Happy August!

I'm wearing my Ricky Ricardo Cuban shirt, my Ange Mlinko contact lenses, my Reb Livingston moxie, my Maureen Thorson martini gear, and my Nick Twemlow tabi boots.

August is significant. Important things happen in August.

Nine years ago, Jerry Garcia died on my friend Greg Schapp's birthday. Some people cried. Punk band NOFX wrote a celebration song about it. I rode around in Sara Demarest's powder blue Volkswagen bug looking for a place to live. Then I probably drank too many glasses of wine before reporting to work at the furniture factory.

Eight years ago, I attended the wedding of high school friends Mindy and Jeremy. The union did not last. I was one of the groomsmen, and had to wear a tux on the hottest day of the year. They wouldn't let the men into the church until the wedding began, so the lot of us spent all sweaty afternoon standing around on black asphalt drinking watery domestic beer. I brought two dates to the reception. I was in love with both of them, in different ways, of course. My brother and I managed to swipe several bottles of champagne. Fun was had by all.

Seven years ago, I decided that I would not be in shape for the Portland Marathon in October, due to a seriously fucked training regimen that required three long runs per week, rather than a lot of moderate ones and one longer one. Something is wrong when you regularly do 18 mile runs. Especially to and around Springfield. I was training under a disgruntled-about-life martial arts enthusiast who also happened to hold a PhD in business. Who the fuck gets a PhD in business?

Six years ago, I was kicked out of my dwelling in an almost-suburban cul-de-sac because my brother and his friends set our couch on fire in the back yard. I slept through the whole affair, woke up to the smell of cinders.

Four years ago, my then-roommate invited two Canadian exotic dancers to visit our home. They visited. My girlfriend was out of town. I remained chaste.

One year ago, my best friend Julia Beckner got married. She still hasn't hyphenated her name. I met a beautiful woman at the wedding reception, and considered her a possible love interest. That didn't work out. She had a really annoying dog. It was at this time that I began to wonder if my dating critera are a bit too Seinfeldian.

Today, I resolve to write comments on the first drafts of my summer composition class' final papers. Then I'll eat Indian food.