Recently in Dave Matthews Category

Although i could have cried for joy.

No broken bones.
No heatstroke. In fact the weather was perfect.
A memorable evening at the TR3 DMB Pre-Party at the Jefferson Theatre.
Two stress-free drives filled with new music and beautiful scenery.
The hotel had good coffee.
And half and half.
And the shows.
Wow. The shows.
I got Halloween.

There may have been a bit more to the story. Carry on, carry on.

Okay, a lot more to the story.

In fact there may have been two stories.

No crying in either.

In other news, I'm having the second surgery on my hand next week. The plate and screws are coming out, which I am happy about. I don't know if they contain enough metal to set off a metal detector, and fortunately I won't have to find out.

The doctor will also be fixing my trigger finger, and eliminating some of the scar tissue from the first surgery.

All I want for Christmas is to be able to put my palm flat on a table.

Combined, the three things on deck next week, plus another round of me doing everything I'm told, as many times as I'm told, for as long as I'm told, should get me my Christmas wish.

"Not enough, but never too much...leave a trail of busted stuff..."

I am busted stuff.

I went to Chicago to see DMB in September. After the first night's show, Dave threw a guitar pick. It landed in front of me, but over the rail between the people and the stage. A man, I don't know if he was a photographer or security, picked it up and handed it over the rail.

I reached for it, and the girl to my right, the one with the big LoVE sign, reached for it.

Except she then, with my fingers still in her hand, yanked. Hard.

When I got my hand back, my ring finger was on top of my hand, and bent 90 degrees counterclockwise.

I turned to the girl, held my hand up to her and said, "Oh my god, you broke my finger!"

When I turned to the people on my left, people I had spent all day with, and asked them to try to find some help, my finger flopped off the top of my hand and started dangling around. No free will, just gravity.

I'm pretty sure that was when I freaked out.

Girl that broke my finger said, "Sorry." And kept the pick.

Security took me through the crowd, to a medic, who took some information, and then gave me a wad of gauze to bite down on while the doctor put my finger kind-of back where it was supposed to be.

The doctor wrapped my whole hand in gauze and said I needed to go to the emergency room.

So the ambulance took me to the emergency room. I had three rounds of X-rays, some anti-anxiety medicine, and walked out six hours later with three prescriptions to be filled, a CD with my xrays on it, and a cast covered in two inches of padding going halfway up my right arm.

(Oh, had I not mentioned this was my right hand? My bad.)

Note: I didn't put the arrow on the xray but I did laugh at seeing it. I'm pretty sure even without the arrow a doctor could pinpoint, with some speed, the finger that needed attention.

I took a cab back to my hotel, made a few critical pone calls, put the do not disturb sign on my door, and slept for a few hours.

When I woke up, I put the hotel laundry bag over my arm, showered the best I could, got some coffee, and headed to Wrigley. I found a CVS near there, got my pills filled, and caught up with friends at Bernie's.

T'was there that Busted Stuff got her name.

But not before I found out that the guitar pick that Dave threw out was a Taylor Swift pick he had in his pocket. (Presumably from when they played the NFL show in New Orleans.)

(Yeah, I got broken for a Taylor Swift pick. Which is rather embarrassing.)

On the other hand, (ar ar), I found true compassion and care (and good humor) in the folks I spent that second afternoon and evening with. They know who they are. And they know that I am forever grateful.

The show was awesome, as expected. I took the train back to my hotel, got a decent night's sleep, packed up in the morning, went to the airport, and came home Sunday.

Tuesday I had an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon. He took a look at my X-rays and said it was a very bad break. And he wasn't comfortable fixing it, he'd prefer I see someone that only does hands.

So Wednesday I went to see another doctor. He said the bones in the knuckle were "pulverized." He'd do surgery the next day. Possibly with external pins, but the authorization form I signed said he could put hardware inside if that was what it took.

Well, that was what it took. A T-shaped plate, extra bone, and six tiny screws.

I came home with another cast half way up my right arm.

He did leave my index finger and thumb out of the cast. I could get my index finger to the keyboard if I turned my hand, so I was able to type with left hand, plus a finger.

A week after surgery the cast came off and I got a splint.

And started therapy. Which made me cry. Not because it hurt, but because up to that point I guess I didn't have any idea just how severe this injury was. Yes, there was only one "break" per se, but my middle finger and pinky finger had both sustained quite a bit of trauma as well.

I had been prepared to have one finger that wasn't working properly, but wasn't prepared to see three fingers refusing to bend when I told them to.

Right after that first round of therapy, I had a follow-up with the doctor.

"This was one of the worst breaks I've seen." (I'm number one, or two!")

He explained that I was looking at months of rehab, and a lot of hard work to get my hand right.

He also said that I should expect him to take the plate and screws out in a few months. Yes, they are meant to be left in, but because there is so little room on top of one's knucke and finger, he'd take the plate out, and also would be able to address any scar tissue problems at the same time.

I asked about work, and he said I'd be out for three months, maybe less depending on my progress.

And that's where I'm at today. I've got another physical therapy appointment this afternoon. I'm excited to have the therapist put the little measuring thing on my fingers to see how much further I can bend them today, from the baseline measurements last week.

And whatever it is, I'll take it.

I have no one thing in mind. So let's just see where this goes.

In Sheaness news, she seems to have stopped growing at just over the 5' 9" mark. And has inherited her dad's ability to ruin electronic devices at a rapid pace. Otherwise, she's mini-me. She knows it, and I know it, and it makes our relationship the greatest thing ever in my life.

We've talked about things - you know the things - since she was young. Now's she's a teen. And has a boyfriend. And will be driving within a year. The talks continue, and after all these years, I have to say, we're good at it. Boys, drugs, driving, peer pressure, tolerance, prioritization, trust, religion, being a good tipper.

Of course I liked her before this, but of her own accord she started liking Dave Matthews after their last album. I'd hear "Funny the Way It Is" playing in her room and just smile. Pretty soon she started asking to borrow my CDs, and now she knows which track numbers in the car are her favorites.

She took quite a liking to "Too Much." When she was little I would turn the volume down for the parts with bad words.

Now I turn it up.

And we laugh.

So speaking of Dave, the Atlanta show was awesome. Gov't Mule opened. They sang "Soulshine." It was wonderful.

On deck are the two shows at Wrigley in September, plus any others I can work into my schedule.

In other news, in the Twitter vs. Facebook thing, I have a definite preference for Twitter.

Maybe because there is less maintenance and admin involved.

But probably it's because of the fellow Dave Matthews Band fans there.

I don't have a care in the world about Twitter being occasionally unavailable. It happens. Demanding uptime and reliability from a free service seems a little self-indulgent to me anyway.

So I check Facebook every now and then, but TweetDeck stays open most of the time. One of these days I will get my Twitter feed back over there in the right-hand column. Probably not today.

Work continues to be primarily online. I have, in fact, denounced my road warrior title. I can't say I'm totally normal now, but I do shop for groceries, and drive my car to places other than the airport. I didn't mind at all my printer ink cartridges drying up from lack of printing boarding passes every week.

My house sits in the landing path of the airport, and several times a day, from my throne on the screened-in-porch I look up and a) wish them all safe travels, and b) give thanks for not being on that plane. Or any plane.

This week I'm learning an add-on application. Which is going to be easy in all regards. First, it's a relaunch of something we had years ago. Second, the application's function is something that is so ingrained in me that I don't even have to think about it. So all I got to do is learn the fields and actions. Third, it's self-paced. Best, like all the work I do at home, I do it from the porch, while watching the birds and other backyard creatures.

It's a real-life tweet deck.

I was walking from my spot near the stage over to one of the vendor tables, when there walking by himself was Jeff Coffin.

I said hi, oh my god you rock, and asked if he had time for a quick picture. He said yes.

Then I looked and realized that Sam was holding my camera. "Oh crap I don't have my camera!"

Jeff looked at me and said, "Don't you have a phone? Everyone has a camera on their phone." Busted, I took my humble Blackberry out of my pocket and said, "I have a Blackberry, it doesn't have a camera."

He took his Blackberry out of his pocket, held it up next to mine, it was the same kind, and said, "Mine doesn't have a camera either." Then we just laughed.

A couple standing nearby took the picture for me. I said thanks to Jeff and shook his hand. After he walked away, I wondered how there wasn't a crowd at that moment right there, but there wasn't.

Just me and one of the coolest dudes ever to suck on a reed. And a really kind couple with a camera at the ready, or there would have been no photographic evidence of such.

Awesomeness.

Over the course of 26 hours, I drove 1000 miles. By myself. Tried and failed multiple times to give away a free concert ticket. Lost the cover to my Blackberry. Got heatstroke. Ice melting all over me made it look like I wet my pants as I walked around. Had my camera snatched off my arm in the crowd.

Met Jeff Coffin.

The scales balance.

As they should.

It's a great thing that I have to look at my calendar to see when the last time I had to fly to work was. A couple of years ago, I thought the only thing that could make my already awesome job more awesome, would be if I could teach from home. Thanks to online training, I now get to teach from home more often than not.

Which means that on the days I work, I launch some software about 30 minutes before class starts, plug in a headset and microphone, and have a seat, usually at my table on the screened-in porch. When class is done, I close a browser window, take off my headset, and that's that.

There is no traffic either way, I don't have to worry about what I'm going to wear, and there is never a concern that the place I'm teaching at won't have coffee. Or half and half. Or a perfect view of a busy bird bath.

This also means that my wallet is lighter by three pieces of plastic - my Hertz President's Circle card, my Hilton VIP card, and my Delta Platinum Medallion card. I think that makes me officially not a road warrior anymore.

Twenty years seems like a good place to stop. So I totally got it when Dave Matthews announced the band was taking next summer off after touring for 20 years. My first thought when I saw the tweet was, "Well shit. They are probably beat." I certainly wasn't thinking, "Oh, woe is me." More like, "Let's get five shows in then this summer."

And let's make the last two shows in my home town, right before my birthday, at one of the greatest ball parks in the country. Please and thank you.

I don't give a rat's ass what the setlist is. As I said previously, DMB could play nothing but covers on broken instruments, and I'd stay for the whole show and be happy for the chance. It was a tweet, so I ran out of characters, but I could have added any number of other qualifiers. Fortunately there is a whole group of folks on Twitter that support and encourage my habit.

Obviously I haven't figured out how to get my tweets back here since the upgrade. Granted, it hasn't been my primary focus of late.

See, Sheaness has a boyfriend. I was laughing out loud to myself last night thinking about what the graph of Jalepeno's mileage B.B (before boyfriend) and since would look like. A near-vertical spike that has sustained itself at the top of the paper for a month.

Really, I couldn't be happier with her choice. He's setting a pretty high bar for future boyfriends, I have to say.

So Sheaness took a boat load of honors classes this year, her freshman year in high school.

And finished the year with all A's. And was Cadet of the Year in ROTC. And had the highest GPA of any freshman cadet. And was the color guard commander most of the year. And made a ton of friends. (Who know that if they have a question regarding Spanish, or military history, Sheaness will have the answer.)

We're calling it a success.

I don't know what I did in life to deserve her. But the other day, during one of our ice-cream chats, my 14 1/2 year old daughter looked me in the eye and said, "Mommy you have had a huge impact on my life."

Cried right into my ice cream. Tasted infinitely better with those few salty tears.

In other news, 40 days to Dave in DC. Still dateless. But I am confident Karma is on the clock.

I gave up on the Cupid thing. But kudos to people who have the fortitude to stick it out. Not for me.

Time now to get moving. Much to do today. Birthday to celebrate. Buttons to push. Dave tonight from Bonnaroo.

in the church of the porch of the queen this morning, I'm thankful.

For my incredible Sheaness.
For my beautiful family.
For Dave Matthews.
For vampires.

"You sent Dave Matthews a tweet. With a link to a 41 page post. And in tiny print up at the top you mention you are going to be in Vegas and ask to meet him and hang out with him after the show. And say please and thank you in Afrikaans."

"That's just the way the words came out."

"And you think that's going to work."

"You can't get what you don't ask for."

"He's probably thinking stalker."

"It's Vegas, baby. I'm going to risk it. Dice are already in the air."

So the other day I exported all 12 years of pondring to a text file for a backup.

Six hundred and sixty seven pages. (Even I was surprised.) That's just a fraction of what could have been posted. No, those six hundred and some pages were just excerpts from a much, much lengthier story.

I searched through the entire thing, and pulled out quite a few of the Dave Matthews posts. Truth be told, I could have kept on for hours, but stopped when I hit 41 pages. Because it really couldn't have been any other number.

I posted the entire lot, all 41 pages on one of pondring's appendages..

Give or take, it's 14,000 words. Which I hope is worth a picture. Maybe that 41 or any other art Dave sees fit to bestow after hanging with me for a bit after Thursday's show.

Believe it or not, comments are on over there.

Occam’s Razor: The simplest explanation for a phenomenon is most likely the correct explanation.

I was conceived the day Dave Matthews was born. When the angels assigned to him safely delivered him to earth, and went back up for their next assignment – me – they still had some Dave on their hands.

Rather than change it they simply ordained it to remain latent in me, psychologically and pathologically, for thirty years.

My sister made these for me. Ostensibly tea bag holders, but they have been, instead, put on my shelf and now hold tiny things that I pick up and play with as I putter about my house.

The forecast said only 20% but scattered thunderstorms were possible. I failed to notice the part where it said 100% humidity. And because I was sitting under my outdoor ceiling fan when I checked the weather I was a bit oblivious.

So I got out the mower and the bag and set off for the front yard. Made about three passes before I started to melt. Fortunately the amount of lawn in my front yard is small. And the city picks up absolutely anything one leaves at the curb, including grass and leaves, so dumping the bag is easy. Actually the whole thing is easy. Thirty minutes, maximum of four trips to dump the grass.

My brother built his wife a new sauna. Push mowing the yard I figure has much the same effect. Plus, despite my melting, I enjoy it.

And as long as the rain holds off, I will continue to enjoy my multitude of yard projects.

Plus, I got up early this morning and got five of my expense reports and my time sheet submitted. I feel like Rocky at the top of the steps when I hit SUBMIT that many times in a row. I don't know why I dread doing them so much when they are as easy as they are.

The sweat has stopped running down my face. For the moment anyway, I've stopped below the ceiling fan on the porch.

As I believe I mentioned on either Twitter or FB, I've got five weeks off starting this Friday. Three of those weeks are compliments of a sabbatical program at work, and two are regular vacation.

There's lots of sweat dripping in my near future.

And rock raking.

Somewhere in the very near future I need to learn enough Italian to get Shea and I around Rome.

We're still only at a third of our arbitrary budget.

Speaking of Sheaness.

And the show on Fuse is just icing on the cake.

Damn. Dave looks great and is sounding equally delicious.

I'm home, having coffee, and listening to Big Whiskey. For the umpteenth time, but the first time in the quiet that is my home. Just me and the band.

I've got a friend in the DC area that found me through (if memory serves) a Dave-related post on pondring a few years ago. It was the first common thread. Derrick is as big a fan as I am.

(He also seems to share my lack of spatial perception.)

I was working near DC a couple of years ago, so he and I met for the first time for dinner. This past week I let him know I'd be in the area, so he came downtown Tuesday night. He sent me a text earlier in the day saying he was at the store buying Big Whiskey, and got me one too.

When we caught up with each other outside the Verizon Center, I remembered to hug him first and THEN ask for the CD.

We walked and talked and eventually found our way to Gordon Biersch for some beers and dinner.

I've previously mentioned that Derrick is one funny mofo. His job is one I find particularly fascinating, and he's got no shortage of stories. I found myself snorting repeatedly.

Fortunately it only served to encourage him. We walked and talked more after dinner, until late. Well, late for me. He's a night owl.

Wednesday night we met in Reston's Towne Center. Walked around a bit and finally found our way to a cool restaurant that had a bar outside. We sat and drank and talked and people-watched for a while.

I snorted.

We were sitting at the short end of the bar. When I sat down there was a large white envelope leaning against the wall. The bartender asked if it was mine, and I said no. Thinking someone might come back for it, we left it there.

After a bit of time curiosity got the better of me, so I opened the envelope. It was a resume and a CD.

Derrick and I started to postulate. I wondered whether I should call the guy's number from the bottom of the paper. Then wondered if maybe he had met someone here for an interview, and the interviewer didn't think the resume was worth taking with him. Maybe. So if I called the guy, maybe he'd know the interview sucked.

Who knows.

Eventually I took the papers out of the envelope, found the phone number at the bottom, and called it.

The guy that answered the phone had never heard the name I gave him from the resume. I said thanks and hung up.

Then kept reading. There were some serious typos in the thing.

I put it back in the envelope, handed it to the bartender, and told him what it was, and that I had called the number on it with no luck.

He took it from me, looked at it for about 20 seconds, pondring, you could see it.

He put the thing in the trash.

And Derrick and I continued our conversation. Which include more stories about his job, running bar-patron-people-watching commentary, and more snorts.

We had a nice dinner, and while eating, the skies opened up. It was still pouring when we were done eating, and neither of us had an umbrella. So we darted our way from awning to awning, and then through a movie theatre, toward the parking garages.

We got to the garage I was parked in first, so I drove him to his car, which was in a garage just down the road. When he got in, Big Whiskey was, of course, in the CD player of the crap rental car.

(Which made it tolerable.)

I put on his favorite song, drove the short distance, we said our goodbyes, and I went back to DC.

(Thursday he had to work, and I, having stayed up for three nights in a row until midnight or after, ordered food in my room and was asleep by 9:30.)

I called him when I got home last night, and right away heard the music in the background. "That sounds like Grux," I say.

"It is," he says. Then says the CD is playing for the fourth time in a row.

What's not to like about that.

Right now, I've got three more times through ahead of me, in the quiet of my home. Me, coffee, and the band.

Thanks again, Derrick, for Big Whiskey, the walks and talks. And snorts.

I thought Jimmy did an excellent job here.

Is a penny saved toward hiring Dave to play at my birthday party. But two bonuses earned from busting my ass last year got me there a whole lot faster.

I'm having a hard time using prudent in a sentence here.

No idea why that song is going through my head. But I figured it best to let it out.

So I was able to get an earlier flight out of Boston today. And when one is going to get home at the time one had planned to leave, well one doesn't mind riding in steerage.

The flight attendants don't make announcements when first class is boarding, and since I was close to the next one on the plane after that, I heard all of the announcements.

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen and welcome aboard Delta flight [whatever] to Atlanta's Hartsfield Jackson International Airport. A few reminders as you are getting settled in. Each passenger is allowed two carry-on bags. We ask that you put your larger item in the overhead compartment, and your smaller item under the seat in front of you so that we may accommodate everyone's bags for our flight this afternoon.

Thank you and welcome aboard.

Two minutes later...

And once again good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. For those of you just joining us we would like to take this opportunity to welcome you on board today. We are ten minutes away from an on-time departure for our two hour and twenty minute flight to Atlanta's Hartsfield Jackson International Airport. We ask for your help in ensuring an on-time departure today. We ask that those of you in the aisles please step out of the aisle once you have found your seat to allow those passengers seated behind you to make their way to their seats.

Once we have reached our cruising altitude, we will let you know when it is safe to use approved portable electronic devices. A list of approved portable electronic devices may be found in the Sky Magazine located in the seat-back pocket in front of you.

Minutes after that it was a repeat of BOTH previous announcements in some form or fashion…

And once again ladies and gentlemen…

Except this time we were five minutes until an on-time departure. I bet he said the full name of the Atlanta airport at least five times before we took off. Plus the requisite…

Prior to aircraft movement, all passengers must in their seats with seatbelts securely fastened, and baggage stowed, seat backs and tray tables in their fully locked and upright position. Window shades need to be open, and all electronic devices need to be placed in the off position and stowed for takeoff. Flight attendants will be coming through the aisles to answer any questions you may have and then must be seated for taxi and takeoff. Thank you and welcome on board.

Meanwhile, I’m in the window seat on the three-seat side, watching the plane fill up. And still the two seats beside me remained empty. Imagine my delight when they remained so after the boarding door was closed.

I moved to the aisle seat and stretched out. [Membership has its privileges.] Of course the closing of the boarding door triggers yet another announcement. Albeit it a short one, and sans fruit references.

Moments later as we push back from the gate, the safety stuff starts. All passengers are asked to pay close attention, even if we are frequent fliers.

No.

Because the chances are high that if a substantial change (in the design, function, or operation of the aircraft in general, or any component therein of which it was necessary for me to have carnal knowledge) had transpired since I last flew, an announcement would contain words unfamiliar, and my ears would pick it up right away.

Otherwise, paying attention is not going to result in any additional new information for my brain relative to the safety procedures or mine or your responsibilities on board this aircraft at any time. I am well aware of the location of the exits, and that the closest one may be behind me. I know how to operate a seat belt. I know where the life jackets are and how to use them. I know I cannot smoke anywhere on the plane. I know what I can, and cannot place in the on position while on board. I know where the seat-back pocket is. I know the Sky Magazine is mine to take with me if I wish. I know that if my Sky magazine has been written in, that I can ask a flight attendant for another one. I know where the passenger service unit is. I know how to operate the lights, the air vent, the flight attendant call button, and to press it again if I hit it by mistake, and that will turn it off. I know that the air bag may not fully inflate, and I know not to touch the dispensing unit.

Like fucking Pavlov’s dog I respond to the dings and bells and the landing gear going up and down. Your unnecessary verbosity and gross misuse of the English language perplex and annoy me.

Seems to me you could say one time, once everyone is on board, in a clear, deliberate voice what flight we are on and where we are going. Use the entire name of the airport if you feel you must, but really, once is enough.

For those that feel the insatiable urge to tell us where we are going [once again ladies and gentlemen], after we are already in the air, then in the name of all that is good and succinct, the city will suffice. Save syllables (Atlanta and Cincinnati both come to mind) and use your breath on more important matters, like pronouncing the city right.

And. Please. Stop. Starting. Every. Sentence. With. And.

Take a cue from Dave Matthews. “Hello again.” Then get on with it.

Here, or wherever your final destination may take you.

See. I let one song out and another one came in.

Thanks, Dave.

I got a little bit more time until I have to say goodbye to October.

For your reading pleasure, interesting facts about Dave's song Halloween.

I had two on-time, first class flights home today, two stellar crews, spent my time between flights in Atlanta having Qdoba vegetarian nachos, listening to the woman play the baby grand in the E concourse, and having a delightful conversation in Spanish with Diego, a 18-month old little boy who was standing on the other side of the countertop table where I was eating.

Diego was on his way to London, but seemed way more interested in the straw he was chewing on.

After I ate, I strolled back to the B concourse, talked to my brother, my mom, and left a message for my sister; and wandered to my gate.

(For Halloween today I was dressed as a hopeful Cubs fan.)

At the gate, a man approached me and said, "ah, the Cubs fan I almost knocked over in the E concourse."

Seemed to me I would have remembered almost being knocked over. Maybe not. Tough to say. So I said what came to my mind.

"Huh?"

He made his claim again and then proceeded to launch into a lengthy story about his experiences with the Chicago Cubs.

Without taking a breath it seems, he then told me all about his work, and told me he was on a project from hell.

Then proceeded to describe, in detail, the hell.

The Delta agent called him to the podium, and when he got back he announced to me that the agent had told him to wait to board because he may be upgraded.

Then he just kept on talking. Meanwhile he starts digging in his bag and hands me a business card.

It didn't do much to answer my unspoken question of "who the hell are you?"

Fortunately they called for boarding not long after that, so I excused myself from the one-sided conversation and got on the plane.

Wheels down less than an hour later. No bags checked, Jalepeno at the front of the garage, and no traffic on the highway.

Home.

I turned on the computer and checked my email. Happy to see there were just a couple of new ones, and nothing that needed attention today.

So I shut that down, then went and browsed pondring's stats page.

It's been a busy October. And when I bothered to look to the column on the right, I see its possible pondring will reach 100,000 hits here by the end of the year.

Huh.

That's kind of cool.

And it's also kind of funny, because I don't know who the hell you guys are, either.

Well, that's not entirely true. I think I could now name over 10 of you.

The rest, who's to say.

Happy Halloween, either way.

While I was out digging in the dirt yesterday, I kept looking down thinking I had something on my arm.

I did. A new tattoo. Tattoo two.

My firedancer. With her newly-tattooed red aura which will go away. And that’s okay.

I went in to the shop on Sunday. An odd little man behind the counter got some basic information from me, and then asked me which artist I wanted.

I said, “I looked on your website, and any of them would be overqualified for what I want, and it’s okay if they laugh at me.”

After a few moments, I was introduced to an artist, whose name I did not catch due to the very high volume of the rock music playing. He was busy with someone else, but stopped for a moment to see the little picture I brought with me, and give me an estimate.

The odd little man got a deposit from me, and made an appointment for Monday at 12:30.

I will admit that the artist scared me ever so slightly. But he seemed to do good work.

When I got there yesterday, I went to use the bathroom, and noticed him in his room spraying down everything. I then noticed that the bathroom was cleaner than pretty much any other one I’ve ever seen, and the checklists on the walls were up to date.

Better 5S than most businesses I’ve seen, too. (I know they have to. Technically, there are lots of places that have to and yet, don’t.)

And the artist, turned out to be named Buck, was a teddy bear.

He had printed a template and held it out to me once I got settled in.

I held out the same template, modified to suit the style of me.

I wanted smooth lines. I wanted her ass smaller. And her arms to look less like stumps. More symmetrical. And no ribs showing. Solid black. I did leave her right arm ever so slightly spooky.

So he suggested he make the tracing directly from my drawing. I said cool.

When Buck had the outline cut out, he placed it on the very center of my forearm. Which was a different place than I had said I wanted a day earlier.

Then I was surprised to find I had a preference to NOT have it centered. He moved it up, and moved it down, and I decided on up.

Oh, how very much it felt like he was slicing into my arm with a large sharp knife. I was sure if I looked, that I would see my right forearm flayed, firedancer flap of skin flapping in the wind, so to speak.

And yet, I looked. Glanced, really. And didn’t see any blood. I think he was barely done with her foot.

I admitted to Buck I’m a bit of a woos, so he capably held my arm down after that.

Once it was way past too late to change her location, he told me that the further up the forearm one goes toward the elbow, the more painful it is.

I said had he told me that at the beginning, she’d be a lot lower on my arm.

He said he never mentions pain to someone.

I thought that sounded like a really good strategy.

So as it turned out, it’s a different size, different color, and in a totally different place than Sunday's tattoo would have been.

Pondring anything does that, you know.
Sometimes it conjures better.

Now if I can just get Dave to autograph her with a 41.

LeRoi Moore, the saxophone player from the Dave Matthews Band died yesterday.

Sad, sad, sad. And I just knew the music.

Can't compare to those that knew the man.

Could I have been lost somewhere in Paris?

Not with Nuvi, no. (My ex updated it for me about a month ago, and when he gave it back to me he had changed the vehicle on the display. He said he first considered the wood-paneled station wagon, but in the end decided on the short bus.)

I finished my class in St. Louis today about 3:00 and headed to the airport pondring perhaps getting an earlier flight. I turned in my rental car, got on the bus, got off at the terminal, went inside and checked the boards to find both the 3:00 hour and the 4:00 hour flights to Atlanta cancelled. I tried to check in for my flight at the kiosk and got a message saying that there was some problem with my flight.

So I got in line, and while waiting got on the phone to the travel agent.

Weather in Atlanta, it seems. The travel agent says there is a flight on American through Chicago that would get me home at ten something. Except it left in 45 minutes. Not enough time to make that one.

Everything else headed the right direction is sold out. I tell her I'll continue to wait in line and see what the agent said.

My flight is delayed over two hours. I'd miss my connection in Atlanta, but could drive home from there. I did the math lightening fast in my head and figured I'd be home by about 3 AM.

But there was more math to be done, of the probability variety.

There was the chance that I'd wait around until 8:45 PM, and that flight wouldn't leave at all. Then I'd be stuck in STL for the night, and considering I'm leaving for vacation tomorrow night, that thought didn't appeal to me at all.

I walked away from the agent without checking in or making any decisions and went outside to ponder.

While reaching in my bag for my phone charger, Nuvi jumped out at me and told me that if I drove home (yes from St. Louis), that I'd get here at 4:13 AM.

So I went to the rental car counter, booked a car, and when the guy printed my receipt he said, "wow you got a good deal. Hey, Steve, guess how much her rental is for a one way drop in Greenville?"

Steve didn't venture a guess. I didn't either, but had I, I would have been WAY off.

Fifty six bucks for a mid-size car.

I ask, "does it have tires?"

He says yes, four of them.

"And an engine?"

"Yep. And air conditioning. Can you believe that Steve?"

I really don't think Steve cared. Nor did I. Delta refunded me 400 dollars for the flight I wasn't going to take. Anything less than that for the car was a bonus.

So I got in the car and drove home. Stopped once for gas and two Red Bulls at about midnight, found a great radio station in Nashville, and apart from the fact that I couldn't see the Great Smoky Mountains as I drove through them, it wasn't a bad drive.

I pulled into the rental car return spot in Greenville at 4:14 AM. (Nuvi is like magic sometimes.)

I filled out the little rental return thing, and as I walked toward the terminal noticed an unusual volume of people inside.

As the sliding doors opened, a guy was walking out with a checked bag in his hand. And I could see behind him many people still waiting at baggage claim. I asked him where he had just come from.

"American flight from Chicago. Should have been here at ten something."

I said thanks, dropped my keys off at the counter, found Jalenpeno right where I left her, paid the parking machine, and headed south once more.

When I pulled in my driveway there was standing water on it, and I could see in the headlights that the mulch in the front yard was almost black. Involuntarily my mind went back to the moment at the ticket counter in St. Louis almost exactly 12 hours previous and it played the drive home.

When I opened the door, had any creatures been watching or listening, they would have seen me smile largely and say out loud, "yeah, but we had RAIN."

And everything was okay.

La la la hey.

Hey my friend it seems your eyes are troubled. Care to share your time with me? Would you say you're feeling low? And so a good idea would be to get it off your mind.

Dave, Dave, Dave. A prelude to an entire evening in a verse.

I love you, man.

So I did. I got it off my mind.

And he said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Then before I could shake my head he asked again, more slowly, and if possible, with even more disbelief in his voice, “are…you…fucking…kidding…me. Who does that?”

And now that some time has passed, I can tell the story.

The he in question asking me this was a story all by himself. Many years younger than me, obscenely good looking, single, professional, and a very stylish dresser.

We were leaning on the railing of an outdoor balcony in a really nice hotel. How we got to be there was a story all by itself too. (He and I leaning – not the physics of getting to the hotel.) My girlfriends, sisters from different mothers, had been with me earlier in the evening (along with about 200 of our closest coworkers and managers) to see my long-term relationship with a man (one of the 200 present) implode. Maybe it was explode. Either way, there was a plode involved. (And that word is now (C) 2008 Me.)

And it would just be an understatement to say that it (the aforementioned plode, you're going to have to pay attention here) caught me off guard.

So my girlfriends rallied around me, deciding I need some distraction. And chose one of the single guys from the crowd as my date for the evening.

No half measures there.

First he should look like a GQ model. Check.

And be totally single and unattached. Check.

And be dressed to the nines, in that model-way. Check.

And be half my age, or there about, please and thank you.

Check. And you’re welcome.

I’ll tell you what I was telepathing to my BFFs and it just about rhymes with are you fucking kidding me: I’m 40, and have just been unceremoniously dismissed by a short, fat, bald man, and you taunt me with the eye candy.

And of course my potential date had an entire arsenal of responses which I’m sure in his young life he has used countless times to fend off ladies: he had plans; it was packing night; he had gone out the night before and wanted an early evening; not no but hell no you’re old; and the now infamous, AYFKM.

Did he use a one of them? Nope, he declared me and my outfit amazing, and took my hand for the rest of the evening.

This thusly began for us on the balcony. Where I got it off my mind. He learned why my girlfriends figured I might need some distraction and general looking-after at that particular moment in history.

And you already know his response.

Was there anything that could be done? No. Then make the best of what’s around.

Let’s see, short fat bald guy avoiding me like Dengue fever, or, um totally the opposite of that standing right there with me holding my hand.

You may already expect that Dave’s got the resolution.

Well she ran up into the light surprised
Her arms are open
Her mind's eye is
Seeing things from a
Better side than most can dream
On a clearer road I feel
Oh you could say she's safe
Whatever tears at her
Whatever holds her down
And if nothing can be done
She'll make the best of what's around.

Hey, la la la.