Transitory

Cloud upon cloud, piled on high
An ethereal mountain in the sky
I fix my gaze and begin to climb
But it dissipates before my eyes

Moon’s reflection on a stream
A silver disc; a frozen beam
I reach my hand to feel its sheen
But ripples end my wishful dream

Hope for things I only dare
Fears I can no longer bear
I lift my pen, my thoughts to share
But find they are no longer there

Guest House

As we stood there talking

facing each other through the screen door

Her sleepy eyes tight in the morning sun

A breeze from the lake tugging at her hair

A large gray sweatshirt down to her bare legs

She never looked more beautiful

And I found myself wondering

why we never

Classroom Girl

She has a pretty face

But she never smiles

I’ve never seen her smile

She has an exotic look

Her skin is creamy white

And she has beautiful almond eyes

And full, sensual lips

She sits at the far end of the row

Tucked up against the wall

Hair pulled up tight on her head

Streaks of blonde in brown

I saw her earlier in the day

Walking in the Commons

Her hair was down, and it was beautiful

I wish she would wear it that way more often

She always looks tired

Her eyes seem baggy and worn

Does she just have a busy schedule

Or is it a secret life?

She sits there at her table

Only speaking when she must

Staring at her computer screen

Typing and writing, doing her work

But she never

Ever

Smiles

Another Day

Clothes are piled up on the foot of my bed. The left side of the pile is mostly clean clothes that have recently been removed from the dryer, while the right side is stuff that I have worn over the last few days. The pile has become mixed up enough that the distinction becomes difficult to make, however. There are a few books sticking out from under the pile as well, and at least one DVD. I threw them on the bed when I got home from the book store the other day, and they haven’t moved since.

On the floor next to the head of my bed are even more books and DVDs. The end of my desk nearest the bed has a pile of neglected paperwork sitting on it. In various locations around my room, more dirty clothes are piled on the floor. Each pile contains the remains of one outfit, complete with socks and underwear.

You can always tell when I’m depressed by the state of my bedroom.

I pull off my sweatshirt and toss it on the floor next to the closet. I unbutton my pants, letting them drop to my ankles. I kick them next to my sweatshirt, pull off my socks and underwear, and add another outfit to the floor.

I grab a pair of sweatpants from the pile on my bed. I think they are clean, but I can’t say for sure because they are in the center of the pile. I throw on a pair of bootie socks from the clean side, and I grab a t-shirt. After I finish dressing, I sit down at my computer.

That pile of stuff desperately needs attention. There are forms to consolidate my student loans in there, and I know that I am behind at least two payments on one of them. For that reason, there is also a form to apply for a hardship deferment. I also have some long-neglected financial statements to go over from my bank, and a few other bills that are due any day now.

I try not to even think about the website I was supposed to start for my cousin almost two months ago.

Instead I surf the Internet. When I tire of doing that, I play a game on my computer. When I’m finished with the game I grab a late-night snack of peanuts and a few cheese sticks. I also pour myself a tall glass of iced tea. An hour or more of surfing the web, and I’m ready for bed.

After I brush my teeth, I stand in the middle of the room and look at the pile on my bed. I’ve been meaning to clear it off, but I’m too lazy to fold all of those clothes. Instead I just pull back the covers, crawl underneath, and bury my lower body beneath the pile. As I lay there in bed, I ponder the image of hiding under a pile of clothes in my bedroom. Hibernating, like a bear under a brush pile in the winter.

I’m tired. Tired of fighting battles with invisible demons that only I can see. Tired of being judged by external appearances, or a lack of physical accomplishments. Tired of keeping myself going, when all I want to do is quit. Tired of moving forward, when all I want to do is stop. Tired of waiting for something different.

Tired of hope.

I turn on my portable DVD player and slip into another world. Tonight I am on a 19th century sailing ship, waiting to see if young Horatio Hornblower will be able to get us through the Spanish fleet he has mistakenly sailed through in the fog. I checked out a box set of the A&E series from the library, and so far I’m enjoying it.

At some point I realize that my eyes are closed, and that I’m just listening to the dialogue. Shortly after that, I realize that I’m not even listening to the dialogue anymore. I open my eyes long enough to turn off the player. I slide it next to me on the bed, and then I roll over and go to sleep.

I dream about the past... non-specific images, but they leave an aftertaste of that old feeling of being at college when I was 18, living on my own for the first time and realizing that I have a whole life ahead of me to create...

I wake up in the morning and sit up in my bed, stretching my back for a few moments. I get out of bed and walk over to the master bathroom. When I finish I walk back and stand in the center of my room, surveying the carnage around me. I try to remember my dreams, but I can’t. I just have a strange, subtle feeling stirring deep inside of me.

I slowly bend down and start picking up my clothes.

The Harper

...The dinner over, and the gentlemen gathered to wine and discourse, there entered one who whispered something to Mr. Delahide; whereupon, addressing his Excellency, he told him that an old Irish harper stayed without, and would he allow him to come in, and give the company a specimen of his quality.

This his Excellency permitting, they brought in the harper, who was in truth a man very old and venerable to look on; having a long white beard which fell to his breast. His clothes were of green flannel, made after this country's manner, belted in at the waist, and falling below the knee. His legs bare, only for short hose of wool, and his feet shod with shoes or buskins of wolf skin; the hair outside, tied with two thongs across the instep, the toes and heels flat, and the name of them, as I understand, in the Irish tongue "pampooties" or "pampooters”. His head was also bare, the hair on it of a snowy whiteness, falling heavily over his forehead in a "glibbe". For his face it was well writ over with the map of his age, only the eyes still dark and fiery; and the look of them very strange, being both fierce and timorous at once.

His harp was larger than any harp I had yet seen in this country, Standing some four feet from the ground, and painted a lively green colour with sundry devices, and traceries of curious significance; also leaves and other ornaments, but all much bleached and defaced, doubtless by rough weather and the evil usage it had met with.

He -- coming forward in a lull of the discourse -- bowed himself low to the company, especially to his Excellency, who sat at the head of the table. And immediately he began to stray his fingers lightly over the strings, running from one to the other, and looking about him, fearfully yet confidently, as if to ask what was wished. And that strain he played reminded me of the song that I had heard sung by the wild woman in the hollow place of the wood, the morning that I rode forth from Kilkenny with the Butler kerne, and lost my way in the forest. And, having come to an end of it, he paused, and looked round from one to another, as it were from under the pent-house of his brows, which for all his age were black and still very thick.

Then certain airs were commanded, which he played; and afterwards Mr. Delahide said some words to him in the Irish tongue, urging him to play or sing something; at which he shook his head, yet it seemed to me reluctantly, as if he would fain have done that which was required of him, only durst not.

"What asked you of him?" enquired his Excellency, who like myself had observed this commerce between them.

"I desired him" replied Mr. Delahide "to sing a dirge, which he himself had composed, and which in times past I have often heard him sing, in honour of one Rory Oge O'More, whose harper or "Sennachie" -- that being the Irish word -- he formerly was, which of all pieces writ in the Irish tongue seemed ever to me the most moving, both for the words and the air thereof."

"And who or what was this Rory Oge O'More?" asked his Excellency "for meseems his name is familiar to me."

"As vile, dangerous, and pestilent a Rebel as ever this land, which is rich in little else, hath bred!" cried the President of Munster. "And I wonder that Mr. Delahide would even name him in this presence, still less desire songs in his honour to be sung before one who stands as our Queen's Viceregent, and before whom the countenancing of such songs is a clear insolence to her greatness."

"Yet, methinks, as the song in question is in the Irish tongue, and that none here save myself, and possibly you, my lord President, know ought of that language, it were scarce perilous to the loyalty even of the least wary to sit and listen to what they could by no means understand!" Mr. Delahide said mockingly, and with a smile upon his lips.

"Mary, that is true!" cried his Excellency. "Therefore, Mr. Delahide, I charge you to command him to sing this song, about which you have moved my curiosity, and, if danger there be in his singing, I myself will be his surety that no harm shall happen to him for the said cause."

His Lordship having so spoken, Mr. Delahide spake a few words again in Irish to the harper; who thereat straightened himself, flinging suddenly off that bowed and dejected aspect he had hitherto worn, and looking a full score of years younger, so brightly did his eyes flash and his whole face alter. And he looked about him now, no longer scared and timorous, but with a fierce defiant air; and especially I noted that he so looked at the President of Munster, as much as to say that he understood his animosity, yet feared it not, having the sanction of one that was greater than he.

So, having turned his harp about, he lifted it a little, and set it upon a stool or trestle that stood there; and placing himself beside it, struck his hands across the strings with a careless gesture. Then, having played awhile, he suddenly broke out into a sort of singing, which yet was hardly singing, but rather a chant or crooning noise, which swelled and swelled so that at times it seemed to rise to the very rafters, rolling and beating about like thunder within our ears, and again to sink till it was no louder than the whisper of a summer stream over grass and small stones; his harp the while seeming to follow and take part, more like a thing of separate life joining in at its own pleasure, than an instrument played by the hands. Stranger singing and playing I never heard before, nor expect to ever hear again.

It chanced that, being next to the window, I saw what was not, I think, seen of others in the company. For when that strange song or chant first began all the kernes, gallowglasses, and other wild Irish mustered without started and stared, seeming to prick their ears, as a horse does at the sound of the trumpet. Presently, as it went on, they began to draw nearer and nearer; yea the very bearers of burdens and churls -- creatures seemingly scarce human -- gathered, till a score or more were below the window. And I marked that they looked one at the other with eyes wide open, as if asking how such a song came to be heard in such a place and before such company. Then -- that wild singing still continuing, and rising ever louder and louder -- they began to grip at one another with their hands, and to move to and fro with their feet, as if they would fain have broken into wild dancing and leaping. Only, whenever anyone came out of the castle, they all dispersed suddenly; or fell flat upon the ground, hoping to escape notice in the dark, but so soon as that person had passed on, they rose up again, and crept nearer and nearer, as if their very souls fed upon what they heard!

The evening growing late, as soon as this strange song or dirge was over, and my Lord had dismissed the old man with a fair gift of money, the company broke up...

~ Emily Lawless, "With Essex in Ireland (Being extracts from a Journal Kept in Ireland during the year 1599 by Mr. Henry Harvey, Sometime Secretary to Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex)”, London, 1902. pps 156-161

Poetic Rebuttal

She:

I sit
and I wait
to watch you make your mind up
I cannot make it for you anymore than
I could form the words like marbles on
your tongue
Tell me the truth
just once
and set down your fists
gnarled relics of fear
and mist your cheeks with the
flood you know is coming
Its safe here
you can cry
no less a man for doing so
Be brave
As brave as I have had to be to love you

Me:

I live in the moment
So my mind is continuously made
Reborn each second of my existence

The truth has been spoken
But the words go unheard
They are not the words you desire

You say my fists are gnarled in fear?
They contain jewels for the one I will love

My tears flow when they must
And there is no shame
For I stand bravely, with honesty in my heart
And truth in my words

Motivational Moment

Isn’t it sad how easily we lose sight of our dreams?

We all have unrealized dreams. It could be finishing your degree, a trip you want to take, an art form you want to try, or a friendship you want to rekindle. Maybe you always wanted to try singing karaoke in a bar full of drunks, to learn how to play the guitar, or you'd love to see the Sistine Chapel. Perhaps you think you’d make a good sculptor, or you’d like to try fly-fishing, or you always wanted to learn to speak Russian.

Maybe deep down you know that you are really a teacher, a police officer, a writer, a forest ranger, or a stand-up comedian. It could be as simple as wanting to bake a perfect soufflé, or as complicated as improving your relationship with your estranged mother.

There are things we always plan on doing, but somehow never get around to. And there are dreams from childhood that we allow to become covered with dust -- one mote at a time.

Maybe we didn’t know how to start, or we started down the path and were deterred. Maybe we tried once or twice and failed. Or maybe we only dreamt about it, but we always intended to do it.

“I’ll do it later." “I’ll do it tomorrow." “I’ll do it next week." “I’ll do it next month." And the years pass us by.

How quickly we allow random happenings in our lives to box us in and define our limitations. We all have to share our lives with others, of course, and we should. Without others our life has little meaning. But so often we give up control of large chunks of our lives to other people based only on external circumstances.

We become mired in roles, in jobs, in relationships, in self-concepts. “I just don’t have the time to do it now." “It’s too late for me." “I’m too old to do that." “I’m too shy." “My dad wouldn't like it." “I have responsibilities now." “I can’t afford it." “I'll look like an idiot." “I’m too out of shape." “My friends will think I'm weird."

“What if I fail?”

If your life were ending tonight, what would your regrets be?

I’m not talking about things that you wish you could change from your past. What is done is done. And besides, there isn’t a single life story in the entire history of humanity that doesn’t include failure, pain, sorrow, mistakes, or weakness. Not one. Accepting your past (and who you are) is often the first step to living in the present.

I’m talking about the things that you haven’t done yet. Those things you always wanted to try. That person you always wanted to get to know better. That place you always wanted to go. That thing you always meant to change.

That person you always wanted to be.

One truth we can all count on is that our lives will eventually end. But here is another truth: If you are reading this, you are still here. Your life still belongs to you. And the only person truly in control of it is you. You have the power to do whatever you want with it.

Your life belongs to you, and only you can live it.

Sure, others will influence you, put pressures on you, or have demands for your time. But it is you who should control how much they steer your course in life. Only you should decide how much of yourself to give away, and how much of yourself to keep. No matter how much you want to be there for others, if you don't take care of your own needs from time to time you will eventually have nothing left to give.

There is only one you, and there will never be another. So don't forget that you deserve to have your own dreams fulfilled, too.

Belated Apology

I was eating lunch today
and I heard your song

The one that you said

you wished somebody shared with you
as your special song

I know you think I abandoned you
but I had to reject the illusion
that had formed between us

Not because you lied to me

but because you were lying to yourself

I just waved my hand
and dispelled the dream

Our dream

And even though I did the right thing
it still hurts

And I’m sorry

Unintentional

Your words gave me strength today.

I don’t know why, really. They told of your weakness, not my strength. You exposed your vulnerability, your pain, and in doing so, your incredible beauty. I felt them deeply when I read them, but I feel them more even now. They still vibrate in my soul, like the fading hum of a tuning fork.

I don’t know you, but I feel like I could love you. How can that be?

Wait. I think I understand. It has been so long that I nearly didn't recognize it.

You have brushed against that remembered feeling of unconditional love. A love that has the ability to overlook the flaws and failures of the past, and stay focused on the potential of the future. A love that is able to see beyond the defects of the moment; holding on to that which is good and worthy and promising. A love that offers strength in the middle of weakness and suffering.

I don't know you, but you have touched something inside me. I have read your words, and they have given me strength. They have given me hope, and you have reminded me of the promise of the life that I have left.

What could be more worthy of love than that?

The Field

I needed to escape
but I had nowhere to go

So I ran to the field

Through my back yard
over the chain link fence
down the hill through the woods

The moonlight showed the path
as I ran through the grass
to a lonely tree by the tracks

Just three blocks more
and I’d be at her house

But I would never go there again

Underneath the small tree
I collapsed to my knees
Sobs became wails
as I finally lost control
So loud that I was afraid
somebody would hear me

On and on they went
until a passing train

strangled them to silence

Erosion

“You’ve always been my rock,” she said. “How can you not be here for me?"

“Eventually, even a rock will be worn away to nothing by the relentless pounding of the sea,” I replied.

The Princess of Qatar

There is a shining star I see

It beckons from afar

The soul, the mind, the beauty of

The Princess of Qatar

Her regal grace and bearing

Betray her noble birth

But they do not encompass

The essence of her worth

Her face the bane of poets

Who struggle through the night

Tormented by her beauty

They scribble and they write

Her mind weighs contradiction

And measures truth and worth

Her soul, it aches for beauty

The beauty of the Earth

Her voice beyond enchanting

To be heard at any price

A wondrous, lilting symphony

Of birds in Paradise

Her scent a velvet prison

That captures every man

A wondrous blend of perfumes

Made by her very hand

Her heart a drum of passion

That gives the universe

The rhythm and the tempo

That is has known from birth

She mirrors my desire

My loyalty and love

The very image of my soul

Reflected from above

Though I may never savor

Her lips upon my face

Her memory has given me

A kiss that never fades

Innocence

My good friend Debbie’s mother passed away a few years ago. The funeral was in Duluth, about 3 hours away. When I got to the funeral the reception area was already full of people.

I walked around until I found Debbie and her daughter Elisha, talking to some relatives. At the time Elisha was five years old, and she was adorable in her brand new dress and cute little shoes. After talking to me for a bit, Debbie asked Elisha to show me the picture that she had drawn for the funeral.

Elisha took my hand and led me over to a table where various drawings from the grandchildren were displayed. Just as we reached the table, she suddenly let go of my hand and stared up at me intently. She had a look of deep concentration on her face.

I stared back, wondering what she could possibly be thinking. After a few moments, she came to a decision. “You’re handsome,” she said, in a very matter-of-fact manner. She uttered this assessment with the utmost confidence, and then turned and showed me the picture that she had drawn without another thought on the matter.

Elisha had never seen me so dressed up before, and I guess it must have made an impression on her. But regardless of the circumstances, her comment was such a pure, undeniable truth in her mind that it melted straight through my heart.

After the funeral, all the kids went outside to release balloons filled with helium that they had written messages on for their Grandma. We all gathered around to watch as they released them to the sky. It was a windy, overcast day, and the balloons quickly soared away from the parking lot. We watched them go, whirling and dancing as they became smaller and smaller. They were soon out of sight, and everybody began turning away and leaving the funeral.

As the crowd cleared, I saw little Elisha standing by herself and staring up at the sky. I looked up, and following her line of sight I could just barely make out one last tiny dot against a gray cloud far, far away. Everybody else had left, but Elisha was still standing there watching.

She was waiting to see if Grandma got her balloon.

Confession

I take the feelings that she brushed

with her words

with her breath

The feelings inside

that I am unable to find

alone

And once discovered

I sink my fingers into them

I dig them out

Formless emotions

smeared on my fingertips

I use them

to paint my words

For you

For all of you

But the feelings are mine

they do not belong with her

I do not share this love

and I wonder

if I ever will

Candlelight

I sit alone in my room, contemplating the flickering light on my table.

How easy it is to see our lives like a candle.

A candle begins fresh and new. Taken from a protective wrap, it is displayed to the world for all to see. The wick is lit and it begins to burn. At times it burns higher or lower, brighter or dimmer. At other times it appears to be completely motionless. It charts a steady linear course down the path of its life until it is consumed, leaving behind a bent and blackened form.

How beautiful it was in life, but now it is gone -- never to burn again.

But the life of a candle is more than wick and wax. The true life of a candle is in the light that it gives off while it burns.

Think of the darkness that was dispelled by that light, even if for a little while. What calming effect did it bring during its existence? What children found safety and comfort it its glow? What words of knowledge were learned under its light; words that influenced another to go out and change their life -- or the world? What love was shared in its dancing shadows? What warmth was added to the room by its presence?

Is the light not as useful at the bottom of the wick as when it was first lit?

Does its influence truly end after it is gone?

The life of a candle does not only progress in one direction. A candle also radiates outward, and it is in this direction that it is truly immortal.

Transcendental

She is beautiful

and she warms my memory

Youthful, yet ancient

In motion, yet still

Strong, yet exposed

Like a castle

in a field

covered with moss

that I once saw

in Ireland

Unnatural Request

Do not ask me to stop loving you

Ask a bee to avoid the flowers first

Ask the sun to withhold light from the sky

Ask a child to leave his mother’s comforting arms

Ask the dry, parched earth to reject the rain

Ask a woman to flee her lover’s bed in the middle of the night

Ask a river to flow away from the ocean

Ask an old man to forget happier times of youth

Ask the moon to break away from the Earth’s embrace

Ask all of these things if you wish

But do not ask me to deny my love

It cannot happen, as long as I exist

The Secret Room

There was a hidden room
once upon a time
A small, forgotten place
in one of her father’s mansions

It may once have been
servant’s quarters
or maybe a storage area
She didn’t know

But she claimed it as her own

She covered the walls
with song lyrics
from her favorite songs
Writing them in English
not the graceful Arabic script
that her father preferred

She would often linger there
alone, or sometimes with her sisters
sharing private thoughts
and doing forbidden things

It was her secret room

One day it was discovered
and it was taken away
The walls were painted over
and she was told
to never enter it again

But the secret room is not gone

It is still here, with me
In my memory, and in my heart
Still unpainted
and undiscovered

And it still exists
in a black and white picture
of a beautiful woman
with a delicate smile

Still Life

I’m unable to sleep.

My eyes ache, and are heavy. My shoulders and neck throb with fatigue; lingering side effects from a car accident over a decade ago. I lie on my bed; my body exhausted but my mind resisting sleep.

I'm kept awake by thoughts of mortality and longing, of life and love. And the haunting echoes of a little girl, who I love as my own, practicing for her piano recital.

Arpeggiated chords
Slowly, with feeling
Mezzo piano, then piano
Minor, then major
Ascending and descending

Reverberating in the well of my memory.

Unmarked Grave

“I have loved only two men in my life,” she said. “One is six feet under, and the other is a million miles away”.

I did not tell her that both men were dead. The man that she knew, that she fell in love with from a million miles away, died when he found out that he couldn't be with her.

Now only I remain.

Broke

I sit at my desk, staring at my computer screen.

Checking account balance: $25.33.

Didn’t I just get paid yesterday?

I mentally go over my financial activity for the previous twenty-four hours. Health insurance payment, Visa card payment, BMG Music order payment… that car insurance payment that I originally thought could wait until next paycheck… my physical therapy session yesterday… my Chi Kung class this morning… that small bag of groceries I picked up this afternoon… the little bit of gas that I put in my car on the way home….

I guess $25.33 sounds about right. Wonderful. And only two more weeks until payday.

I decide to double-check my savings account balance.

$5.13.

As I sit there trying to take this all in, I notice the message light flashing on my phone. I pick it up and hit the correct sequence of buttons to get into my voice mail. I hear an unexpected voice.

“Hey Brian, Tom here. I’m calling to tell you that the party was moved up to tonight instead of next Saturday night. Did I tell you about the party when you came out last time? Yeah, I think I did. Anyway, we’d love to see you here. Things kick off around seven -- I hope you can make it.”

I suddenly remember that the last time I saw Tom he had invited me to a party at his house sometime in January. I’d forgotten all about it though, much less the date that it was supposed to happen.

I delete the message and hang up the phone.

I first met Tom over twenty years ago, through my best friend Greg. I have known Tom for a long time, but I rarely get messages from him. In fact, I hardly talk to him at all outside of his job. Tom runs sound for a prominent local band (not to mention a few other projects on the side), and the few days that he has off from work he typically spends with his wife. In other words, the only time I get to see Tom is when I go out to see the band.

For some reason I find a great deal of humor in my situation. Let’s see… I have no money, less than a ¼ tank of gas in my car, it’s two weeks until payday, and hey -- I’m invited to a party!

I’d planned on staying home tonight, and maybe going through my closet and getting rid of some stuff that I don’t need anymore. I really have to do that before school starts up again. But man, I could sure use a party right about now.

I probably should go.

But wait a minute. I can’t just show up empty handed. I haven’t been to one of Tom and Alicia’s parties since they moved into their new house. I really should bring a bottle of wine or something. And even though I’m sure Tom will have plenty of booze to go around, I’d prefer to bring my own beer. I’m trying to keep a handle on my carbohydrate intake, and I’ve already pushed it with my diet the last few days. I could drink hard liquor but the mix usually tears my stomach up these days. Yeah, I need to bring my own beer.

So let’s see… how can I swing this?

What about my credit card? I know that it was close to being maxed out, but I just made a payment so I should have some money to play with there. I log in to my credit card website.

Available balance: -$26.00.

Son of a bitch! I should not be over my limit right now. Close, yes, but not over!

I check my recent activity and see at least one thing that doesn’t look right. A quick phone call later I find out that my Internet service provider has charged me $10.62 for some “value-added services” that I never requested. Yes, I told the guy on the phone a few weeks ago that he could send me a link to what they were offering, but I never even opened the e-mail and I certainly didn’t agree to any extra services. It didn’t take long for the stern tone in my voice to convince them to refund the charges, but that still didn’t explain why I was over my limit.

With the next phone call I find out that the recent payment that I made to my credit card company would take three working days to process. I thank the nice lady and hang up the phone.

Now I’m going to that party for sure.

Okay, I have $25.33 in my checking account. What the hell -- you can’t take it with you.

I take a shower, put on some fresh clothes, and head out the door. My first stop is the liquor store. I find a decent (but reasonably-priced) bottle of wine and grab a 12-pack of my beer. Total: $20.58.

Tom lives on the opposite side of town, so to be safe I stop at the gas station across the street and top off my gas tank with $3 worth of gas. I then head out to the freeway and to the party.

When I get there I knock on the door, but nobody answers. As I start to walk in Tom himself walks up from the basement to open the door. After we greet each other he comments on my offerings. I hold up the wine in my left hand. “This is for the host," I say. I then hold up the beer in my other hand. “And this is for me." Rather than the chuckle I expected, Tom says “Thanks! I’ll give them to the bartender."

Bartender?

I follow Tom into the kitchen, and after I greet a few people I walk through it and into the spacious three-season “porch”. I put porch in parenthesis because it has a vaulted wooden ceiling with skylights, an Italian tile floor, and a flat screen TV on the wall. As I walk in I see an impromptu bar – with two bartenders – set up in the far corner. There is a tub with at least fifteen different bottles of wine chilling in it, and in front of that is a nice display of the seven different beers they are offering for the evening. Behind the bartenders is a table full of every kind of booze you can imagine – and about ten others that you couldn’t imagine if you thought about it all day.

Within a few moments I notice that my beer is now being offered on the “list”. After retrieving one of them from the bartender I make my rounds and greet all of the familiar faces.

Ten minutes later I’m in the dining room, in a conversation with some guy who does some kind of educational consulting for Microsoft. I think his name is Eric. I meet his wife too, and she is nice. As we’re talking I notice somebody walking by with one of my beers.

Twenty minutes after that I’m watching the football game on the flat screen TV on the porch, along with a bunch of other guys who are far more interested in the outcome of the game than I am. Jacksonville has recently kicked a field goal to put them ahead by two points with thirty-seven seconds left in the game, and Pittsburgh has just returned the ball. People around the room begin making predictions about what will happen. My friend Brad is standing next to me.

“I bet they end up kicking a fifty-two yard field goal to win it," he says. “I bet they turn it over," I say. “Too much pressure.” Basically I’m just talking out my ass. The next play - their first of the drive – Roethlisberger fumbles the ball and Jacksonville recovers. The room erupts with admiration for my undeniable psychic ability.

A half-hour after that I’m in the basement playing “Name That Tune”, with my buddy Greg manning the keyboard in Tom’s recording studio. After easily winning the game (it helps to be familiar with Greg’s repertoire), we all head back upstairs. I notice at least two empty bottles of my brand of beer in the living room as I walk through it.

As I walk back out to the porch for another beer, the female bartender sees me coming and has a bottle ready to go by the time I get there. She continues to do this for the rest of the night. That, my friends, is a true professional.

Forty-five minutes later I’m in a political discussion (a rare occurrence) in the kitchen with Greg’s wife Sandy, eyeing the homemade ravioli but too involved in the conversation to actually dish some up and eat it. Fifteen minutes after that I’m laughing (along with the rest of the room) at how Tom’s dog keeps pouncing on the light reflections from Sandy’s wine glass on the kitchen floor. We entertain ourselves with this show for at least ten minutes.

While standing there, I notice three or four empty bottles of the brand of beer that I brought to the party sitting around the kitchen. After doing some quick math in my head I finally realize that somebody else must have brought the same brand, or they already had it in stock but they hadn’t put a bottle out for display until after I got there. If I had been the only one to bring it, it would have run out a long time ago.

Forty minutes after that I’m back on the porch, having a discussion with two guys that I’ve never met about the merits of Payton Manning as a guest host on Saturday Night Live. The sound is off on the TV, but we don’t seem to need it for our evaluation. Before we are able to reach a consensus we are distracted by a few of the wives standing around in a circle and squeezing each other’s boobs for some unknown reason. This brings our conversation to an abrupt end, and we never reach an agreement.

Hey, we’re guys. What can I say?

An hour after that I find myself regretting a joke that I've made about the size of Tom’s penis. I really didn't need to see that, and especially right next to the food table.

And I still haven’t tried the ravioli.

In spite of some of the silliness, by midnight things are already winding down. Most of the people at the party have kids at home with baby sitters, or have work obligations in the morning. A few of us are still standing around on the porch when Tom comes out with a huge box of ice cream sandwiches. I think it was a twenty-four pack, and I'm pretty sure he bought them at Sam's Club.

It soon becomes apparent that I’ve missed some inside joke about the ice cream sandwiches.

Later, after standing in the kitchen with my jacket on for forty minutes saying goodbye to people, I finally head for the door. Tom stops me in the entryway. “Do you need an ice cream sandwich for the road?” he asks. “Well, I don’t NEED one...” I say, letting my answer hang in the air. Tom slaps one in my hand.

You have to love a party where they give you an ice cream sandwich for the road.

At the doorway I run into a few other guys who are leaving at the same time. When I tell them where I live one of them says, “That has to be at least forty-five minutes away." “Thirty-five,” I predict, “and that is factoring in the road construction at 694 and 35E.” I hadn’t paid attention to the clock on the way up at all, so I really have no idea how long it will take. But I don’t let that stop me from talking out my ass once again.

I wolf down the ice cream sandwich while my car warms up. As I pull away from Tom’s house I check the clock in my car. It is 1:04 am. I pull in my parking lot at 1:38 am - only one minute off from my prediction.

As I sit there staring at my dashboard, once again reveling in my uncanny ability to predict the future, I see an obnoxious yellow light come on. It says “low fuel”.

It’s going to be a long two weeks.