I Drink Your Beer.

Less than two weeks until one of the highlights of the year: The East Atlanta Beer Festival! Got your tickets? If not, get them here.

Check out my video. See you on the 31st.

I Am a Beer Man
If you have a beer, and I have a beer, and I have a straw. There it is, that's a straw, you see? You watching?. And my straw reaches acroooooooss the room, and starts to drink your beer... I... drink... your... beer! I drink it up!

Yes, I know it's a margarita and not a beer.
I'm trying to make a point here, Eli.

Providence

I was hopeful for a great weekend with J3K and Sandy in Providence. After a long week of work, I'd surely need some time to blow off steam. I arrived on Friday; Kim joined us on Saturday. Good times were had by all.

Wings of the Dragon
Friday night's hijinks could be summed up by two television show references: The Sopranos and Jackass.

First, we decided to head over to Captain Seaweed's for a few drinks and to see the sights. We were all hopeful that we'd come away with a good story. (Refresher on Seaweed's is here.) Well, my friends, the Captain didn't disappoint. Here's how it went down...

We arrived in the early evening with the anticipation of having a few beers and heading elsewhere. On entering the bar, we were amazed that we saw three other women. Prior to ordering our first beers, we learned that Seaweed's no longer runs tabs or takes credit cards of any kind. Yep, it's now a cash only establishment. Classy! So, we got a pitcher of Harpoon IPA and settled in for conversation and some good old catching up with one another. Some time later, I went to get another pitcher of beer. I placed my order with the bartender and waited as she pulled the beer. With no obvious prompting (or previous conversation), the older mustachioed gentleman at the bar begins talking to me. Here's what he said:

"You better take care of that f*ing girl. You know what I'm saying? You better f*ing respect her or I'll kick your f*ing ass," he said.

"Well, no need to worry because I was going to leave her a nice tip," I said.

"That's good, you're a good kid. You better respect her," he muttered.

"Respect is good," I said and tried to get a look at the guy and size him up.

While I waited for the beer, he continued to drunkenly mumble about respect and treating her right. After an eternity, the bartender gave me the beer.
"Thank you," I said to the bartender and conspicuously pushed her tip across the bar. Then, I turned to the guy and said, "Have a good night, sir."

"You're a good f*ing kid. You know why? 'Cause you got respect," he said.

I politely smiled and got the hell away from him. (A scant ten feet away to the safety of our table.) About three minutes passed before he comes over and joins us at our table. Evidently, he was a homebuilder of Portugese descent who was generally friendly if a little overbearing. Well, for some reason, the guy sort of turns into an older, heavier Fredo: he kept telling us how smart he was, how he was the smartest kid in his class, and so on. I bet he thought that we were students at Brown University or something. Anywho, this went on forever. Every five or so minutes, a large man with a grey goatee came over to try to get him to leave us alone.

"I ain't f*ing bothering nobody," he yelled at his buddy. "Am I bothering you guys?," he asked us. We thought he was pretty benign so we let him stay at our table. During the conversation that ensued, we were instructed to call him "Uncle Walter," invited to his son's bachelor party (we politely declined), informed that he'd be voting for Hillary because Obama sounds too much like Osama), and reminded that he was a smart guy. Things were pretty entertaining until some guy shooting pools yells out, "Don't trust that guy! He did some work for me and he still owes me ten thousand dollars!"

When Uncle Walter heard this, he was apoplectic. Seriously, we thought he was going to kill the guy. Instantly, he's up in the guy's face yelling a string of obscenities at the top of his lungs. We were all shocked and looking for the exits. Almost as quickly as Uncle Walter lost his shit, he was surrounded by beefy guys from the bar. They managed to "break up" the ruckus and proceeded to tell Walter to leave.

"Walter, get the f*k outta here," yelled the beefy bartender.

"What? I ain't hurtin' nobody," he protested.

"It's time for you to go. Get the f*k outta here, Walter! You're scaring people."

It took all of the beefy guys in the bar to throw him out. We sat there stunned at what had just happened. In the aftermath, we notice a gent that we nicknamed "The Captain" is sitting on the floor behind the pool table, crying like a baby. Seriously, he was openly weeping.

The Captain after regaining his composure.

"Holy shit, I bet they're going to whack Uncle Walter. That's why he's crying," I said.

"We need to roll," J3K offered.

Before we could leave, beefy bartender gave us a pitcher of beer on the house for our troubles. I'm pretty sure we drank it in about a minute just so we could get the hell out of there.

Grocery Cart Grand Prix
On the walk home, we stumbled across a grocery cart that was just begging to be taken. Naturally, we jumped into it and proceeded to make our way back the J3K and Sandy's place. At first, J3K got in the cart while I pushed. Then, perhaps he thought better of it or, most likely, he was just terrified, we switched places.

J3K opts to drive.

In any case, pushing a fully grown adult down a sidewalk in a grocery cart is challenging. A few times, I fell out. The first spill I took jettisoned my phone from my pocket. Later that night, some woman found it, sent some text messages to people in my phone book, and returned it to me the next morning.

Anybody seen my phone?

After a few blocks, I decided that
facing the other way was a safer option.

J3K go the hang of driving. At one point, he ran about as fast as he could with the cart. It was awesome until he hit a patch of grass and launched me onto the sidewalk. Luckily, I only cut my palm, bruised my shin, and smashed my elbow. Oddly, he came away with similar injuries.

Launch #2 - Moments after impact.

Seriously, this one hurt.

My boo boo.

Undeterred, I climbed back into the cart, instructed him to go faster and, for safety, advised him to push the cart down the middle of the street until we were safe at his place. Ahh, the joys of youth.

The long ride home.

Saturday and Sunday - Wings of the Dragon Were Not Ridden
Although it's probably hard to fathom, the rest of the weekend was pretty laid back. On Saturday, we gathered Kim from the airport and went for a walk on the beach. We were hoping to see some seals but didn't. Sunday, we went back to Newport and toured some of the "summer cottages" that have, no kidding, almost 100 times the square footage of my house. Good stuff.

Photos of the weekend are here.

(New) Heaven

I've finally recovered from a week on the road. I must say that traveling for business from Monday through Friday isn't something for which I have a ton of enthusiasm. Personally, I find it to be a lonely existence that uproots you from everything in your life.

I find that after a few days on the road, I'm thrown into an existential crisis. I have a ton of trouble reconciling the need for money and the need for fulfillment. These episodes always seem to end with me silently repeating a mantra that touches on my true aspirations, places the consulting work into a larger perspective, and somehow tells me to suck it up.

On these particular trips, I blame it on the building in which I do most of my work.

Let me see your Tootsie Roll(s).

From a distance, the building doesn't look that bad. Inside, however, it's a different story. I've yet to feel at ease when inside it. Maybe it's the fact that the only water in the building is run up one of the four "towers" on the corners. This translates into the bathrooms being placed in a semi-circle with the toilets on the narrowest part. Freaky.

One of the strangest things about the building has to be the elevators: Prior to entering the elevator, you punch in your desired floor number on a keypad. This keypad tells you which elevator to ride. The elevator comes, you get in it, and note the absence of any floor buttons. When I'm in the elevator, I fully expect to hear HAL telling me why he can't let me go to the lobby and leave the building. Anyway, it's very strange.

Punch in the floor number on the futuristic keypad.

Wait for the assigned elevator.

Panic because you're a prisoner inside a golden, metal box.

Anywho, my point is that although the people are generally friendly, the building creeps me out a little.

Ultimately, this ends with me alone in my hotel room after having dinner with strangers. If there is a particularly touching documentary on HBO*, for example, my final act before bedtime will be crying like a baby at the beauty of the human experience.

*I defy you not to weep openly while watching "Hear and Now."

I'm Still Here

Recently, I just haven't had the time to write as much. I've signed a contract with a company to do some software education and documentation consulting. As a result, I can no longer call myself "a man of leisure" as I am gainfully employed.

Between negotiating the terms of the contract and traveling to the client site in New Haven, I've been pretty busy with getting back up to speed as a part of corporate America. If anything, this gig has confirmed the fact that I've made the right decision in pursuing medical school. I'm not sure that I'm cut out for the corporate world.

Anywho, I'll be in New Haven this coming week and in Providence with Dr. J3K over the weekend. I'm taking my camera so I'll be sure to post some pics of the client's strange building and of the hijinks from Captain Seaweed's in Providence.

So, fear not: I am still alive and kicking, back among the world of the working.

Snake Wrangler

Some time ago, after a few (or several) beers with Dr. J3K, we made a bet that if I successfully wrangled a live rattlesnake with only my hands and a snake stick, he'd buy me a helmet cam. If I was unsuccessful in my attempt, I get to pay my own medical bills and struggle for my survival.

In the aftermath of that glorious occasion when the bet was made, I realized that, prior to working with rattlers, I'd probably need to warm up with something smaller and less dangerous. Although I thought that my wife didn't want to see undertake the challenge, she's obviously trying to help me train by scaring up serpents in our yard while she plants flowers.

This thing was at least three and a half feet long.
The camera angle may make it seem smaller and me seem gigantic.

The Waiting Game Continues...

Being one who isn't content to enough to finalize anything, I was thankful to receive word from Mercer that I'm on their alternate list. Effectively, this means that they like me, they really like me ... but they don't want to commit to me just yet. So, if any of the other lads or lasses decide to go elsewhere for their medical education, I'll get called up to the bigs ... possibly ... over the summer ... or as late as August. Glad to keep waiting. Way to go, me!

Spread Peace

Several years ago, I took the following photo during a trip to Memphis. I visited the Lorraine Motel, site of MLK's assassination and home to the National Civil Rights Museum. Although the museum's exhibits guide you through the Civil Rights movement, they essentially push you toward the site of the shooting.

The final exhibit in the museum leads you to King's motel rooms, which have been pretty much preserved as they were at the time, and to the balcony where he was shot down. On the day of my visit, the sky was overcast and generally quiet except for the sounds of the flag whipping in the wind.

Spread peace.

It's hard to put into words how awful it felt to stand there and to put yourself into that scene, to imagine yourself part of a grainy, black and white photograph, pointing at the sound of gunfire as your friend, leader, hope lay dead beside you.

What if...? What if...? What if...?

An Open Letter to Mercer University School of Medicine

Dear Mercer University School of Medicine,

What's up? Thought I drop you a line because it's been a while since I've heard from you. I hope all is well and that the new campus is coming along. Growing pains are tough, aren't they? Anyway, I know you'll get through it and be successful. If anyone can do it, it's you.

So, hey, I was wondering if you'd had some trouble getting in touch with me. I was out of town a few weekends ago but, mostly, have been around. I left - once more - my mobile number on your machine. I figured that maybe you'd written it down wrong or something and might've left a message for me in someone else's voicemail. When you can, give me a shout, I'd love to hear from you. Maybe we can get together for dinner sometime soon? If you can't do that - I know you're busy - I know some great lunch places around here. Heck, I'll even settle for a quick coffee just to look at you and hold your hand for a few minutes. You get the point, just please give me a shout.

Forgive me for bringing this up but it's been bugging me little. I was telling my buddy that I'd not heard from you and he brought it up that maybe you're not interested in me anymore. Crazy, right? I told him exactly where he could stick that kind of talk. Yep, right in the old poop shoot. I mean, come on, if you were over me, you'd at least let me know, right? Right?

Seriously, you aren't trying to break up with me, are you? I mean, when we were together, we had such an awesome time, didn't we? I know that I did. You did too, didn't you? We smiled at each other, flirted a little; you made me feel alive. You laughed at my jokes and seemed to think I was witty. Hell, even your friends seemed to like me.

Anywho, I was thinking that maybe it was something I said or did? You aren't still mad at me for New Year's, are you? I am sooo sorry for drunk-dialing you like that. Really, it'll never happen again. (I hope.) I was just thinking of you and wanted to hear your voice. At 3 o'clock in the morning. While I was in Waffle House. With a ton of strippers. What can I say? I think 8 messages on your machine should be enough to convince you that my apology was sincere.

I bet it's someone else, isn't it? Is it one of those douchebag little guys you met right after me? That adolescent prick from the elite private school with the Mercedes? That little shit has never worked a day in his life. Really, what could you see in him? How funny would it be for you to dump me for that clown? Pretty hilarious, huh? I know, I know: you're better than that!

If it is something that I said, you should know that I was completely honest with you and never meant to hurt your feelings or anything. Look, I stand by everything I said. I thought we clicked. Maybe I was wrong about you...about us. I thought we had a future together. I guess I was wrong. I hope I'm not but, with this deafening silence from you, my mind is really starting to make me think that you're not interested in me, that you've moved on. If so, then I wish you the best. I'll be sad but, hey, don't worry about me, I'll be just fine on my own.

OK, enough of the crazies from me. I hope that we'll have a good laugh at my paranoia over beers sometime soon. Call soon, will you? I really, really want to hear your voice.

All the best,

The Scholar

P.S. - If it is that little prick with the Mercedes, you can go to hell.

Baseball Is Back!

Although the Sox played last week in Japan, I don't really consider that "Opening Day."

"Lumos!"

Tonight, the Bravos are at the Nationals in the new stadium in DC. Also, love him or hate him -- and I heard a ton of booing from the crowd -- W looks like he knows what he's doing on the mound. Unlike the 1st pitch he threw out shortly after 9/11, tonight's throw was a ball.

Hypothetically Speaking

Let's say that you're out walking your dog around noon on a sunny, spring Friday. Now, let's say that during your walk, you bump into a good friend who's an incredible athlete. After the two of you walk your dogs for a bit, your friend invites you to grab your bike and join her for a ride out to Stone Mountain and back.

"Only 38 miles?," you mutter, considering the invitation. "Sure. Why not? I was planning on sitting on my fat ass and watching basketball all afternoon. I should probably get some exercise."

And let's say that accept the invitation and hurry home to grab your bike and get your gear together. Then, on riding all the way out to the mountain, you make the decision that the two of you would actually bike the grueling hills inside Stone Mountain Park. On the way home, you might find that your neck and shoulders start to hurt, along with your hands. After all, you probably do more mountain biking than road cycling.

So, if you biked nearly forty miles in about 2 hours and 45 minutes (including a couple of breaks), hypothetically, your ass might be killing you the next day. I'm just saying.

On Second Thought ...

... maybe having Geraldine Ferraro write a recommendation letter for me wasn't such a good idea.**

**Props to Dr.J3K for suggesting that she might've been my downfall on this one.

Champagne Taste

My favorite anecdote from the wedding we attended over the weekend...

After the reception, we retired to Mulligans, the bar in the Columbus (Mississippi) Country Club. The bride's mother and aunts were having a jolly old time. They'd had a few to celebrate and were now in the bar, putting condoms on a champagne bottle, and shaking the it to inflate the condom. On occasion, a champagne-filled rubber would suddenly pop off the bottle and zip around the room, spraying everyone and causing a little chaos. The ladies would laugh and laugh; they were having a blast.

Joey and I were standing at the bar with our drinks chatting when the bride's sister-in-law came over to us and started chatting. After a few sentences, we noticed that she was downing a glass of champagne.

Joe said to her: "I hope that didn't come out of the condom."

To which she replied, in all seriousness: "I don't think it did; it doesn't taste like spermicide."

On hearing that, I choked on my beer but tried my best to suppress any laughter or smile. We politely replied something like "Umm, OK."

"That stuff tastes really bitter. And, it makes my mouth really numb," she continued without any provocation from us.

Although I was momentarily stunned, my silence quickly moved from a smile to a giggle to uncontrollable laughter. I laughed until I cried.

"Did I say something funny?," she asked me.

"This whole situation is pretty damned funny," I lied. "Your mother-in-law is putting rubbers on a champagne bottle and everyone seems to be drinking it. It's crazy." I wanted to add that it was hilarious that she'd confided to two total strangers her personal knowledge of the oral effects of a condom's lubricant. Sometimes, I really want to ask people if they realized that they're talking aloud. I want to yell at them "Stop talking! Please just stop talking!"

Tornado!!!

So, we were out of town at a wedding in Mississippi when the tornado happened. Some out-of-town friends were travelling through town and were crashing at our place for the night. While they were out in the village having dinner, the tornado came through and they had to take cover under a table at the restaurant. Freaky.

It seems that we dodged a bullet. According to a map of the tornado's path (and cross-checked with the visible trail of damage), the damned thing missed us by a block or two. Seriously, the damned thing sort of cut diagonally across the neighborhood and barely missed us. Houses at the end of out street had trees on them. Houses on the street behind us had houses on them. Luckily, we had a yard full of asphalt shingles (not ours), roofing paper, and branches. Close one!

It also nearly got my wife's office. They had glass out and sustained roof damage but still had a standing building. Again, the path shows that it was within the a block or so. Crazy stuff.


View Larger Map

Below are my photos from the neighborhood taken on Sunday afternoon and Monday morning. (For brief captions on the photos and larger images, click on the slide show.)

The Academy Awards Happened

All I gotta say is that I got a nerd boner when they kept cutting to shots of Cormac McCarthy sitting in the audience, reveling in the fact that the Coen brothers' adaptation of his book cleaned up.

Also, am I the only person who thinks that Diablo Cody is the most overrated person on the planet? I enjoyed "Juno" but didn't think it was the greatest thing ever. Did the Oscar go to another Mira Sorvino or Cuba Gooding, Jr.? Methinks.

Dylan's Rough Month + Ski Trip Bonanza + Rejections!

Our poor dog has been having a bit of a rough month. I suppose that, in dog years, he's entering his awkward teens. A few weeks ago, my wife took him to the park for a walk and to run with other neighborhood dogs. He loves it. It's nice to see him in a pack, running, wrestling, and having a blast. As is normally the case, Dylan is a lot faster than most of the dogs with which he plays. If they're running, he'll be a few paces ahead of them and will be looking back at them while he sprints.

On several occasions in the past, he nearly mangled my leg but crashing into me because he wasn't watching where he was going. I'd always limp off and, in a few paces, I'd be fine. He, of course, was never any worse for the wear...until a couple of weeks ago.

He was running full speed (which is blazing) and was looking at the dogs behind him. Unfortunately, he didn't see the mature tree in his path. At full throttle, he plows into it, leading with his right eye. The impact lifted him off the ground and spun him around a few times before he landed. Other than being really scratched up around his eye, he was fine.

The Mighty Oak, 1. Dylan, 0.

So, about a week ago, I was heading out to Colorado to snowboard. On the day I was to fly out, my wife was scheduled to return from a business trip in the late evening. Rather than board the dog overnight, we dropped him off at our friend's place so he could play with her dog, Moses. No worries, right?

Wrong. Turns out that Dylan found something on which to severely cut his foot. Because neither of us were in town, our friend "R" ended up taking him to the emergency vet clinic to get the wound glued back together. Later, Kim takes him back to the vet on a follow-up visit. Turns out that the wound is slightly infected. As a result, the beast got limited outdoor activity, a healthy course of antibiotics, and daily trips to the vet for bandage changes and wound inspections. On Valentine's Day, he got an especially festive bandage. We, as expected, got stuck with the bill.

Dylan feels the shame of a Valentine's Day bandage.

Ski Trip Bonanza
On the 7th, I flew out for a ski trip to Steamboat, Colorado. They are having a ridiculous snow year. While we were there, I think it snowed close to 20 inches. Not too shabby! Here's the best kept secret about Steamboat: If you fly Delta into the Hayden airport from either ATL or SLC and you're a SkyMiles member, you can get a free lift ticket on the day of your arrival by showing your boarding pass at the ticket window. Holy smokes, nothing compares to getting off the plane and getting on the slopes within a couple of hours. It was fantastic.

Ready to hit the powder.

We covered most of the mountain. I think my favorite run was one called Middle Rib. It was steep and isolated. When we did it, were were the only ones on the run. You start out in a wooded area and make your way to a great overlook of Steamboat Springs.

Beware of deadly tree wells.

The view from the mountain top.

Beautiful seclusion.

Self-portrait.

Honestly, I boarded my ass off. I've been back for a few days but my knees are still sore and aching. I wish I was back out there. For more of my photos of the trip, click here.

Rejections!
So, in the land of good times and great fun, let me add a little seriousness. Cross one more school off of my list: Medical College of Georgia. As I suspected, they're not interested in me this year. Damn you, MCAT, damn you!!!

Ahh, the delicious taste of rejection.

Still awaiting word from Mercer. Turns out they have until 30 March to notify me of an acceptance. How I wish it were May 30 or even July 30!

My Waking Life Not as Exciting as My Dream Life

Frankly, not a lot is going on these days. I await word from Mercer University School of Medicine regarding my admission. As they have until March, it's become a cruel waiting game. Each time the phone rings, I leap for the phone to check the caller ID. So, at this point, no news isn't good or bad news, it's just stinking frustrating.

Really, other than praying to the telephone gods to make my phone ring with a call from the Macon area, I've been staying busy with handyman projects around the house, continuing the job search, and having the occasional lunch with friends. All in all, not a bad life.

Much more exciting, however, has been my dreams life. In fact, this week might be a banner week for crazy-assed dreams. Following is a brief synopsis of what has happened so far.

Monday Night
This one was a bit of a time-warp, Terry Gilliam type dream or, at the least, and unfunny Chappelle Show episode. I'm standing around with a bunch of my ancestors trying to defend one of my forefather's patriotism and, it turns out, his life. The person hearing the case is a black George Washington. He's having none of my relatives' arguments. I take the floor and give an impassioned speech that touches African-American George's heartstrings. I appeal to his sense of fairness and make him recall what he fought for to help win independence for the country. Then, I deftly illustrate that my ancestor's love for America isn't that different. Black George ruled favorably and my relative lived. I suppose, by the "Back to the Future" rules of time travel, that his survival meant that I also survived.

Tuesday Night
Instead of our actual house, we're living in an enormous two-story house that's full of visitors coming and going. In particular, our friend Heather (a.k.a. "R") is there with her mother who keeps trying to sell us on a life insurance policy. We're stuck in this quandry about how to continue avoiding her sales pitch while being polite. Just as we're lying down to go to sleep, an enormous rocket falls from sky and, while remaining perfectly vertical, crashes through our roof and both floors of our house. (Think of the rocket in "Weird Science.") Understandably, we're freaked out and feel lucky that we weren't killed. On closer inspection, the rocket, which we've determined to be Cuban, appears to be a U.S. rocket that has been stolen and painted by the Cubans. Seriously, you can see the U.S. paint underneath. As we're examining it, the thing starts to rumble and make a lot of noise. Expecting an explosion, we look for what cover we can find in the bedroom. Instead of a deadly explosion, however, the rocket belches out about 30 soccer balls and 15 pairs of athletic shoes.

"Wow, I've got to let my Ethiopian friends know that we're starting a team! We're going to rule rec league soccer!," I rejoice.

Wednesday Night
I'm hosting a barbecue at the house and using a reproduction of an "illegal barbecue pit," which looks exactly like a regular pit. Anywho, guests continue to arrive at the house and venture into the back yard to have a look at it. One guy in a wheelchair arrives and keeps making suggestions about improving the pit. Evidently, he's the authority on building and running illegal BBQ operations. As I'm listening and discounting his advice, I notice that my good friend, Joe Torre, has arrived. I walk up to thank him for coming and he gives my a huge bear hug. Obviously, it's been a little while since I've seen him. He thanks me for playing for him and tells me that he misses me around the clubhouse. I let him know that I think the Yankees thing was a huge debacle on the part of the Steinbrenners and wish him luck in Los Angeles.

As I'm introducing my friends to him, I go to put my arm around his neck but accidentally punch him in the chin, causing him to snap shut his mouth and chip some teeth.

"Damn, Joe, I am so sorry, buddy. Look I'm trying to help you out with your dental plan! You've only got two more days under the Yankees coverage. This will help you get all your money out of your Flex Spending Account so you don't lose it!," I explain.

Joe Torre looks at me, smiles, and mumbles that "it's OK" through his broken teeth. We share a hearty laugh and go look at the illegal BBQ pit.

How awesome are they? Seriously, each morning I wake up smiling, if not laughing.

Fleeing the Blizzard

After listening to media reports of the impending blizzard that was to hit Atlanta, I retreated to the safe room in our house. Since mid-day, I've been here in the cold, impenetrable shelter. I only hope that I've stocked the shelter with enough canned food to sustain us through what will inevitably be the decent from civilized society into lawlessness. By now, I assume that there must be at least 8" to 10" inches of snow coverage, yielding most automobiles useless and stranding everyone. Before retreating from the mayhem, we took the dog out for a last minute hunt. At the very least, I'd hoped to get some squirrels to sustain us through what will surely be weeks without power or contact with the outside world. Unfortunately, Dylan likes only to retrieve snowballs. So, friends, in addition to our stockpiles of canned beans and tins of tuna, we will have a stock of snow to melt for water.

Instead of large game, Dylan chose to hunt only snowballs.

Wish us luck in surviving Winter Storm 2008.

Happy New Year! (Belated)

I've finally caught up on the sleep I missed during our whirlwind New England tour. Here are some highlights from the trip.

Newport Cliff Walk
On Sunday, we drove to Newport, RI to complete the famous Cliff Walk. Essentially, you walk along a beautiful, rocky New England shoreline and look at some incredible mansions. If you're in the neighborhood, I strongly recommend it. More photos of our walk are here.

Avoid doing this if even slightly hungover.
Also, pee before you start.

This is one of the little fixer-uppers along the walk.

Dr. J3K uses his fancy "teaching stick"
to remind us that rowdy behavior
isn't permitted on the Cliff Walk.

Campus Center at Wellesley College

On New Year's Eve, we drove up to see the Wellesley Campus Center that my wife helped design. She gave us a personal tour of it. Seriously, it's an awesome building.

Kimberly, in the midst of her tour.

Another view of the building.

Because we were sooo damned cold, we decided to stop in for ice cream sundaes at a great little ice cream shop. J3K was tempted to order the 8-scoop "white mountain" but opted out of it. Hands down, White Mountain Creamery is tops. More advice: don't let anyone with a lactose intolerance eat ice cream. If you do, they're likely to nearly kill you on the drive home with their champion-like behavior.

Yaargghh!
Other than Graceland Too and a handful of travel situations that I'm happy to have escaped, few places have impressed/terrified/thrilled me as much as Captain Seaweed's Pub in Providence, Rhode Island. I highly, highly recommend it.

A few nights earlier, Dr.J3K and I had a quick beer before they closed. On New Year's Eve, however, we decided to stop in for a couple of rounds before heading to our final destination.

Inside these walls is a fantastic little dive that will frighten and exhilarate you.

In anticipation of our visit, we'd been speaking in pirate voices (yaarrghh!) for most of the afternoon. When our group of seven entered the bar, the total occupancy nearly tripled. There were two old guys at the bar. One was a slight, olive-skinned man who was impressively drunk. The other was a bleary-eyed gent who sat at the bar nursing his Budweiser between sips of his whiskey backer. We walked in and ordered a $5 pitcher of beer to split among the group. Old, drunk guy must've decided that he liked the way we looked because he instantly called for a pitcher of beer for us. "On the house!," he kept yelling in his Southie accent.

Immediately, Dr. J3K and I threw some dollars in the jukebox and offered to play a song or two for the regulars.

"You guys want to hear anything?," I asked.

"Thanks guys but I'm an old guy," Bud/Whiskey responded.

"We can play you a bunch of Elton John," Dr. J3K offered after quickly surmising that the oldest thing in the jukebox was vintage Elton.

"No thanks," Bud/Whiskey said almost immediately.

"Elton John? What the hell?," I urgently whispered to J3K.

"I don't know. We're gonna get killed," he replied.

To atone for any faux pas, we played a ton of manly, classic rock.

A short while later, J3K, our friend Eddie, and I made our way over to the foosball table. As I'm terrible at this game, I played the role of interested spectator as J3K demolished poor Eddie. Each time J3K scored, the foosball hitting the goal pierced the din in the bar. Each time, the beefy bartender and his beefy sketchy pal would look our way, nod to each other, and look our way again. When the game concluded, they quickly headed over to the table and demanded that we play them. The bartender pulled quarters from the register and slammed them down on the edge of the table.

"C'mon guys. Just for fun," he said.

On hearing the phrase "just for fun," I immediately saw an image of myself two hours in the future: I was wearing only my boxers, my eyes were nearly swollen shut from the beating, I bled from my mouth, and wept with fear each time they demanded that I get them their $1,000. So, this is how it starts, I thought to myself. J3K and I shot each other a quick look as he politely tried to decline.

"We'll split up and play teams," the bartender insisted. "You play wit me," he said, nodding to J3K.

The bartender's beefy friend had a host of jailhouse tats on his hand. On noticing this, I immediately felt very, very comfortable with the progressing situation. As I looked over at the women in our group, they played a card game at the table with the pitcher of beer and creatively ignored the old, drunk guy as he attempted to dance near them.

After what turned out to be a very close, hard-fought game, the bartender and his buddy thanked us for playing and then, strangely, disappeared outside. I looked around and the only people in sight were our group and the old drunk guy who was loudly telling a story about Wilma Flintstone and using an object that referred to as one of her adult toys. That's rich, I thought.

After a quick trip to the restroom, I decided to stick my head outside and take a look at the courtyard. In doing so, I thought that I might've made another mistake. Bartender, beefy friend, and Bud/Whiskey were outside having cigarettes. They asked where I was from and we struck up a conversation. Five or six minutes later, J3K showed up looking relieved that I was still alive. Later, he admitted that he'd come out to make sure I wasn't getting my ass kicked. Turns out, though, that all the guys there were really friendly. They wished us a Happy New Year, invited us to come back to the bar, and were super nice. Still, I could easily see them kicking my ass for some dumb thing I did or said.

On the way, out old drunk guy sways out the door and says "I wish yous a Happy New Yeah. God bless yous and ya families. Happy New Yeah."

"Same to you, pal. Same to you," I told him.

For $5: two pitchers of beer, a game of foosball, the fear of impending death/extortion, the escapades of a benign drunkard, and a memorable evening.

Wickenden Pub
After Seaweed's, we headed over to the Wickenden Pub to close out the evening. We had more pints, played Quiddler (an awesome, easy game to which I was just introduced), and rang in the new year.

Avian Duel

Early on New Year's Day, we woke and headed to Boston for our flight. Luckily, we changed to a direct flight home instead of connecting through Cincinnati. We were home in time to see UGA demolish Hawaii. Happy New Year indeed.

Behold the Champion

Yesterday, we toured downtown Providence and went to the Rhode Island School of Design's art gallery. That afternoon, we had some beers and food at the Trinity Brew Pub. Afterward, we quickly made our way back to the house to watch the Patriots close out their regular season. Around midnight, J3K and I made our way out to Captain Seaweeds, a tiny little dive bar near the house. They were closing up so we had a quick pint and went out in search of another pub.

A little while later, we ended up at what J3K and Sandy refer to as "Thanksgiving Bar." On a prior visit, some of the inebriated older customers invited them to Thanksgiving dinner served at the bar. Last night, the place was packed with a predominantly older African-American crowd. When we walked in at about 12:30, the place was hopping and everyone was well soused. We order a pint, sat back, and drank in everything that was happening around us. We talked for a while until a putrid odor drifted over to us and halted our conversation. At the end of the bar near the restroom, a couple of guys were grimacing at the growing stench. A moment later, a heavy-set guy exited the bathroom. Immediately, they began to give him grief.

"Damn, man, you'd better check your pants. There's something still in there," one suggested.

"You'd better Febreeze your ass," the other guy offered.

The fat guy responded, "I am the champion."

"Why'd you do that in a public toilet, man?," they asked.

"That's what it's there for!," the defecator responded.

As he walked by, the odor intensified. Our eyes watered; we tried not to breathe.

Just then, one of the bartenders walked in from having a cigarette outside. "What the hell is that smell?," he yelled. The place began clearing out.

We abandoned our nearly full beers and left for the safety and purity of the cold, night air.

Dr. J3K's Graduation

While I'm at it, I tought I'd post videos from Dr. Jimmy Three Thousand's graduation. Much like our effort on Bandit Run 2005, this is a completely in-house project. I shot most of the video and did all of the editing. Enjoy!

Dr. J3K - Graduation Video, Part 1

Dr. J3K - Graduation Video, Part 2