Just working on a new archive page.

(update: Okay, well that was fun I guess. It had better have been fun because it's the only thing I did all day Tuesday. Besides work and sleep I mean.)

Which Revenge of the Sith Character are you?

The above illustrates some of the earliest advice my father ever gave me about women. The thinking was that I should be as nice as possible to all of the women I met. That way, even if they themselves weren't interested in me romantically, they'd be sure to know someone who might be. By being nice to all women I stood the best chance of getting a good recommendation.

Make sense, right? Wrong!

That scene may have been perfectly valid in the year 1955, when my father was learning about women as he fought off dinosaurs and stockpiled food for the coming ice age. But now, in 2005, here's what's much more likely to happen:

I'm convinced that this is happening all over the world. Women today (and men too) are no longer looking for the one. They're looking for anyone. If they happen to find their true love and live happily ever after, then they got very lucky. And I hate them.

But most, like about 99.9999999999999% of us, don't get so lucky. We're just getting by, and we're usually pretty sure, deep down, that whoever is currently filling that romantic void in our lives will not be there forever.

So we start looking for the next victim, er, companion even while we're still with the current one. We'll set up a sort of batting order in our heads so we're always ready, so we're never alone.

Women have a much easier time of this than men do. Some women may disagree with that statement, but no man anywhere on Earth would disagree with it.

Men, in general, do get attached to one particular woman. Women, in general, get attached to the idea of being attached. So women generally have a much easier time moving on. Please note that I didn't say easy, I said easier.

I know I'm going to get flamed for this, but I think I'm right. And what's more, I had a long conversation with one of my ex-girlfriends about this the other night. Most of this stuff came from her.

And I know that there are many exceptions for every generalization. That's why it's called that instead of a certainty.

So where am I going with this? Oh, yeah.

The point I wanted to make here was the this could explain that curious phenomenon that men have been puzzling over.

When you see a nice sweet girl with a fucking asshole, it may not actually be because, deep down, women like assholes. It just might be that these jerks are the only ones left that haven't had a "reserved" sign hung around their neck by some other woman.

Read this carefully, guys - it may be important.

If I'm right, then the trick to finding a good woman is not to be too nice. If you're too nice, you're going to end up as somebody's fallback guy and you'll be lucky if you ever even get your finger wet.

Also, you can't be too much of a jerk, for more obvious reasons.

The trick, if I'm right, would be to just be of average niceness, but to be sure and be a prick every now and then too. You're not nice enough to really flash on anybody's radar, and you're not mean enough to get the wrong kind of reputation. Be quiet and mysterious. Be aloof but friendly. Walk that line.

You can be an asshole, but not so much of one that you seem incurable. You can be a nice guy, but not so nice that women start putting you into their batting order.

Hey, this could actually work!

Man I've posted a lot today.

These came in the mail the other day.

Talk about cruel. First they tell me that the show has been cancelled then they go ahead and send the tickets anyway.

Not very cool. Not very cool at all.

Took this picture while eating lunch at Polly's Freeze today.

I didn't say it would be an interesting entry.

Last year on this date I wrote a pretty lengthy entry.

I even posted it for a few minutes, then I deleted it.

This morning I did the same thing.

I haven't forgotten what today is, just like I haven't forgotten that date in May. Or the one in March, or even the one in January.

I do remember these things. It would be easier if I could forget them, but I how could I forget? They're burned into me. Some of them for over two decades now. This one for sixteen years.

I haven't forgotten, but neither do I celebrate them.

Instead I write about them and then keep those writings private.

Do not respond to this. I will never be ready to reopen those wounds.

And through it all there is still hope.

What's up with that?

I can't quite pin it down. I laid in bed for most of the night, staring at whatever my head was pointed at, trying to figure just what it was that was keeping this hope alive. More than that even, I spent a good chunk of time trying to see what it was I'm hoping for.

I mean, I've got everything I ever asked for. I've kept the pain, as much as possible, pointed squarely at me. Our lives have finally become separated to where I no longer live in fear of my phone. There are no more inane messages, spaced weeks apart, that seemed to serve no purpose other than to remind me of what I was missing. There are no expectations. No disappointment.

I've fucking got it made!

Yet through all that there is still hope. Hope for failure? Because that's the only possibility left open? Because that would serve to provide the closure that was sought, yet denied, in the Spring?

Sounds pretty selfish to me. I don't think that's what I'm hoping for.

Hope for happiness? For love eternal? For sitting together on a porch watching our grandkids play?

Not bloody likely. I gave up hoping for those things before I even started.

I think what I'm hoping for just cannot be put into words. At least not by me, but I'll try.

A man, going blind, hopes to see one final sunrise. A dying man hopes to take one last breath.

I hope for two more seconds. Two seconds, that's what it took last time. Those two seconds that elapsed between when she walked in the door and when I saw the horrible truth about what was inside me - those two seconds were bliss.

I just want two more seconds. I believe that I'll be destroyed in those two seconds, but it would be worth it.

Two seconds. That's what I hope for.

I've spent some time tonight reading back through my old entries.

• Reading about how much pain I was in.
• About how I had put that pain behind me.
• About how the pain had caught up once again.
• About how I'd finally been healed.
• About how much pain I was in again.

Monotonous, isn't it?

One of my favorite entries is the one in which I wrote this:

To cross one range, and see before me nothing at all between me and the next range, to know that the next hour or so of my life would mean nothing and would contain nothing of interest - that's a pretty good analogy for what's going through my head this morning.

I don't know what that has to do with anything, really. I'm just muddling through here after all. I think that paragraph about the Nevada desert may have struck a chord tonight because my mood has been like those hills and valleys.

Happy then sad. Excited then bored. Accepting then stubborn. Angry then furious.

Well that breaks the pattern, doesn't it?

I've always figured that I'm about average when it comes to forgiveness. Most people are able to apologize to me, and that's that. In fact, until recently, there's really only been one person that's ever mistreated me so badly that forgiveness is virtually impossible. It's been well over a decade and I'm still furious, still stinging. Nope, I don't think I'll be sending any Christmas cards that way.

Now there's another one. Now there's another person that has done their best to fuck me up for life. He's done a pretty good job of it too.

I don't really care if he meant any harm or not. It was obviously inevitable, and I tried very hard to get him to just butt out. To just leave well enough alone.

But this fucker, this unbelievably selfish asshole, he just had to keep on pressing. He just had to see just how far he could push things. He'd gotten this idea into his head and, by God, he was going to see this idea through to its conclusion.

Or die trying.

Or destroy me. Or ruin a friendship. Or upset an innocent person.

As much as my mood has fluctuated over the past several months, one thing has remained fairly constant.

The anger I hold for what this fucker did to me has not lessened one bit.

So I'm wondering if I'm ever going to be truly healed. I don't think that I can do it while this anger rages inside me. If I'm ever going to get over this, I think I'll first have to forgive him for what he did. I just don't know if I'm capable of it.

Some things are just too hurtful. Some wounds go too deep. Forgiveness for this may not be possible. I may hate him for the rest of my life.

I hope that's not the case. I hope that I can somehow find the strength to forgive him. He just fucked up, after all. There was no malice, just stupidity. Forgiveness seems like such a small price to pay if it helps me regain my sanity.

If I'm ever going to be able to live with myself, I need to first forgive myself.

So I went to this thing yesterday.

There was a lot of running. That's all I really want to say. I left at 6:00 and went to Polly's to eat something for the first time in 24 hours, then went home and slept.

After my nap I went down to Rich O's, successfully avoided the scene depicted above, and ended up sitting with PipeGuy and GrammarLady for a while. I hadn't seen these two in a while, and PipeGuy in particular seemed quite insistent on talking about you know what. I changed the subject as quickly as I could, but not before making sure that they knew that all of the things that they had imagined happening between her and me were just that - their imagination. Actually, theirs and about a million other people's.

After they left, DooRagGirl and FutureDude showed up.

I got the name FutureDude from an old Seinfeld episode, by the way.

I didn't drink anything worth noting last night. I think I was still reeling a little from the night before. Smithwick's and Spezial. Nice and tame.

FutureDude told me that my Monte Carlo doesn't really seem like a Dave kind of car. I'm not really sure how to take that.

I'm starting to feel another implosion coming on.

(Refer to the earlier entry for pictures.)

You know, people are going to read this and start to worry about me. There's really no need.

I arrived in Cincinnati a little after 2:00 in the afternoon, and pretty much immediately grabbed a cab to Newport. I certainly could have driven there but I was a little confused by the street layouts.

I had the cab take me to the Hofbrauhaus. Looking at their beer list, I was not particularly fired up, but I did manage to choose two beers, and both were surprisingly good.

Hofbrauhaus Newport Altmunchner Dunkelgold

(draft) Not a thing wrong with this beer. Not a thing noteworthy about it either. A little nutty, a little malty, a little tasty. Not my favorite style, but one of my favorites in this style.

Hofbrauhaus Newport Munich Weizen

(draft) There aren't many hefeweizens that I can say I actually like. This one I like. Sweet and fruity, with none of the citrus that usually ruins this style for me. Yummy.

While I was drinking my beers, and eating my lunch, I talked with the bartender about other places for good beer in the area. One of the places that he said was a "must see" was The Beer Sellar on the river.

I walked the two or three blocks to the place, and it was indeed quite nice. When I first walked in it was hard NOT to notice the huge array of taps. My erection quickly dissipated, however, when I realized that about 2/3 of the draft selection consisted of watery lagers. I ended up having a Young's Double Chocolate Stout, and then I selected the following from the bottled list:

Belhaven St. Andrews Ale

(bottle) Nobody else has said it, so I will. This beer had a greenish tint to it. There, I've said it. Aside from the odd coloring, this was a pretty decent beer. The bar had it listed as a smoked beer, so I was a little disappointed to find an ESB instead, but it was quite decent. Actually reminded me more of a Alt than an ESB.

Okay, so after two beers at the Hofbrauhaus, and two fairly strong beers at the Beer Sellar, I was kind of glad that I hadn't actually driven to Newport. I walked across this purple bridge (very cool to walk across the Ohio river) and back to my hotel to grab my Reds ticket.

Not much to say about the game itself. The Reds suck, and they lost. I was a huge baseball fan when I lived in Seattle, but since I've moved back to Indiana this local club just hasn't fielded a team worth rooting for.

So after the game I walked up to the Rock Bottom brewpub and had a little sampler array.

Rock Bottom English Mild

(draft) Smelled pretty good. The flavor and mouthfeel brought creamy bananas to mind. A pretty strange beer, but decent.

Rock Bottom White Tiger Wheat

(draft) I'm convinced that this is the same wheat beer that Hofbrauhaus is selling. Quite a good beer in a style that I don't normally care for.

Rock Bottom Cincinnati Porter

(draft) No aroma. Very faint coffee flavor. Very fizzy mouthfeel. Not very good.

Rock Bottom Brown Bear Brown

(draft) More malty than sweet, so a little unbalanced. Good head and lacing. Pretty good.

At this point things got a little surreal.

I was walking around downtown Cincinnati, looking for this Nicholson's place that I'd heard about, and I was having no luck at all. This homeless guy - a black man about fifty or so, and carrying a large flowery PURSE, approached me.

The first thing this guy said to me was "I promise I'm not looking to rob you, but I could really use some money. I want to buy myself a beer."

So what I ended up doing was enlisting this guy to help me find this Nicholson's place. I promised him that I'd buy him a beer if he kept to his word and didn't rob me.

So we struck a deal. He'd lead me to beer, and not rob me, and I in turn would buy him a beer.

His name was Leroy, and he was actually a pretty cool guy. He kept saying that he knew where Nicholson's was, but it soon became apparent that he had no clue. He did remember this place called O'Malley's, so that's where we went.

I had myself a Guinness, and I bought Leroy a Bud Light.

It was a little scary. Not because I was hanging out with a street person, but because I'm pretty sure that Leroy was the first black man to set foot in O'Malley's since its founding. We got a lot of pretty strange looks.

Leroy's purse probably didn't help matters either.

The O'Malley's bartender gave me directions to Nicholson's and, after we'd finished our beers, Leroy and I parted company. He said that he was seriously grateful to me for trusting him. I guess that trust between whites and blacks hasn't been that common in Cincinnati lately.

So I walked up to Nicholson's. I had myself a couple pints of Smithwick's then I went back to the hotel and slept.

In the morning I drove home.

I had a good time on this trip. I've got some thoughts in my head as to why. Maybe I'll put those thoughts into words later this weekend.