The Preakness

But before we begin, let's take care of today's political business:





And take a few minutes to watch this. I love watching politicians getting hung by their own petards:



And now, onto today's blog.

For reasons that had nothing to do with my friends, this was a terrible weekend to travel to Baltimore.

I stopped at Chesapeake House (a rest stop on the Interstate with gas, Starbucks, a half-dozen fast food joints, a souvenir shop and a couple of restrooms) en route from New Jersey to my friends' house in the B'more B'urbs. I thought I'd wandered into a casting call for a summer theater production of "Guys and Dolls", there were so many cheezy track types (and their molls) hanging around the place. It was only when I was back in my car, with the radio now tuned to a Baltimore station, that I realized that Saturday afternoon was the running of The Preakness. And every denizen of Damon Runyonland seemed to be heading to Pimlico to watch the race.

I eventually got to my friends' place and we had a lovely afternoon and evening. We played a couple of games of Scrabble (and I even won one of them), had wonderful conversations and a couple of wonderful meals. I got to say "goodbye" to my friends' dog, who will probably have to be put down in the next couple of weeks (kidney failure). I left yesterday around 12:30 p.m. for what usually is a 3 hour drive.

It took 4. All those characters who'd headed south on Saturday were heading north on Sunday.

In a driving storm, windshield wipers going full-blast, still only able to see about 20 feet in front of the car, bumper to bumper, at about 35 miles per hour.

I had originally told my sister, who lives in Newark, Delaware, that I would "drop by" on my way home on Sunday. I called her as we crept across the bridge that spans the delta of the Susquehanna River as it empties into the top of the Chesapeake Bay. The winds were blowing sideways at about 30 miles per hour.

I told her that I was sorry, but that she wouldn't be seeing my @ss that day. She understood.

Rather than taking the NJ Turnpike, I started out taking I-295 after crossing the Delaware River, but I only got as far as Exit 3 before I had to hop off in order to find a gas station to refuel (KA-CHING!!! ANOTHER 40 BUCKS.) I made the mistake of getting on the turnpike instead of going back to 295. I continued to creep along the last 40 miles or so home and eventually got there around 4:15.

I collapsed. My patellas were killing me. I had to piss like a horse. I popped a couple of Indomethicin's, ate a giant salad, collapsed in the COMFY CHAIR and turned on the Giant HDTV.

And speaking of horses.... doesn't it look like Big Brown just might do it?

Car 54 Where Are You?

I've been MIA for a couple of days. Hence the obscure cultural reference in the Subject Line, above. If you weren't around in the very early 60's, you'd have no idea what it refers to. Suffice it to say that it comes from a time when JFK International Airport was still called "Idlewild."

I've gotten into this rut where I don't post over the weekends because I'm having way too much fun going to 12-Step meetings and shopping at BJ's afterwards.

I blew over a hundred bucks at BJs this past Sunday. I bought a 2-year supply of Ivory bathsoap and a year's supply of Gillette Mach 3 razor blades and about a year's supply of shaving gel to go with it. I also bought two 35 count boxes of Trail Mix bars, a 1 pound block of Havarti, 2 1-pound bags of Ruffles potato chips (bad JoyZeeBoy!) and some other crap I don't really need.

Oh, and I placed an order for two pumpkin pies to take with me when I go to Baltimore for Thanksgiving (OUT OF TOWN ALERT!). I hate to arrive empty-handed as a houseguest so I'm bringing dessert and (shhhh) I also bought my hosts the DVD of "Ratatouille" which we all saw on Cape Cod last summer, and which my friends really enjoyed.

So who has time to post anything? Well, my friend Bev does. Apparently at 30 or 40 websites, under various aliases, all day, every day. No wonder the woman never sleeps.

Habits come in all shapes and sizes, whether it's posting or shopping. Obsessions. Compulsions. Call 'em what you want. I got 'em. My friends all have 'em.

On a slightly different subject, you may have noticed a little logo down at the bottom of my blog for something called SiteMeter. It keeps tabs on who drops by here. Oh, it doesn't name names, but it does tell me the name of the server and/or IP address and the city, state and country of origin. It also tells me if the viewer got here by "googling" or searching for something.

And I have to tell you, one of the most popular phrases I ever posted here, based on how often it turns up in people's net-searches, is from an old song entitled "Young At Heart." It seems especially popular among netcruisers in Central and South America. Don't know why (there's no sun up in the sky...)

Anyway, the particular verse that seems so popular goes:

"fairy tales can come true
it can happen to you....
if you're young at heart"

The song was originally sung by Frank Sinatra. It became a giant hit for him and was subsequently used in the movie of the same name. It was released in 1954 and starred Doris Day, Frank Sinatra, Gig Young and Ethel Barrymore. It's a fluff of a nothing movie, a remake of 1938's "Four Daughters". Basically it's "good girls go for bad boys." But the song stuck.

And as I've previously mentioned, the best rendition of the song, I think, was by the late, great Jimmy Durante.

So, "Goodnight Mrs. Calabash.... wherever you are!" (Another obscure cultural reference. Look that one up yourselves.)

p.s. Today is my post number 300! Would somebody like to run 26.5 miles back to Athens to let everybody know? No? Wimps.