A Weblog

In an attempt to better myself as a person, I’ve decided to join Red Sox Nation. And there was no better day than yesterday. They were playing, after all. That’s convenient, right? Mary and Michelle found me by telephone, and we decided to try out Boston Beer Works on my suggestion. Their nut brown wasn’t bad; their ESB, nothing to write home about; their stout is nitrogenated. Creamy and dark, tastes like it was shipped over from Ireland in a can.

To celebrate summer, they offered two fruit beers: one was a blonde served with a wedge of watermelon, which to me smelled and tasted like that watermelon soda they’d serve at end-of-the-year little league soccer parties. I think I read that they put watermelon syrup in the beer, as well. The blueberry beer had, as advertised, blueberries and syrup in it, too. The carbonation caused the berries to take turns rising and falling to the top and bottom of the glass, respectively. The beer reminded me of that fizzy-pop drink Orbitz, which Rosie O’Donnell used to endorse so hard. Both beers are in strict violation of Yale Beer Society (YBS) Constitution, Article III, Subarticle A, paragraph (b). The language is a bit abstruse, so I’ll paraphrase: No fruit beers allowed.

Meanwhile the Sox won.

Michelle was identified by a waiter boy as being from Waterville, ME. He refused to give up his name, though, offering, instead, something of an Egyptian riddle. “I was in the grade below you; my brother was in the grade above you. My family is Italian. Who am I?” Diophantus’ questions weren’t nearly as difficult. And that’s probably why Michelle failed, and embarrassingly so.

By this time — and for those of you there, you’ll note that inverted the chronology of events — they kicked us out. So we went home.

But when I got to my door, I reached for my keys only to find the alarm to my car. Time to call Ian. Thankfully, he had just got back in town a day earlier. And lo! he replaced his phone. But no! he wasn’t picking up. I stumbled over to his appartment, lay on the buzzer, and called once more. He answered.

I apologized, though I was more relieved to be saved from the streets than not.

Before collapsing on the couch, I filled two glasses from the kitchen with water, placed one contact lens in each of glass, and set both on the bathroom sink.

During the night I dreamt I was a human-rabbit-type character who was pursued by an Elmer Fudd-like character, except he had vicious but dumb, black hunting dogs. I had incredible speed and staying power. And I wasn’t too bad at swimming, either. My brown courdoroy jacket restricted my ability to climb over things quickly. Sometime during the dream it was important that 5 and 8 are related in that 2+3 equals 5, while 2 cubed is 8. This is a fact that I have related in waking hours, as well. As far as I know this relation is a coincidence rather than a deep fact.

Initially, I woke up at 12:32 pm. However, I noticed that 12:32 is not a palindrome and, thus, decided to sleep in further. Before falling asleep, I did note to myself that 12:32 is only 11 minutes different from a palindrome, and that 11 is itself a palindrome. This second coincidence was not enough to keep me awake. I next woke at 1:40 pm to Tracy’s phone call.

After adjusting, confused by my environs, I wandered to the bathroom for my contacts. Sadly, someone had emptied the glass with my left lens, assuming the coordination of the cups was maintained throughout my sleep. I dumped out the other glass for the sake of symmetry.

I am not safely and seeingly, in my room, showered and clothed. The Sox are still away and it’s my mother’s birthday. I think I’ll take tonight off in her honor.