This was supposed to be a happy post.  After almost two full weeks of no updates, I found myself walking home from the gym (more on this later), in an after-wotkout glow, on the most beautiful day of the year, ready to blog again.  Thoughts of hope and rejuvenated faith in humanity rushed through my exhausted mind and body as I passed by happy children, fluffy dogs, and waves of our neighborhood's supermodel-like populace.  "It's a great day to be alive," I thought.  "Maybe I was wrong about the world after all..."  And as I turned the corner and approached our apartment, it dawned on me: someone stole my bike.

I don't know exactly when it was stolen.  I hadn't ridden it since Tuesday, though I know it was there until at least Wednesday.  Like an idiot, I kept it locked to the large guardrail-like rail-thing that's mounted on the property line, about 6 feet from our bedroom window.  So technically the bike was locked to the property, even though it rested on the sidewalk.  I'll call the local precinct later today to see if maybe it wasn't stolen, but rather just impounded for joyrides.  Of course now I'm kicking myself for being lazy and not dragging it inside the apartment whenever I wasn't using it.  But it was a Herculean feat to manage it through our front doors to get it in or out; it's not like a massive hangar door welcomed it in every time I got home.

What kills me the most, what brings actual pain to the situation, is that I've had my bike for something like 13 years.  I bought this bike in the heyday of my youth.  For those too old to remember what it was like being young and trapped, this bike was the equivalent of a first car, before getting the first car.  I rode that bad boy 5 miles each way to get to my friends' places, with periodic stops halfway for tune-ups and accessories.  It gave me freedom long before Buttbox ever did, and I put way more use and abuse in that bike than I did with any car.  (That's actually not true, I'm a terrible car owner.)

So now it's gone, and I'm both sad and really pissed off.  It's one thing for someone to take a wallet because hey, it's cash-money.  But I've never really had someone steal something from me, especially not something I held relatively dear.  I never should have brought that bike into this hellhole of a city.  This is why I can't have nice things.

Who do I blame, other than the scum-sucking assbag that physically thefted it?  2008, the year of the rat.  Let's take a quick look at everything it's taken from me so far:

• Biscuit
• My bike
• All of my disposable income
• About 11 Sunday newspapers
  
• Any semblance of a fit body
• My previously-stellar credit
• 2007
• My eBay account
• My dignity, faith in humanity, and innocence
  

With any luck, I'll also get assaulted, stabbed, swindled, and hexed before New Year's Eve.  And in the meantime, I'm assembling a fortress around our existing apartment infrastructure, constructing armor for Amber, myself, and Baker, and whittling makeshift medieval weaponry, all out of duct tape, cooking utensils, and Amber's collection of shoes and fine European handbags (there's enough supply until the apocalypse).

Bike-related depression aside, I have been pumped about joining a gym.  It's long overdue, and though I'm extremely reluctant to add any new recurring monthly charges to my already-taxed credit card, I'm happy to make this exception.  It's not that expensive, the gym is only 2 blocks away, and it has a great equipment-to-person ratio.  The treadmills even have individual televisions mounted on them, so if I time it correctly, I can watch the Yankees get shutout throughout the regular season.

Here's the gym plan:

• Go at least 3 times a week for at least an hour per session
  
• Overall goal is weight loss, so focus more on cardio and less on strength
• Spend at least 30 minutes on the treadmill each session, in either 10- or 15-minute spurts at beginning, end, and/or middle of session, and always keeping fast pace
  
• Work up ability to run without cramping, vomiting, or dying by starting with 1-minute intervals every 5 minutes, and working up slowly with 30-second add-ons over time
• Focus toning on flabby upper body and thunder-thighs
• Ogle every woman in spandex
  

Day 1 was a complete success!

Reviews
Frantic
Amber: "Is this movie trying to be cute intentionally?  Or is it just bad?"
Eric: "Either the majority of the movies in the 1980's were complete coke-fueled hazes that should never have been greenlit, or Roman Polanski is just a bad director.  I'm not really sure which, but either way, this movie is dumb."

*** We join you now, live, to Eric's acceptance speech, already in progress. ***

"...And it is with great aplomb that I accept the grand total pot of $40, for my winning efforts in this year's NCAA March Madness Tournament.  In the great tradition of guessing, estimating, guestimating, and pulling selections out of my ass, I succeeded where many others - much smarter others - have failed.  My winning bracket - the only bracket with all #1 seeds in the Final Four, in the first tournament in NCAA history ever to have four #1 seeds in the Final Four - is pure elven magic.  Tonight's final game, now rendered meaningless to our group, will no doubt..."

*** Back now to our regularly scheduled post, already in progress. ***

So just as long as they don't use lye or any other sodium-infused compound, the bodies should be secure and hidden for decades to come.  But enough about Tijuana...

I'm old(er) now!  I hit 28 this week, in a grand display of aging and acceptance.  I beat out Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and others.  But thanks in no small part to Heath Ledger, there's a new elite group being formed, The 28 Club.  And what better way to reflect on one's own life than in the dim, shallow reflection of shadows cast by celebrities?  I was actually too busy last week at my non-famous job to hard-party the occasion in a celebrity-like manner of booze, drugs, and gender-questionable prostitutes.

The celebration of my existence - thrice denied by congress to be declared a national holiday - did, however, happen.  On Thursday, my actual Day o' Birth, Amber was kind enough to accompany me to the Yankees game.  The trip to the game wasn't actually planned.  At the last minute - and on April Fool's Day, no less - I was touched by the Birthday Gods, and two heavenly tickets fell up'n my lap, like plucked feathers from the wings of angels.  (Thankfully, to that point, the Bombers weren't actually playing the Angels, lest my 28th birthday suffer the indignity of a home game loss.)  It was damn cold, but my sherpa girlfriend planned ahead, and we remained warm under a blanket.  Around the 7th inning, the blanket was rendered useless, as the nail-biter of a game inched closer to victory, causing my spastic, spirited cheers to lift my frozen meat-popsicle of a body vertically.  The 8th inning was celebrated standing (Joba), as was the 9th (Mo), and then we were trekking home with the satisfaction and fanship of an above-.500 team.

The following night we had a small last-minute shindig at home with friends.  It kicked off with the over-the-top, really-really-shouldn't-have gift of Rock Band.  What was once fun - two people playing Guitar Hero - has now mutated and expanded to heights that which dictionary.com has no definition, nor science an explanation.  Two guitarists, a singer, and a drummer?  Poppycock, you say?  To which I reply: nay; 'tis truth.  And 'tis awesome.  Songs were belted, beats were missed, and a beer was spilled.  123 Awesome Street has now been officially declared a venue, and tickets for gawking will be sold.  Just look for the guy at the door with the kick-ass Paul Frank iPhone case.

Reviews
Books
Summer Blonde
Eric: "A great primer to Adrian Tomine, Summer Blonde is fantastic."

Games
Gears of War
Eric: "A bit repetitive, but a lot of fun."
Rock Band
Amber: "I-i-i-i-i-i don't wanna wooooork!"
Eric: "I just wanna bang on these drums all day!"