I knew that I'd write something tonight.

I didn't have any idea what it would be, but I figured it would be something stupid, as usual.

I'm drinking this weird Jolly Pumpkin Firefly beer, and I'm jamming to Neela's radio station, and I've got my cat Nugget on my lap.

I had a realization.

I'm in a good mood.

But it's not the existence of this mood that's got my fingers tap-tap-tapping at my keyboard.

Nope, it's that I've realized, for about the millionth time, that every silver lining has a dark cloud.

When I'm happy, I want somebody to share it with. And there's nobody.

That'll teach me to be happy. It's a self-defeating mood for me.

Everybody go here and dance with Neela!

I always feel a little uncomfortable, walking into Hooters. I can't get two feet inside the door before some young hottie smiles at me and checks me out and welcomes me. So yeah, it's just like every other place I ever go in my life - except for those orange shorts.

Those orange shorts really make me feel funny in my special place. They need to come off, I say.

The other reason I don't feel comfortable at Hooters is that I like to consider myself a gentleman, and I know that I'll find myself staring. Staring is rude, but I know I'll do it anyway. I'll try to be discreet about it, but I'll still know even if none of the girls know. At Hooters I'm a dirty old man.

Speaking of dirty old men, I hadn't seen my cousin Jeff in a while, so I left my house extra early (like 5:30) so I could swing by Hooters and grab some dinner and catch up with him for a bit.

Everybody - all of you reading this - should get to know Jeff. Everybody loves Jeff. He is one of the world's truly great people.

And, last night, he was one of the world's truly drunk people.

So I had my dinner of a fantastic mushroom and cheese burger and inedible cold and stale french fries, and Jeff and I bullshitted for a couple of hours. The waitress was unfortunately named. There's a lot of that going around lately, but she understood my desire for an unchilled glass, so I decided to forgive her parents for choosing that name. Also, they probably didn't do it to spite me and make me feel sad twenty years later. Probably.

One of the nice things about Hooters, besides Jeff being there and having the opportunity to imagine the girls without their shorts, is that they carry Newcastle on tap.

I had four of the things (1824). In two hours. That's a lot of beer for me, but Newcastle is a fairly safe beer, and it really is quite yummy. No matter what certain owners of certain bars like to think. Hey, I should have put Newcastle on my list for DaveFest!

Jeff, of course, kept up with me easily. Plus he'd already been there for probably several hours. I don't know how he does it. It's like we average each other out. I get to be the lightweight and he gets to drink all he wants and never get sick. He gets to have Hooters girls fawn all over him and I get - well, I think we know what I get.

There was no way I was staying there all night long. UnfortunatelyNamedHootersGirl's top had developed this annoying habit of rising up and exposing her belly, and I'd developed an annoying habit of looking at her belly. So she kept catching me, then looking me right in the eyes and making a big show out of pulling her shirt back down. Like nobody had ever looked at her before I came in with my evilness and my lecherous thoughts.

Oh yeah, at one point I tried to call SassyGirl to ask her if she was going to be pissed at me forever and ever. But SassyBoy answered the phone. He was drunk as shit. I guess they're in West Virginia for some reason (not the wedding that we'd talked about a while back) and that was probably why SassyGirl hadn't been returning any of my calls. Spotty cell phone coverage in West Virginia.

After I got off the phone I told Jeff that I been *gasp* talking with an actual gay guy, and wasn't he worried that the gay cooties would travel through my phone and land on him and make him gay?

He didn't think it was very funny. Homophobia is really Jeff's only problem as a human being. He thinks they're all going to rape him and give him the gay.

I left Hooters at about 8:00. Jeff stayed, as I'd known he would. The girls probably fed him grapes all night or something. Everybody loves Jeff.

Hey! Guess where I went next! Guess guess guess!

Okay, I'll tell you. I went to Rich O's.

The place was about half full. All strangers of course. I ordered a Bell's Kalamazoo Stout and stood at the end of the bar and thought about how much prettier the staff at Hooters was.

After a while, the dude that looks like my grandfather left the end of the bar so I went over there and sat. I took some notes.

8:30
No points, I think. Maybe just half a point.

8:38
Who are all these people and what are they doing in my bar?

8:40
I think that my theory was correct, and that my experiment has been successful. I think.

8:45
It's funny how people change, and when they do, it's usually for the worse. Except me of course. I got better.

8:48
This chick to my left used to be a brewmaster over in Louisville. Her beers sucked, I thought.

8:50
Should I be happy about that? I think so. It's like going back to your old neighborhood. There's all this new construction and everything's different. You decide that it sucks, but then you see that one store that's still there, and it suddenly feels like home again.

8:51
ActualGeorge is here!

8:59
I got a Diet Coke. I have to pace myself a little because some friends are coming.

9:07
Piss time.

9:08
Wow, that girl just eye-fucked me. I feel violated. In a good way.

After that, HatGirl and LuckyFucker came in, so I quit writing in my little book. DooRagGirl came in and we all moved over to the island. HatGirl has cute new glasses and a cute new hat. A tough test for my theory, but it withstood that test, I'm happy to say.

Let's see. Eventually the strangers left the living room area so we all went over there. I ordered myself a Guinness (1082).

I'm sure that we all talked about stuff, but I don't remember a lot of it. Just normal stuff I guess. I remember thanking HatGirl for coming in even though I'd been such a moody jerk the last time she'd seen me.

My last beer was a Smithwick's (686).

So, it was a long night, starting at around 6:00, and ending at maybe 12:00. A long night, but a good one.

Nice and relaxing.

"Dave, cheer the fuck up."

She'll say those words, and she'll look at me with her head tilted a little bit to the right. Maybe she'll think that having her head tilted like that will give her the best view of my transformation. My emergence from melancholy to effervescence, all because of the magic of her words.

"Now why didn't I think of that?" I'll ask, my words dripping with sarcasm. "Just cheer the fuck up, huh? Damn. I've been such a fool all this time. It's so clear to me now."

"I'm just trying to help," she'll protest.

I'll sigh a little. "No you're not," I'll say. "You're not trying to help me at all. You're just hoping that I'll cheer up so you won't feel so guilty."

"Why should I feel guilty?" she'll demand to know. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"I didn't say that you should feel guilty. I just said that you do." My voice will soften a little. "And you're right, you didn't do anything wrong."

"And I don't feel guilty either," she'll say.

"Yes you do," I'll say. "You wouldn't be here otherwise. You'd be over there with those assholes. They'd be more than happy to flash their fake smiles and laugh their phony laughs for you. You know that you'd feel comfortable with them, but you came to me instead."

"How come you're such an expert on what I'm feeling?" she'll ask. "Maybe I'm just here because I care about you."

"That's pretty convenient, don't you think? You find yourself in the same room with me and all of a sudden you decide to care about what I'm feeling? I don't buy it."

"What happened to you?" she'll ask. "I thought we were friends."

I'll sigh again. "I thought so too, once."

"And what about now?"

"Now, I don't think so," I'll say. "Now I don't think we're anything."

"Doesn't that bother you?" she'll want to know.

"More than words could ever say," I'll respond. "But it's the way it has to be."

"If that's the way you want it..." She'll get up to leave.

I'll reach out and put my hand on her arm. "That's not what I said."

"What is it you want from me?" she'll ask. She won't sit back down.

"It doesn't matter what I want," I'll answer. "It never has mattered what I want."

"Well what about what I want?" she'll whisper.

"Just tell me," I'll say.

"I want you to cheer the fuck up."

Then she'll go over to where the assholes are sitting. She'll tell them that she tried to cheer me up. And they'll flash their fake smiles and laugh their phony laughs, and she'll feel comfortable with them.

Sometimes I think I should stop these beer reports. They're all so damn similar. As in boring.

But I guess I'll keep writing them. They at least let people know that I'm somewhat alive and that I have something of a social life.

My surprisaphobia was really acting up last night. Probably just from lack of sleep. I got to Rich O's at about 8:30. The place was about half full. For a Friday night, half-full is flipping wonderful to me.

So I sat on the loveseat and I ordered a Flying Dog K-9 Cruiser (34). After about 10 seconds the PBDs sitting around me tried to talk to me, so I got up and moved to the bar.

I was enjoying myself, reading some fiction that had won awards in a local newspaper's contest, when this dude decided to stand right behind me. I mean right behind me. I got the impression that the fucker wanted to sit in one of the two empty stools, but I didn't ask. What I did was pick up my shit again and move over to the recently-vacated island.

My next beer was a Bell's Kalamazoo Stout (295). Some dude came over and sat on the other side of the island, but he didn't try to talk to me, so I let him live.

After a while, WomanRepellant came in, so I talked to him. See, I do talk to people sometimes.

For some reason, a million people all crowded around the island and started yapping at each other, so I picked up my shit and went over and sat on the sofa.

I ordered another Bell's, but I only drank a little bit of it (300). I guess lack of sleep is messing with my ability to drink, making me even more of a lightweight than I normally am.

I went to Wal-Mart and bought some CDs and DVDs, then I went to White Castle and came home.

If anyone had seen me, back then, I know exactly what they'd have wondered.

What the hell is Dave doing in Plattsmouth?

That confusion might well have been universal, for I certainly felt it myself. And, after me and my anonymous questioner, who was there? Who else mattered?

The Platte River makes its way Eastward through Nebraska, beginning who knows or cares where, and ending by dumping itself into the Missouri River. Near that junction is a small town called Plattsmouth.

The Platte is not much of a river. Wide enough, to be sure, but very shallow. I've been told that anyone with a sturdy enough four-wheel-drive vehicle, and sufficient cojones, can simply drive across the thing. Not that I'd ever attempt such a feat. Not me. I'd be the guy that failed, and that somehow got washed away by that sluggish yet steady flow.

So, not much of a river, and that town named after its mouth was not much of a town. Two main streets - three if you drank enough beer and squinted at the map just right.

At the corner of those two streets was a grocery store, and that grocery store was where I found myself one night back in 1987.

I had a reason for being there, you see. Two reasons, actually. The two most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen in my life. To be honest, the two most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, before or since.

Those eyes belonged to a girl, of course. A girl that I'm quite tempted to name right here and right now. But I won't. If she reads this, then she'll know that it's her in this story. If anyone else reads this, they won't care what her name was. Her name was important to me, and I'm assuming that it was important to her, but to everyone else it really doesn't matter.

What matters is that she was as beautiful as any movie star, and that she had eyes that were beyond description.

I'd met her a few weeks earlier, at a bar up near the base where I was stationed. We'd talked for a bit - I don't remember what we'd talked about. Probably just mundane bullshit. But at one point during the evening, she'd told me where she worked. A little grocery store in a little town called Plattsmouth.

I knew nothing of her work schedule, but fate smiled upon me that night. I entered the store and there she was, working one of the registers. I guess, if she hadn't been there, I'd have just gone back home.

She recognized me, and she took a break from her duties to walk and talk with me while I pretended to shop.

I paused for a while at the greeting card stand, and I searched for the card that I wanted.

She asked me if she could help me find what I was looking for.

So I said yes of course she could help. As a woman she would be the ideal person to pick out the card I was looking for. I told her that I'd met a girl. A girl with the most amazing eyes I'd ever seen. I told her that I didn't know the girl at all, but that I wanted to get her a card. Nothing that would freak her out. Something sweet. Something that would make it very clear that I was very interested in getting to know her better.

I tried to read her face as she listened to all this, but I couldn't read a thing. I couldn't get past her eyes.

Those damn brown eyes.

She did pick out a card for me, and when I opened it up and read what was inside I knew that it was the perfect card for the occasion.

She went back to her register, and I followed. I paid cash for the card and for the random crap I'd thrown into my cart, and I asked to borrow a pen.

I wish I could remember what I wrote. Probably some drivel. The point of what I wrote, the last sentence that I wrote, was this:

I told you I could be romantic.

---

A few months later I was inside her, and I told her that I loved her.

---

A few years later I saw her at a gas station. She'd aged a lot, as had I. She was married, with a kid or two I think. I was trying to rebuild a life with my ex-wife. We exchanged pleasantries as we pumped gas into our cars, and that was it.

---

There was a time when I thought she was the love of my life. Maybe, back then, she really was. I think about her now, and I don't remember much about her. What she was like as a person. What she was like in bed. What she possibly saw in me.

What I remember, what I remember are those eyes.

Those damn brown eyes.

They haunt me sometimes.

I guess SassyGirl is mad at me. I didn't go to their Gay Night thingy on Monday because I was too tired. Haven't been able to get in touch with her since. So of course I assume that she's pissed instead of simply working.

Thursday evening I went to Rich O's. It's pretty rare for me to go out on a Thursday, or any work night for that matter, but I'm supposed to work at 6:00 AM Sunday morning so I figure that Saturday night will be a bust and I made up for it Thursday.

Anyway, there was nobody I knew there. I sat on the loveseat and had myself a yummy Bell's Kalamazoo Stout (255) and listened to a couple of guys talk about computers. Neither of them knew the slightest thing about them. I got a kick out of it for some reason.

Also one of them was drinking three different beers at once. I shit you not. He had three half-pints in front of him, each with a different beer. He'd take a sip out of one, then the next, then the next. Very strange.

Once those dipshits left I moved over to the throne and read my stupid horoscope from Free Will Astrology:

Happy Valentine Daze, Pisces! Borrowing the words of poet Pablo Neruda, I've prepared a love note for you to use as your own. Feel free to give these words to the person whose destiny needs to be woven more closely together with yours.

I love you between shadow and soul. I love you as the plant that hasn't bloomed yet, and carries hidden within itself the light of flowers. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. Because of you, the dense fragrance that rises from the earth lives in my body, rioting with hunger for the eternity of our victorious kisses.

I know writing is bad when even I can do better. But of course I won't bother because there's nobody. Waaaaaah!

Anyway.

This dude that looks like my cousin Robbie came over and we bullshitted for the rest of the time I was there.

I had another pint of the stout (275) and finished up with a glass of the Wostyntje Mustard Ale (24). It's pretty good. I think I like weird beers. I was one of the only people that liked that Hitachino ricey stuff when it was on tap.

I really don't want to go to Rich O's tonight. Which of course means that I'm probably going to Rich O's tonight.

I wish I may, I wish I might, I wish I was able to fucking write.

And not just any old drivel. I wish I was able to write something - something good. Something profound and memorable and thought-provoking.

Something worthy of the thoughts that went through my head tonight.

I sat, and I watched the door, and I experienced hope.

Not terror. Not paranoia. Not disgust. Not even apathy.

Nope. I experienced hope of all things.

It doesn't matter that my hope was misdirected, unwarranted, ill-conceived, baseless, unreal, unfounded, inordinate, and maybe even stupid. It doesn't matter that the thing that I hoped for did not happen.

None of that matters.

What matters, what fucking matters, is that I'm still capable of feeling hope at all.

I would not have thought it was possible.

I am not, as it turns out, completely dead inside. I am not, contrary to popular belief, incapable of having a single solitary optimistic thought. I am not, no matter what else you might have read or heard or deduced or even simply felt, I am not a lost cause.

So, please, don't give up on me. Don't write me off. Don't turn away. Certainly, don't run away.

Because if I, after everything I've been through - if I can still experience hope, then anything is possible.

It's fucking amazing.

I wish I could write words to describe it.

I wish I may, I wish I might.

I wish, now more than ever before since all this shit started, I wish I could write.