


And now, some before seen pictures:

Vegas Baby

This is a great Vegas article to get us a little pumped up for the SSDBFR. I unfortounately did not write a word of it, which makes sense because I don't know any of the people mentioned in the article. It is a Bill Simmons article that needed to be reprinted here. I tried to cut it down some because it is long, but its not like you have anything better to do.

Destructive things with No Guilt

By Bill Simmons

I don't care how old you get ... there isn't a better internet moment then receiving that first e-mail with "Vegas?" in the subject heading. It's right up there with "Calvin Murphy had 14 kids?!?!?!?!?!?!?!" and "Paris Hilton MPEG -- not safe for work!" Puts a hop in your step for the rest of the day.

Vegas becomes the great equalizer. There's always that first glorious stretch with everyone sitting at the same blackjack table, throwing down drinks, cracking worn-out jokes and busting chops, when you realize that nothing has changed. Thank God.

And that's the danger with Vegas: If everyone loves Vegas, and everyone goes there ... well, what's fun about that?

One problem: Those "Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" ads, maybe the biggest head-scratcher in advertising history. Why would anyone ever inflict that much needless tension on their demographic? Were they appealing to adulterers? Druggies? Strip joint stalkers? Snuff film producers? Were we supposed to think to ourselves, "You know, I wasn't gonna go, but I didn't realize I could do morally destructive things with no repercussions -- book me a plane ticket!"

And don't get me started on the ramifications of these ads with wives and girlfriends across the country, many of whom were already insane to begin with. For instance, right as I was leaving for my latest trip -- staying at the Hard Rock this time, on the way to the airport, plane ticket in my hands -- the Sports Gal smiled and told me, "And don't think I don't know that the Paradise (a strip club) is right across the street from the Hard Rock."

She slipped that sucker in like a Tommy Hearns right cross. And while I was hemming and hawing, she followed with this uppercut: "Hey, whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?" Great ad campaign. Thanks, guys.

Here's the point: You can't stereotype Vegas with a slogan, especially a misleading one. The little nuances make Vegas special. Like climbing into a cab and having the driver tell you, "They call me the Catwoman." Gambling at a $15 table, looking up and seeing a random celeb like Cobi Jones walking by. Wincing as your friend says, "I just banged the UConn women," then realizing he was talking about a sports wager. Hearing the roars from a sports book that's been split in half -- one side for Oklahoma State, the other for St. Joe's, with the lead changing on every basket.

Best of all, there are days like Saturday, March 27, 2004.

Without further ado ...

Saturday morning, 9:45 a.m.We're coming off a late-night gambling binge at the Hard Rock, one of those scary nights where you wake up in the same clothes -- on top of the covers, spooning the "Late Night Food" menu, reeking of cigarettes and spilled beer, praying your wallet is sitting on the nightstand.

Maybe you've been there. Your tongue feels like a piece of dry steak. You can see your breath. Your complimentary $7 bottled water has been mysteriously polished off; and you don't know whether to blame your roommate or yourself. You blink a few times to make sure your contacts aren't still in your eyes, then you say another prayer that they made it into their case.

That's me. All of it.

Now Bish and I are laying in our respective beds, searching for a stray SportsCenter on TV. Back in the days of four-to-a-room, Bish and I mastered the art of "sleeping in the same bed without touching one another." These days, we can afford our own beds. Trust me, it's a big thing.

"You make any money last night?" Bish asks.

"I dunno. I don't think so."

Curious, I reach into my front jeans pocket ... and pull out four $100 chips. Good times. I started out with $300. This much I remember.

"Somehow I made a hundred bucks," I tell Bish.

He makes the DeNiro Face, turning his mouth upside down, nodding up and down, mildy impressed.

"Vegas," he says.

"Vegas," I reply.

Saturday morning, 11:30 a.m. On the Unintentional Comedy Scale, few things can top Saturday morning breakfasts in Vegas -- just tables and tables of hungover guys looking like holy hell, throwing down food and telling inane gambling stories from the previous night. If the "World Series of Poker" can be televised, then this should be its own show -- "Breakfasts In Vegas" -- with waitresses wearing HelmetCams, sideline reporters and everything else. Like you wouldn't watch.

As we recapped Friday night's events, we realized that everything -- and by "everything," I mean "the debilitating drunkenness" -- was Hopper's fault. He kept ordering a made-up drink called the "Diver Down" (Corona topped off with a shot of Bacardi Limon). We all followed suit, and that damned drink became the main reason we could barely remember our 10:15 p.m. dinner at A.J.'s Steakhouse.

Why eat dinner so late? Because they wouldn't seat us right away, thanks to Geoff, who was wearing a Vikings t-shirt with khaki shorts. This is one of the rules of Vegas -- at any and all times, someone in your group should remain under-dressed to cut your options in half. Geoff has been filling this role beautifully for more than a decade, consistently dressing like a tourist from Eastern Europe.

Upon further review, the whole night was a debacle; everyone lost money but me ... and I was in the roughest shape. Two Red Bull and Vodkas = fine. Four Red Bull and Vodkas = not fine. Four Red Bull and Vodkas, multiple Diver Downs and a half-pack of cigarettes = genuinely unhappy, possibly life-threatening. My heart was pounding all night. Terrible times. I was an extra 100 pounds and one hooker away from re-enacting the last 15 minutes of Chris Farley's "E! True Hollywood Story."

"Here's my game plan for today," I announce. "A few Bloody Marys early. Maybe a mixed drink or two. And then beer for the rest of the night. No Red Bull, no Diver Downs, and DEFINITELY no cigarettes."

Hopper stares me down. It's tough to take him seriously with his beard -- he looks like Harrison Ford at the beginning of "The Fugitive, to the point that we were screaming "You find that man!" at him for most of Friday night -- but it seems like he has something important to say. His eyes narrow.

"You'll be smoking by two," he predicts. "Guaranteed."

"Thanks for your confidence, Dr. Kimble," I tell him.

Saturday afternoon, 12:30 p.m. We finish breakfast, make some ill-advised NCAA bets, grab two cabs and head to the Strip -- our annual tradition where we walk around and gamble in as many casinos as possible. It's a crucial time of the day. Build a nest egg here and you're playing with house money for the rest of the weekend. Take an early beating and you're the "Third Man In the Porn Scene" by nightfall. (I'll explain later.)

As always, there are rules for Saturday gambling. These rules unfold over time, always from experience, almost like recipes in a cookbook. You gamble, you make mistakes, you learn. If you fail to obey the rules, in the words of Ivan Drago, you vill lose. And I've mentioned some of them before in this space, but they're worth mentioning again:

1. Know exactly how much you're prepared to lose when you sit down. I mean, exactly. It's your "Worst-case Scenario" figure. You don't even have to tell anyone what it is.

2. If you're getting killed at one casino, leave treadmarks and head to another.

3. If you don't like the way other people are playing at the table, or if you're getting a bad vibe from the dealer, just find another table. It's that easy.

4. Pace yourself. You know the old saying, "It's a marathon, not a sprint"? Well, Saturday gambling is like a triathlon. Just make sure you don't pull a Julie Moss.

Our first stop: The Venetian. Happy place. Pleasant dealers. Very few automatic shuffling machines (the root of all evil in Vegas). And just as we arrive, they're opening up a group of four $15 tables, which means we have a table all to ourselves.

There's only one catch ... they already have their bullpen of closers warming up.

See, we like friendly dealers, people who interact with us and want us to win, people with a vested interest in keeping the right table happy. We tip these people and everything works out just dandy. But casinos don't like friendly dealers as much -- they want us to lose money. So they find dealers who barely speak English, deal cards at staggering paces, and are typically as friendly as a heart attack. If you're feeling courageous, you take them on ... and then you leave the batter's box 15 minutes later, muttering to yourself.

We call them "closers." I mention this only because the Venetian has Mariano Rivera, Troy Percival, Keith Foulke and Billy Wagner warming up. There isn't a Heathcliff Slocumb to be seen.

"What do we do?" Geoff asks. He's terrified.

"Let's give it a whirl," Hopper suggests. "At least we'll all be at the same table."

(Note: When "At least we'll all be at the same table" is the deciding reason to sit down at a blackjack table, this is NEVER a good sign.)

We sit down at a $15 table with a female dealer from Hong Kong. We watch her shuffle six decks of cards as we order Bloody Marys. Life is good. And then the cards come ... And she deals herself blackjack on the first hand ... (Run! Run!) And she wins the first six hands ...
(For God's sake, get the hell out of there!)

And then the Venetian makes a pitching change -- inexplicable! -- as Mikey announces, "Wow, they're going lefty-righty on us." Our luck doesn't change. I'm sitting at 0-7-1 after eight hands. The righty-lefty combo haven't busted yet -- two 21s, three 20s, two 19s and a 17. It's like watching a combined no-hitter -- I keep waiting for Rollie Fingers and Blue Moon Odom to show up.

On my last hurrah, I double down on "11" against her "6," then jump from my seat and walk away from the table. Everyone looks confused.

"I'm stepping out of the batter's box on her," I explain.

That gets a good laugh. Of course, she doesn't crack a smile. She ends up dealing me a seven. Eighteen. And if you don't know what happens next ... well, you've obviously never been to Vegas.

Saturday afternoon, 1:45 p.m. We're fleeing the Venetian like it's on fire. It turned into a financial bloodbath of Chuck Wepner proportions. Everybody lost; two people even reached into the wallet for seconds. Now we're walking down the Strip to the Monte Carlo -- an old standby -- and trying to regroup. I'm down $200 for the day and feel like I just got run over by Halle Berry. At least until I notice the Siegfried and Roy billboard in front of the Mirage.
You may remember this story: Back in the mid-'90s during a similar walk, I jokingly asked, "Are those guys gay?" and Bish replied, "Actually, I think they are."

He was dead serious. It may have been the greatest moment in Vegas history. Bish could be 95 and we would still remind him about it. And since that billboard was funny to begin with -- I mean, have you SEEN that thing? -- just seeing it always turns into one of the highlights of every Vegas trip. Never fails to make us laugh.

Now we're making fun of Bish. Again. We aren't officially in Vegas until we see the Siegfred and Roy sign, as Bish stands there with a dumb smile saying, "Come on, let's hear it." It's tradition. We're refueled and ready to gamble again ... thanks to two gay magicians.

(Sad note: Little did we know, it was our last glimpse of the billboard. Just three days later, the Mirage took it down for good. True story. I haven't felt this depressed since they knocked down the Boston Garden. Who knew that a simple billboard could mean so much?)

Saturday afternoon, 2:45 p.m. As Hopper predicted, I'm already puffing on a cigarette. Just shoot me. The six of us are battling at different tables at the Monte Carlo, a place that always brought luck in the past. Not today. Everything feels wrong. After losing another $50 -- bringing me to minus-$250 for the day -- Geoff and I take one of those "killing time" strolls around the casino.

And then we see it ...

A "Rocky" slot machine.

"Come on, we have to," Geoff says. Twist my arm. We put two dollars in. Every time we play a five-cent hand, the Rocky music starts. We can't buy a win. Suddenly we're down to our last few pulls. I'm reeling. Not even Rocky can get me going.

"Should we put more money in?" I ask Geoff.

He does his best Adrian impression: "You can't win!"

"I never asked you to stop being a woman," I fire back. "Don't ask me to stop being a gambler."
"You can't win!"

And I couldn't. Two more dollars down the drain. Sadly, I couldn't climb into my Lamborghini and drive 100 miles an hour while shifting 40 times.

There's no easy way out ...there's no shortcut home ...

Saturday afternoon, 4:30 p.m. We limp back to the rejuvenated Hard Rock, a place that literally oozes Vegas: Jovial dealers, random celebrities, pounding music, those special moments when two bimbos strut back from the pool as even the dealers stare them down in disbelief. Did I mention the outdoor blackjack tables by the pool? Can you play blackjack surrounded by scantily-clad women and shirtless meatheads? It's like a science experiment.

We stay inside. As our friends descend on the tables, Geoff and I break to monitor some hoop wagers. Within an hour, I'm down another $100 ($350 for the afternoon), one more blackjack beating from reaching my Worst-Case Scenario Limit for the day.

Now I'm killing time and cheering my buddies, carefully observing the "No running commentaries if you're not playing," "Stay at least four feet away" and "Don't touch anyone's chair" rules. Ever see a porn scene when an actress works with multiple partners, and she ends up settling on two of them while the third guy basically stands next to the action and keeps busy, hoping for a call that never comes? And you have no idea why he's there in the first place?
Well, that's me. I'm the proverbial "Third guy in the porn scene." And I'm watching the table catch fire. Two beefy, tattooed lookalikes are winning practically every hand. Hopper is cruising along, stacking banks of $100 chips like he's playing poker. Butz and Mikey are cleaning up. Only Bish seems to be treading water.

Meanwhile, dealer Luis is cracking jokes, shelling out advice and having a grand old time. We keep glancing to the Hard Rock bullpen ... no action. It's inexplicable. The beefy guy on third base (Lumpy) keeps pulling off blackjacks and double downs every other hand. He isn't even reacting -- he's either hammered, brain-dead or in shock. Two of his friends stand behind him, holding Hard Rock shopping bags, waiting to head back to their casino. But Lumpy can't lose. Nobody can lose.

Finally, Lumpy cashes in. At least three grand. Doesn't phase him. As he and his friend budge from their chairs, Geoff and I leapfrog across the table like Kurt Thomas in "Gymkata." You always want to take over a hot seat in Vegas. Always.

Luis waits for them to leave, then springs this one on us: "That guy never played blackjack before."

"Lumpy? The guy who won all the money?"

"Never played before in his life. Ever."

You couldn't make this stuff up.

Now the drinks are flying. So are the wisecracks. I'm making back money at an alarming rate. With five stacks of $100 chips in front of him, Hopper looks like a kid in a candy store, only if that kid had Dr. Kimble's beard. Mikey and Butz are still cruising along. There's still no action in the Hard Rock bullpen, even with everyone winning and laughing. Luis and Geoff are even trading "Scarface" lines, with Geoff following every blackjack by screaming things like, "I can't even have a baby with you, Luis, your WOMB is so POLLUTED ..."

Only Bish is losing at first base -- he can't buy a break. During one hand, Luis forgets to deal him in ... then promptly busts as everyone wins money. It's uncanny.

"I think I'm getting up," Bish mutters.

"No!" Hopper screams. "You can't! Table karma!"

Bish stays. You know why? Because he should. In Vegas, what comes around goes around. And maybe Bish got smoked this time around -- to the point that he had a giant salad fork sticking out of him by 11:30, done for the weekend -- but the next time, the Gambling Gods will reward him.

And if that doesn't make sense to you ... well, you've never been to Vegas.

Saturday night, 9:15 p.m. We just realized something: the Hard Rock is being managed by Grady Little.

That has to be the case, right? Why wouldn't they use their bullpen to stop our rally? Not that we're complaining. It's been an unprecedented, historic run -- when was the last time five friends won huge at the same table? Sure, poor Bish is standing four feet away, waiting for the fluffer to come by. Doesn't matter. Five out of six ... you'll take those odds any day. Bish understands. Even if he's currently catatonic.

I'm up $550 at the table, $200 for the day. And I'm doing the worst out of anyone. Two pit bosses stand near our table, sending evil vibes and trying to cool us off. Doesn't work. We're openly mocking them. We make such a dent in their chip rack that they have to bring in a whole new stack of $25s and $100s (always a moral victory). We're making "Uh-oh, they just turned the overhead camera on!" and "What time do we have to be back at MIT?" jokes. It's a party.
And then it happens.

During a shuffle, the Hard Rock's gaming host introduces himself to Hopper, sweet-talks him, hands him a card. These are the things that happen when you're gambling $100 and $200 a hand for five straight hours -- Hopper even had a passing hooker rub her crotch against his right elbow. At least we think she was a hooker. You never know at the Hard Rock.

Anyway, at the rate he's going, Hopper has already gotten his room comped, as well as Saturday's breakfast and Friday's dinner. Nobody looks happier than Mike, who just happens to be staying in Hopper's room. We immediately decide to hold a lottery draft for roommates next time around. Winner gets to stay with Hopper.

Meanwhile, Hopper and the gaming host are deep in conversation. They shake hands and the guy disappears.

"We're going to Nobu for dinner," Hopper says. "10 o'clock."

Only one of the most famous sushi places in the country. You don't just get in to Nobu. This is virgin territory. As recently as four years ago, we were sleeping four to a room. Now we're about to dine with the big boys.

We gamble for another 45 minutes, then head over to Nobu, where we promptly have one of the 10 best meals of anyone's life. The food keeps coming and coming -- sushi, kobe beef, lobster salad ... it's a murderer's row. We toast Hopper at least 1,200 times. It's like a scene from one of those action movies where everything's going great for the first 30 minutes, and then bad things start happening to the good guys ... but before it happens, they throw in the happy dinner montage. That was us.

Eventually, we head back to the tables for more blackjack. The numbers dwindle over time. We lose Bish first. He's a shell. None of us can even make eye contact with him. "He'll be back," I tell the others, one of those Larry Merchant comments, like I'm talking about a boxer who just got pummelled.

Geoff is next. Then Hopper, who sees no point in staying in the game when he's already hit five home runs. He takes himself out to a standing O.

By the end of the night, it's just me, Mikey and Butz. I'm betting $25 a hand, my fortunes rising and falling from shuffle to shuffle. Butz can barely see. I'm right there with him -- my contacts are covering my eyes like Ty Law. I'm drinking whiskey and smoking two cigs at a time, like I turned into Marge Schott. Only Mikey seems relatively coherent.

"Dude, it's 4:15," he tells us. Four fifteen???

Butz groans: "I have a 6 a.m. wakeup call."

He's taking a 7:30 a.m. flight back to San Fran. Just over three hours away. We wait for him to make the call. Hey, we've all made money tonight. There's no reason to keep gambling. None.

"Screw it," Butz says. "Let's keep going."

Vegas, baby.

Vegas.

Thank you to the Sports Guy, great stuff to get excited about Vegas. Hopefully he and ESPN don't sue the Fremonteer.

No, nay, never!!!

Wild Rover. Learn it...love it.... St' Patrick's day is only 10 days away.

WILD ROVER

I've been a wild rover for many a year
And I spent all my money on whiskey and beer,
And now I'm returning with gold in great store
And I never will play the wild rover no more.

chorus: And it's no, nay, never,
No nay never no more,
Will I play the wild rover
No never no more.

I went to an ale-house I used to frequent
And I told the landlady my money was spent.
I asked her for credit, she answered me "nay
Such a custom as yours I could have any day."

chorus

I took from my pocket ten sovereigns bright
And the landlady's eyes opened wide with delight.
She said "I have whiskey and wines of the best
And the words that I spoke sure were only in jest."

chorus

I'll go home to my parents, confess what I've done
And I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son.
And if they caress (forgive) me as ofttimes before
Sure I never will play the wild rover no more.

chorus

Who's that Happy Guy?

Who's that Happy Guy is back and its back with a vengence. You know what to do.

Drunk Dialing: an Expose.

Part II

I know many of you have had drunk dialing experiences so I think some of those stories deserve to be told. Lets say I have this friend, I'll call him Frank the Tank. I remember a particular night with this friend, Frank the Tank, and some drunk dialing circumstances. Rules 10, 11 and 12 are particularly pertinent to Frank the Tank's story. So you don't have to scroll down, they are:

10. Most likely you will never drunk dial your best friends. They are usually the ones taking your phone away and reminding you that "you have a problem".

11. If you deleted a number sober, it was probably for a good reason. Do not try to retrieve this number. Nothing good can come from it.

12. If your cell phone dies, remember everything happens for a reason. Never borrow a friend's phone to do your dialing.

Personally, I think these three tell a story by themselves except they are a little out of order and 12 should be expanded to "If you can't drunk dial from your own phone for any reason... eg. your phone battery dies, you deleted the number you want to drunk dial out of it, you dropped it in a toilet... never borrow a friend's phone to do your dialing." I see it going as follows.

You are sober and reasonable and know you should never talk to a certain person again. Since all our brains are mush from the drink and modern American advances like coca-cola, television and internet porn you don't know anyone's number off the top of your head (except possibly your mom's home phone and if you are lucky, your own) you figure that deleting that number from your phone will erase your ability to call that person later on when your little general or whathaveyou is able to convince your booze soaked brain decides that it is now a good idea to call that person. Under Rules 11 and 12 you should be fine, but nobody follows Rules 11 and 12.

Now the only way to make that call is to borrow a friend's phone, who, abiding by Rule 10, won't let you make the call if they know what you are up to, so you either have to lie or steal to get what you want. Both of which you are probably very good at if you are a little drinky. Now of course, this is where rule 12 applies. You should not under any circumstance tell those falsehoods or do those misdeeds which get you that phone. Its just not worth it.

Take the story of Frank the Tank as a warning. Now that sequence of event described was pretty much Frank the Tank's night when he was trying to call an ex we will call Julia Goolia. Do you know what resulted from all that mishmash. Frank got a hold of Julia and she hung up on him so good old Frank the Tank went to Julia Goolia's house. Julia wouldn't let him in so Frank gave up and despondently started walking home. Well, guess what happened next: a car hit Frank and he died.

Moral of the story - follow the drunk dialing rules or die.