My estimate is thirty seconds. A friend of mine disagreed with that estimate. A few days at least, she said. But she doesn't know. She couldn't know. She hasn't seen, she hasn't heard, she hasn't felt or smelled the things I have.

Thirty seconds.

That's how long it would take. That's how much time I would have. Thirty seconds in which to say something or do something that could (re?)open that door. Maybe change everything for the better, for both of us.

The problem is, I don't know exactly when that narrow opportunity will present itself. I just know that it will. It's coming, sooner than later by my estimation. And, odds are, I won't be anywhere near where I'd need to be. Like right in front of her. That fact, of course, sucks.

Fuck, those thirty seconds could have come and gone while I was typing that last paragraph.

I'm not afraid to say or do whatever it takes. It's absolutely not a problem of fear. It's a problem of timing. Everything always boils down to timing. Too soon, and I'm an asshole. I'm every other guy on Earth, trying to take advantage of someone's sudden vulnerability.

Too late, and well, I'm too fucking late.

People tell me stuff. And when I say people I mean this one person. It's kind of a running and recurring theme of things that are wrong with me. A cacophony of criticism, if you will.

I don't say what's really on my mind. I don't say what I really want. I don't make myself vulnerable. I wait too long.

Maybe these are hints. I don't think so, though. I think that, at most, they're excuses. But exactly what they are is most definitely not relevant to this developing situation. To this looming opportunity.

I'm on edge. Waiting for those thirty seconds. Timing may prevent me from using this opportunity. But fear certainly will not. I will say what's really on my mind. I will say what I really want. I will make myself vulnerable.

I may end up waiting too long. But, if I do, it won't be by choice.

I must have spent ten minutes typing this entry.

I hope I'm not too late already.

I don't really feel like writing anything, but I guess I will or I'll be annoyed with myself.

This edition of Saturday Beer Report is a little different than others. This one is about Saturday afternoon. There will be nothing about Saturday night because I just stayed home.

Anyway, my first stop was Buffalo Wild Wings for Naked Tenders and Spicy Garlic sauce. I had a Newcastle (6003) of course, but there was something a little off about it. I think that place needs to clean their lines or something. There was a huge storm that tore through the area. Customers and employees were freaking out a little. But all that really happened was the lights flickered a few times. We all survived.

Next I went over to The Pub to see BikerGirl. I had a Newcastle (6023) there, and it was yummy as usual. Also yummy was BikerGirl, but she wasn't feeling well and she left as soon as she got off work, and some dude took over the bar. I spent quite a bit of time talking to this heart surgeon and this older couple about beer. I drew everyone maps to Rich O's. The heart surgeon guy wanted one for himself, and the older couple wanted one for their beer-snob son. I am the unofficial Rich O's ambassador to the world. I should get diplomatic immunity or something.

Next I went to Lucky Strike to see if this one cute-as-a-bug girl was working, but there was some dude instead. So I went to Hard Rock to see if CoolHairGirl was working, but the dude there said she'd called in sick. So I went down to Red Star to see if this one chick was working but it was, once again, some fucking dude. I had a Newcastle (6043) and contemplated the serious lack of female bartenders on Fourth Street.

Every time I go to Red Star they play this John Waite song that makes me miss a certain person, so I sent some emails to RockGirl complaining about my lonely life. I'd been thinking for a week that it was a Bryan Adams song, but it's John Waite who I hate. Hey, that rhymes.

I also tried a few times to call NotHideousGirl. I ended up leaving a message, asking if she wanted to go do karaoke later. Specifically, she would sing and I would listen.

On the way back to The Pub, I popped into Sully's, just to confirm that the bartender there was a dude too. At The Pub, I had yet another Newcastle (6063) and talked to the older couple some more. Then I came home and slept.

NotHideousGirl never did call me back about the karaoke. That's probably a good thing, as my mood has been quite strange for the past couple of days. So I stayed home and watched the American Pie movies after I woke up from my nap.

Pretty damn exciting.

Tonight, I kept having urges.

Almost every girl I talked to, I wanted to kiss for hours.

Almost every girl I talked to.

All but one, actually.

That is all.

My plan was brilliant in its simplicity. It would have been staggering in its effectiveness. If it had been effective at all.

Step One: Take a nap.

Step Two: Wake up refreshed.

Step Three: Go out and enjoy my Friday night.

But noooooooooooooooooooo!

At approximately T-Plus five minutes into Step One, my cat Buddy walked into the bedroom and loudly announced, "MEEEEEEOOOOORRRRROOOOWWWW!!!"

For those of you who don't have cats, and therefore don't understand their language, this translates as, "Hey you! I think I saw a lizard outside! Fetch!"

The sound of Buddy's wail cut right into my soul. It woke me up at the worst possible time. That few seconds when I was almost asleep, but not quite. And now my brain has been fooled into thinking I took a nap. My body is arguing vehemently with my brain, but my brain is being stubborn.

So tonight I get to go out and attempt to have an enjoyable Friday night even though I haven't slept since 11:30 last night.

And I bet there was no goddamn lizard, either.

From the other day at lunch, incontrovertible proof that NotHideousGirl is strange.

A couple of weeks ago, NotHideousGirl and I both found ourselves missing HatGirl terribly. This picture was taken to document our sadness.

Okay, what the fuck is this thing? It's on the shelf at Rich O's.

NotHideousGirl and BikerGirl missed me a lot while I was in Las Vegas. I like to think that they consoled each other in various ways.

There's some shit going on that I'm not going to write about, but unfortunately it's all I can think about, so I'm kinda stuck with writing random snippets of crap.

---

Rich O's has Rogue Chocolate Stout (1606) on tap again, so yay!

When I went in after work, FutureDude asked me what I wanted to drink. I said, "Let's see how well you know me. What do you think I want to drink?"

My question stumped him. But, to be fair, he didn't know there was going to be a quiz today.

---

There was also a hot girl and her boyfriend there. They didn't know what to drink, and I recommended Weihenstephaner. They liked it, because it's one of the world's greatest beers.

The hot girl looked really familiar to me. I think there's an actress that she reminded me of. Some Asian chick, and it's weird that I was attracted to her, because I have a pretty strong phobia about Asian women.

---

This entire week has sucked at work, but it should start getting better now that an arbitrary deadline has been met.

---

Today, I had to go make an addition to the police report I made the other day, as that bullshit is continuing.

---

My niece messed-up one of my Rubik's Cubes today, and I cried and cried for hours.

---

Not really, I just thought it would be funny to write that.

I solved it in about 20 seconds. It was only a 2x2x2 cube.

---

I've been on a search for a new hosting company for barenada.com. I thought I'd found one, but I cancelled that account this morning because they wouldn't give me access to the web server's error logs.

---

At lunch today, NotHideousGirl was dressed up as a Catholic schoolgirl, and lamenting about how guys keep telling her that she's cute. Well, duh. My grandmother would look cute in that outfit.

There's a dude at The Pub that always wears a kilt. The last part of this conversation didn't really happen because NotHideousGirl didn't think of it fast enough.

---

I can't think of anything else to write.

I thought I wrote here once about lies of omission vs. outright lies. But, if I did, then I must have spelled omission wrong because a search didn't find it. Oh well.

I get lied to a lot lately, it seems. Over the weekend and into the start of the new week, I seemed to inadvertently surround myself with liars. The dishonesty bothers me. Of course it does. I think of myself as an honest person. But I think that, given a choice, I'd rather hear the outright bald-faced lies than the lies of omission.

That's because the latter, they carry with them certain implications. That I'm an idiot. That I could never figure out the truth on my own. That my brain is so preoccupied with listening to what they're actually saying that it has no processing power left to contemplate what they're not saying.

Oh, hey! I found that old entry. It was during my trip to Las Vegas last Fall. I apparently used different terms in the olden days. What I wrote back then was this:

I think that an implied lie might be even worse than an explicit one. Why would I think such a thing? Well, because an implied lie reveals not only the foolishness of the recipient, but also the cowardice of the liar.

Anyway.

So I've not only been lied to lately, I've been called a moron at the same time. Not the best combination. No wonder I've been feeling so irritated. See, quite often I see right through these lies of omission right away, straight to the truth hidden so sloppily inside them.

But do I call these people out? Nope. Do I expose their lies? Nope.

I just turn my head to the side, and I roll my eyes.

Because there's always a chance that I'm wrong. It's been known to happen. Seriously, it has. So there's a slight chance that I'm wrong, but there's a slightly bigger chance that the liar doesn't even know what they're doing. That they're lying to themselves. And to start smashing down the barriers that they've so carefully built around themselves - well that just seems like it would be mean.

So I don't smash their barriers. I don't hand them a flashlight and force them to start poking around the dark recesses of their own minds. I don't grab them by the throat with one hand, forcefully smack them across the face with the other hand, and shout, "Wake up! Don't you see what you're doing? Are you stupid or something?"

Hmmm.

I guess in a way I'm lying, by omission, right back at them.

I should do something else, then. I'm thinking that I should start with the calling people out thing, save the choking and the smacking thing for only the most incorrigible cases.

Her name was Leesa. I think that's how it was spelled. She was nice.

I have no idea why she, of all people, popped into my head tonight as I sat on my swing and watched in vain for any signs of an approaching storm.

Leesa was not a popular girl when we were in elementary school. Not by any stretch of the imagination. She was overweight. She wasn't very pretty. She was way smarter than everyone else.

I think it was third grade, when they started torturing us at school, By making us square dance. With girls.

Third grade is probably about right. By then I'd already been screwed over by whores twice in my life. The first time it was Jackie, who professed her love for me one day, and the next day taunted me from the lap of my best friend Kevin. The second time was Kristie, who was so torn by the parallel advances of me and my friend Mike that she broke both of our hearts by holding hands with another guy on the playground.

See, me and whores, we go way back.

Anyway.

Leesa was, as I said, not a popular girl. She was pretty much the opposite of popular. And it didn't help matters that, two or three times a year, her mother would storm her way onto the school bus and yell at all of us for picking on Leesa and making her cry.

I never made Leesa cry.

I was a good kid. I really was. I was never one of those boys who'd pick on a girl because everyone else was doing it.

Starting in like the third grade, and continuing though the sixth grade, they made us square dance. Just every now and then. Maybe three or four times a year. Any more than that, and there'd have been a riot, I'm sure.

So starting in third grade, instead of gym class, sometimes they'd make us square dance. With girls.

The first time, it all happened so quickly. The teacher said to find a partner, and *hocus-pocus* everyone had a partner. Everyone except for me and Leesa. And then, instead of letting us kill ourselves for being the last ones left, the teacher made us dance together. With. Each. Other.

She didn't give me cooties.

She didn't make fun of how bad a dancer I was.

She ignored the giggles of everyone around us as we twisted and twirled as the caller commanded.

She had such a quiet grace about her. Not a physical grace. None of us had that at that young age. But she had a calmness about her. It was only when the teasing overwhelmed her that she ever seemed to notice it at all.

She was nice to me, and in return, I was nice to her.

For the next three or four years, every now and then, they'd make us do square dancing instead of regular gym class. And for the next three or four years, I never wasted a second picking my partner.

It was always Leesa.

I don't remember ever seeing her in junior high or high school. She was probably there - we just didn't share any classes. I haven't thought about her in thirty years. But she popped into my head tonight, when I was watching for a storm that never came, and thinking about what I really wanted in a woman.

I hope she's had a happy life.

I suppose that a lot of people have looked at me and seen a pot of water on a stove. And they've wondered when I would boil over and escape my container.

Well, those people have been using the wrong analogy.

I'm more like a soap bubble, blown from a tiny plastic wand by a naive kid and drifting in the breeze.

I won't boil over. That's for the young. Instead, I'll pop. And disappear. It'll be like I was never even here.

You know that sound that a bubble makes, just before its flimsy walls fail, and it pops out of existence? That incredible strained silence that can only be heard by the mind, but never by the ears?

That sound deafens me.