After work Wednesday, as I said in my last entry, I went to Rich O's to see RealTainGirl.

Checking the board, I saw quite a few beers that looked interesting. One that I'd never heard of before. I asked the owner to describe it, then tried it anyway:

Rogue Honey Cream Ale (4)

(draft) I just had a small sample glass of this, as I was not expecting to like it. I was right. Had that dirty sock aroma that I associate with too many hops. It was very watery tasting, but had sort of a thick mouthfeel. Hard to believe that this comes from Rogue.

There was something strange going on in the red room. Roger was having some kind of private tasting for a bunch of guys in suits. That was odd enough, but the really weird part was that they had a spit bucket! RealTrainGirl and I decided that they were a bunch of pussies.

Since we were enjoying ourselves so much making fun of the spit bucket brigade, I decided to stay for another half pint. At about the time I ordered my Spezial (950) these people came in:

I know, that's a pretty useless picture. That is a picture of a hot girl carrying a microphone, and another hot girl carrying a camcorder. With them, but not pictured, was some dork with a notebook.

They were doing some kind of profile on Rich O's for IUS, the local small college. The hot girl with the microphone interviewed a couple of the after-work PBDs, then she came over and interviewed me for a bit. She could tell that I was interview-worthy because I was sitting on the throne.

I showed great restraint by actually looking her in the eyes instead of at her chest. The concentration needed for this, unfortunately, also prevented me from saying anything funny. RealTrainGirl was clearly disappointed that I hadn't used my camera time to poke fun at the bucket brigade.

See, this is what happens when I forget my rock. I end up on TV or something. If I'd had my rock then it could have been on TV too.

I overslept this morning and, in my rush to get out the door, I forgot my rock.

This is the first time I've been further than ten feet from my rock since I got it.

I feel very guilty.

Plus, I'm going to Rich O's after work to see RealTrainGirl, so my guilt will only increase.

I bet my rock never speaks to me again. It could be a long and uncomfortable week in Las Vegas.

Like a needle stuck in the groove of an old album, my thoughts keep playing the same old tune.

I keep hearing this song, but it just doesn't move me the way it used to. It only irritates me as it inserts its relentless beat into the sounds of my world.

It used to be my favorite song.

I found, after many months, a way to stop the flood of emotion running through me. I find that I end each day just a little bit more content than I'd been the day before. I can pretty much pass for a normal person now, at least to those around me.

These feelings are still there. I know they are, because I can still feel the pressure as they boil away at my insides. I contain them, for now at least, but no matter how much I try I cannot contain my thoughts. My thoughts are the same as they've always been. Over and over and over again, just like the song.

These thoughts continue because of simple inertia. And unless I can do something about the vacuum through which they travel, they might continue forever. Like a needle stuck in the groove of an old album, they'll keep playing this song because they're incapable of playing anything else.

Clicking the image pops up a larger version.

So I'm sitting on my couch, watching tonight's episode of Las Vegas.

A normal Monday night, but not a normal show. I haven't finished watching yet, but I half expect it to turn out to be a dream episode or something.

Anyway, Ed has these Cuban cigars that they found on the floor after a fight, and he takes them out of this little case. Inside the case is a piece of paper. On the paper is written:

022065

The day I was born.

I have no idea what this might mean, but I think it's pretty cool.

Something's been bothering me lately.

No, I mean something besides that. Okay, maybe it's related to that.

Ask any woman that's been with me - I'm a pretty good person. I mean I am now, and I have been for the past fourteen years or so. I treat women with respect and affection, just the way I'm supposed to, but not because I'm supposed to. I do it because it's the way I want to be treated myself.

I'd bet, right now, that I could call up anyone I've dated since my divorce and have a nice friendly conversation. Nobody would just hang up upon hearing my voice. Nobody would cuss me out. Nobody would cry.

There's no trail of broken hearts behind me. There's no We Hate Dave club that all of my old girlfriends belong to and have meetings where they sit around making fun of my genitals. There's no www.daveisanasshole.org website devoted to bashing me around and warning women about me and my issues.

Even the most painful breakups, such as the most recent one, even that was all let's be friends and call me if you ever want to talk and you never know, maybe someday we'll try again.

I'm a pretty nice guy, as far as ex-boyfriends go.

Maybe too nice.

What I'm wondering right now is, if I'd made breaking up with me more difficult, would any of those relationships have lasted?

I don't know the answer.

I think about her, so stubborn. So determined to have another chance with me, then she just walked away. That old let's not ruin our friendship excuse turned out to be the most honest thought she'd ever had about me. And, because I felt the same way, I let her go.

I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't made it so easy for her to leave that night. I wonder what would have happened if I'd been a real dick about it? Should I have been less of a friend, and that way there'd have been less of a friendship to ruin?

Maybe I take the words boyfriend and girlfriend too literally. These girls are all still my friends, but they're no longer anything beyond that. Maybe I should stop letting friendship trump everything else. Maybe that's why I'm sitting here alone.

If you're just going to tell me that I'm right, I already know that.

If you're going to claim that I'm wrong, then you are an idiot and I don't care what you think.

I'm sort of kicking myself a little today.

Someone asked me when my flight out of Louisville was on Friday morning, and I had no idea, so I checked.

It's at 6:30. In the morning.

I don't know why I keep scheduling my Las Vegas flights for so damn early. I get to Las Vegas at 10:30 and I know that I'm not going to get a room until at least 2:00 in the afternoon. It would make much more sense to arrive in the afternoon so I wouldn't have to sit around with my thumb up my ass for hours.

Plus, if I left Louisville at a reasonable hour, I could even go out to Rich O's Thursday night.

I remembered all this in May, when I last went to Vegas. But this time I forgot, and in my excitement I booked the earliest flights possible.

The latest theories about the Moon's origins say that it was torn from the Earth long ago. If that's true, then the Moon must feel as I do. Forever orbiting. Forever contemplating what it has lost. Never able to look away. Never able to touch.

Does the Moon remember the pain of being ripped away?

If the Moon could somehow break free of the Earth's pull, it would truly become lost. Its own inertia would carry it forever, dark and silent, through the vastness of space.

I wonder, would the Earth look up, and wonder where the Moon had gone? Would it wonder why the Moon had left? Would the Earth even notice?