The Stranger

I don't want this blog to become too dream oriented, but I had another strange one last night. In it, I was attending a Billy Joel concert with my wife. The concert was at some small venue that seemed more like a cafeteria room than a music hall. It held a few hundred people but there was no stage. Mr. Joel was performing on piano at ground level. I think we were seated at long tables too.

Anyway, he played some old songs, including Scene From an Italian Restaurant, and everyone was singing along and having fun. But then he played "We Didn't Start The Fire," and nobody in the audience really wanted to hear that song and everyone kind of got restless. So BJ started making up new lyrics as he went. The song is already just a rant of people, places and things (nouns, if you will), so ad libbing new lyrics was pretty easy: "Piz-za, beer bong, Jackie Chan and Tommy Chong, South Korea, Diarrhea, Who shot Mr. Burns." Then he would occasionally stop singing and hold the mic out for an audience member to sing the next line. But the audience, myself included, was not interested in singing that crappy song. Anyone faced with Bill's mic would either stare back at him in silence, or mumble some more nonsense. "Drunk drive, high five, Princess Di is still alive, Husker Du, Zen Arcade, What else do I have to say?"

After that song, Billy Joel decided he had to go pick someone up at the airport. But he was determined to continue the concert from his car (a Cadillac-ac-ac-ac), wearing one of those Madonna-style headset microphones. He urged everyone to stay in their seats, and they would still be able to hear his car performance. But many people decided it would be more fun to follow Billy in their own cars to the airport. I laughed at this idea, but wouldn't you know it, my wife wanted to drive after him, so we went. We could hear him singing through the car radio, but there were so many other concertgoers on the road, we only caught a fleeting glimpse of Billy Joel, with his own mother in the passenger seat ("don't ask me why"), sweaty and singing "Piano Man" as he sped away and merged onto the highway. After nearly 20 minutes of trying to catch up to Billy Joel, we decided it wasn't worth it and we went home. We found out later that once BJ got to the airport, he decided he didn't want to finish the concert anyway, and he went home too, leaving a few hundred people back in the cafeteria pretty pissed off.

Bacon Hater

Well, this is certainly a disappointment. I found an unmarked cassette tape lying on the ground this evening in a park near my house. I was hoping to play it and maybe hear some local garage band, or some kids freestyle rapping, or... something! I threw on Side A without rewinding, and the first thing I hear is a radio ad for the Wendy's "Baconater" burger, followed by some dance music. Not bad, but not what I was hoping for. I rewound the tape and started Side A from the beginning - and immediately my stupid free tape deck ate the tape. Ugh.

But, back to the Baconater... This sandwich has six strips of bacon, which, to me, is not enough. I mean, sure, it's a tasty amount of bacon. And yes, coupled with the double cheeseburgers, it's enough to deem the sandwich "unhealthy." But if you're going to make a sandwich like this, I say you put eight strips of bacon on it, and here's why:

1. With two burger patties and two slices of cheese, I believe that the bacon should also be applied in two layers, not just on top. Such a sandwich construction would be, from bottom to top: Bottom bun, beef, cheese, BACON, beef, cheese, MORE BACON, condiments (apparently it comes with mayo and ketchup), and finally the top bun. And if this construction were carried out, I believe that each LAYER of bacon should be four strips, because three strips of bacon just wouldn't cover enough area to make it worthwhile. Hence, eight strips.

2. Some genius already named it The Baconater. Have some fun with that name and call it The Bacon Eighter! With EIGHT mutherfunkin' strips of bacon! Just DO IT. For your ads, you can create some dweeby character called the Bacon Hater who is always getting CRUSHED by the massive power of the Bacon (sort of like the Noid from the old Domino's commercials).

Come on, Wendy's. You've made a sandwich with some balls, now make those balls a little greasier.

Renewal Dietarians

I had a dream where I was some kind of scientist or behavioralist and I defined a new eating disorder. People with the disorder were called "Renewal Dietarians" and the disorder was that they would binge and purge, and then, um, binge on the purged. Meaning, they ate their own vomit.

Who's hungry?!

In my dream, I thought I was so smart for naming this disorder. I wanted to be sure I didn't forget it, so I kept saying "Renewal Dietarians" over and over. It worked, because when I woke up, I remembered. But the name really doesn't make much sense, does it?

Flamingo

This is a busy week for me. Various friends and relatives from out of town are converging on the greater Chicagoland area, although, luckily, none of them are staying at my house. But I do have to see them all, and it is tough to get the timing just right. I'll let you know how it goes.

Now's the Time

The other night, while driving back from a darts match with my wife (yes, I play competitive darts), I realized that my car's odometer was at 99,996 miles. Nearly 100 G's. The peak of a car's lifespan. The moment of truth. The Arc de Triomphe. A "milestone," if you will. Sure, my '99 Camry, like most modern autos, has a digital odometer, designed to show a full 6 digit mileage. But back in the day it was especially neat so watch a car "rollover," where the odometer resets itself to zero. When I first got the car, it was brand new, and had only 3 miles on it. I was with that car when it hit 100, 1000, 10,000, 12,345, and all the palindromes, too. It's fun to take note of the various stages your car reaches. Well, not "fun" really, but you know...Fun-ish. Lately, however, I had kind of stopped noticing some of the fun milemarkers. I totally spaced on 88,888, and I'll always kick myself for missing 90,210. So, 100,000 was a big deal for me.

We were too close to my house to hit 100 G's just going home, but I quickly remembered my wife was taking the car in the morning for a work function. She would hit 100,000 miles on the way there, and knowing her morning state of mind, she'd probably be too tired to even notice the event, much less enjoy it properly. So I declared we were going for a 4 mile drive so I could watch my car rollover.

Unfortunately, it was not as simple as just "continuing to drive." We had to actually stop at home to pick up the dog, who had not been let out for several hours. Then we had to stop and get gas, because even 4 miles would have proved too far for the drops remaining in the tank. Finally, we set out west on Belmont Ave, looking for a suitable stretch of road to strip my car of it's 6 digit virginity. (Is this post getting too long, or what? God, I'm bored just writing it.)

We drove a couple miles and turned around. A few moments later we were greeted with 99,999. Staring at all those 9's was almost satisfying enough on it's own. I was thankful for the minimal late night traffic, because for the last mile, I barely glanced at the road, my eyes glued to the odometer. We came to a stoplight. I looked up to see a TV facing out the window of a closed martial arts building showing what looked to me like "The Little Mermaid." Interesting... Anyway, the light turned green and I re-affixed my eyes to the dashboard. Mere seconds after accelerating from the stop, all the 9's vanished, replaced by zeros, with a slender, almost sexy "1" preceeding them. It was glorious; a dream come true. My wife and I both cheered, startling the dog.

I know it's dumb. Not much of a story, really. Nothing happened on the way home. My lust for 100,000 did not lead us to any great adventure or tragedy. We just went home and went to bed. But I had a subtle smile on my face, knowing I had taken my Camry to the promised land. I can't wait for 200,000.