Merry happy Easter!  As non-practicing anythings, Amber and I will be celebrating the day with piled up chores and obligations.  We had a little timing snafu last week, and I was under the impression Easter was actually next weekend.  Thank you very much, Lightning, for that fantastic date mix-up.  Now I'm starting to question whether or not we celebrated New Years on the correct Tuesday in February...

There hasn't been an update in Flickr photos lately because we had hit our quota limit for the free account.  Apparently, that's how Flickr gets ya: use their awesome site for free all you want, until you actually need it, and then break out the checkbook to go any further.  I thought I would wage a battle of will against Flickr, to see who would break first; either I'd shell out the $25 for the paid account, or they'd cave under the weight of knowing there was a bookmark out there on someone's computer, pointing to their upgrade page, that would never be clicked.  They won the battle, and in all likelihood when the robots running Web 2.0 turn against their human masters, FlickrBot9000 will see that they win the war.

These pics date as far back as early January.  There was the time Baker used my forehead for a springboard in the middle of the night.  Right after I took the picture (as evidence in my lawsuit against him), I turned around to see where he was.  Out of fear.  On the couch, he showed his might and I have since dropped the lawsuit.  There some more of Baker and Biscuit both - bookends and cuddle puddles - and some of Biscuit enjoying the sun, which are the last pics of our little guy.

Except!...

We picked Biscuit's ashes up yesterday, and brought him home.  We needed some kind of urn, as the branded tin supplied by the cremation service was pretty nondescript.  So we moseyed over to our local thrift store and scoped out other people's disregards in hopes of finding something extraordinarily special, for $2.50.  As Amber showed me an ornate candy dish that would have been a suitable home for all eternity, my eyes wandered down to an old-timey replica tin for Oreo.  I began to speak, to point out it to my gal - "Hey, look, Oreos.  Boy, they're delicious." - for no other reason than the tin's face value.  But then the copy at the bottom caught my eye:

The entire tin has nothing to do with animals - cats or otherwise - and doesn't hold any particular meaning to either of us.  But the damn thing says "Biscuit", on a tin representing a thing we love.  It was right next to dog-eared copies of John Grisham novels, worn out leather shoes, and partly damaged Precious Memories.  If he had started his own corporation, undoubtedly that would be it's name.  So we picked it up for $7, and put Biscuit inside, with a chicken treat and a photo of him and his brother.  We will keep him, and in 40 years, when Baker kicks, we will add him to the ashen collective.

And speaking of the future, Blondie and I signed a one year extension on our lease, so we will be staying at the current 123 Awesome Street location until at least June 30, 2009.  It came up in discussion this week - Amber and I are trying to plan finances for the immediate future, and needed to sort out our living situation ahead of time - and our awesome landlord, who is awesome, was also keen on our staying put for another year, and at the same rate, which is, frankly, awesome.  123 Awesome Street is an absolutely amazing, perfect place for us, and I consider us extraordinarily lucky to live here.  Having said that, and having now signed an extension, I'm sure either the family above with begin breeding Dobermans, or we'll get termites.

The blog will be going dark this week, as we have a trip to Ithaca on Wednesday.  I'm sitting on the advisory council for my alma mater, in lieu of my giving money back to the school.  For some reason, Dean Bitterman & Co. are under the impression I have some valuable contributions to make to the communications school, other than my typical drunken rants about inept politicians, the Yankees, and Rosie O'Donnell.  I'll show them!

Reviews
Books
The Cheese Monkeys: A Novel in Two Semesters:
Eric: "I wanted to like it, but I just couldn't get past the first 15 pages or so."

Movies
Sexy Beast:

(*not really)

I'm sure this has been discussed previously and in excess.  But did you know there are both Flip This House and Flip That House television shows?  Either A&E ripped of TLC, or vice versa, but this much is known: the consumer has won.  At this rate, everyone will be living with roofs buried underground and foundations flailin' in the breeze.

Despite needing otherwise, I willingly subjected myself to the dentist this week.  My office recently switched dental plans and I had to pick a new torturer.  I was afraid terrified scared out of my mind concerned that some sensitivity in Sector 3 of my toothal regions was due to either  some new disease that only I had contracted, that would result in long, painful, and expensive surgery(s), or shoddy work from my previous dentist, who, while gorgeous (as described to me by Blondie herself, as a referral), in my opinion, hadn't performed a thorough enough job with the cleaning.  According to New Dentist, it was neither: the silver fillings in those teeth were likely the cause, and if I wanted to replace them, it would probably result in a root canal.  Since they're not causing any actual damage, and I hate me some fancy dentistry, I'm comfortable living with it, knowing the treatment options loom over me like the Great Eye.

Here's the kicker of the appointment: he's recommended I get braces.  Of all the dentists in my day - five, to be exact - none of them have ever actually recommended braces.  And that includes my original guy, who, when I was about 13, asked succinctly, "Do you want braces?".  As a terrified child who witnessed countless hordes of fellow sullen teenagers whisked away into seemingly endless lives of oral metallics, distorted and pained bodies piling up like sandbags at a levee breach, given the opportunity to decide the fate of my own mouth, the largest and second-most important orifice of my entire body, I chose self-preservation: "No", I replied.  And that was that.

I've always had disgustingly snaggled teeth (see inset photo [lens flare added for effect]) but this was the first time anyone had suggested - professionally - that I consider them, not just for cosmetic purposes but for long-term comfort.  I want to believe that this new dentist, having never been subjected to my Jewel-like display before, blurted out a reactionary "braces!" without thinking, possibly in hopes of recovering from the mild heart attack I gave him in responding to his "open sesame".  It's not that my feelings were hurt; I've been living with this snarl for upwards of 15 years or so.  But to have to really consider braces for the first time, at ~28 years of age, is a little daunting.  I suppose I will have to mull this over.  My childhood brethren that survived their own Teenage Bracing look great, but they are not the same men.

Amber and I have been doing well in dealing with the loss of Biscuit.  (My hope is that this is one of, if not the, last post about our grieving.  On our Grief Graph, the Curve of Coping would be positive, and in direct opposition to the declining Curve of Sadness.)  We're thankful for everyone's love and support, as well as both our regular vet and the emergency hospital, who each sent us handwritten letters of sympathy.  Amber and I make no allusions to the fact that we are still just numbers, but receiving caring notes is still an extremely thoughtful gesture by those who understand it most.

But the real purpose for bringing the whole thing up is Baker.  He's in a really good place right now it seems.  He's been extremely loving and playful this week, more so than we've ever seen him.  There should be a third curve on our Grief Graph, of which would be Baker's rapid ascent into adulthood, angled steeper than the Solow Building.  The light tinge of sadness that outlines his change is - in my opinion - due to his being finally and fully weaned.  Baker and Biscuit got their names because of Baker's kneading of his brother, typical of kittens taken away from their mothers at a young age.  And now that Biscuit is gone, Baker has had no choice but to cut back on this behavior, though Daddy's bear-like appendages and Mommy's... parts... seem to make for adequate substitutes.  Baker now gets our full attention, yet from early morning to late night wants more.  Any window-peering is essentially bird stalking, and cries are for playful attention.  When Amber spends her weekend mornings sleeping off her whiskey- and meth-fueled nights, he can be a quite a handful for just one person, especially when that one person is trying to blog.  This post alone has taken 23 hours because of constant intermissions for petting, holding, and lasering.  But we couldn't ask for a better little boy, who wants nothing more than to reach out and place his paw on us and look generally adorable.

Reviews
Movies
Rescue Dawn:
Eric: "Kind of a hammed-up block of cheese for such a critically acclaimed movie."

Books
McSweeney's Quarterly Concern #13:

As overheard in the apartment on Thursday while watching Senator Tom Daschle on The Daily Show:

Eric: "I wish I had a permanent title, like 'Senator' or 'Sir'."
Amber: "Or 'sex offender'."

It should first be noted for all the concerned parties out there that whatever plagued Amber this week departed her system for another more broken-down vessel.  Whomever the virus chooses, may he stockpile Puffs with aloe ahead of time, may he have ample sick days available, and may god have mercy on his nose.  After two days home from work and a third day of forced labor while still under the weather, she was in full form on Friday.  She received your bouquets, muffin baskets, and show tickets, and has asked me to convey her deepest thanks for your concerns and well wishes.  But nothing held a candle to the praise slathered upon her on Friday for all of her recent hard work on projects that have now taken form, and won over both coworker and client.  The blood (tears), sweat (tears), and tears (tears) were not for naught.  Her excellence rewarded, as foretold by the Boyfriendian Prophecy, and as a new Monday arises...

I had my typical week.  (Though in all fairness, it was broken up by Wednesday's night of corporate-sponsored drunken debauchery.  Which, if what little memory I have of the evening serves me right, was fun.)

Friday evening was spent indoors with a movie and take-out, as Biblical floods formed from torrential downpours.  I've recently discovered Indian food, much to the delight of the Recovered One.  The best Christmas gift of 2007 - the discovery of curry and its minimal impact on my rusted pipe of a digestive system - has opened some food doors, Indian and additional Thai being at the top.  Samosa, nan, chicken curry, and chicken tikka masala?  I'll give up my first born for more.  (No wait, second born.  First born had been promised in an unrelated deal involving inflatable sneakers and a Hypercolor shirt in the early 90's.)

Saturday morning greeted us with more goddamn downpours and gray depression.  Amber had plans to meet someone for brunch in Manhattan in the early afternoon, and I had plans to meet up with her after for some necessary items that we had to buy together.  Plans change at the drop of a hat here in ol' New York City.  What was Amber's original plan of "meet friend at 1pm, meet Eric at 3pm" quickly turned into "meet friend at 3pm, meet Eric at 5pm", and again to "brunch is now for couples, and Eric is invited / coming".  Which was fine with me, because a) the Xbox rental that showed up in the mail was damaged and unplayable, b) I had already had my fill of the Sunday crossword for the day, c) I didn't feel like reading anything, and d) I was all of a sudden bored out of my gourd by the time Amber got the last text message.  We suited up in the least appropriate rainy weather garb, grabbed two flimsy umbrellas, and took off to the subway.

Before we met our friends for food, we were met by Deathwind ®, an otherworldly force that had taken a liking to NYC for the day, attempting to blow us all 3 blocks backwards.  When it is raining, Deathwind ® is far from welcome.  By the time we got to brunch, we were not only drowned rats, but exhausted drowned rats.  We were eating at Freemans, which is an obvious scenester kind of place, but a very cool one at that.  At the end of Freeman Alley in the LES, it's behind Freemans Sporting Club, another scenester mecca where you can get your beard trimmed in the back before leaving with a new dinner jacket in the front.  (I sound snooty, but deep down I want to be a regular.)  Anyway, the restaurant was is an amazing farmhouse-like space with more antlers and animal skulls on the walls than your local Crapplebee's, the food was superb, and the place is half populated with supermodels.

From the restaurant, we broke open our shopping itinerary and re-faced Deathwind ®.  The plan was to browse Restoration Hardware, shop heavily at H&M, and finish with the Mandated Store That Shan't Be Named (not a sex shop).  We (I) were slowed by Uniqlo's distracting bright lights and slave labor prices.  And, oddly enough, running into a mutual friend there, who we had just discussed over brunch (see "Eric's Theory of New York City").  By the time we wrapped up the shopping, it was 6 hours after we had left the apartment, which is a Herculean feat for this lazy sack of doorknobs.  It was finished up with an overpriced (though fancy and tasty) dinner out and a forced viewing of 2001: A Space Odyssey at home.  Amber's feet, once elegant and ladylike, now ravaged by your typical shoddy and inappropriately designed women's footwear, less resemble human appendages, and more whittled-down bloody stumps.  And Friday's Indian and Saturday's lactose-heavy ravioli have left my chest burning like a Mid-East oil field.  But our 24-hour efforts were not in vain, as I have decidedly composed Eric's 2008 Spring & Summer Collection.  The pieces themselves are closely guarded and cannot be revealed prematurely, but I can share with you the color palette that will inevitably become Trend:

On a more serious note, Biscuit hasn't been doing very well lately.  Typical of his situation, there's no specific physical ailment or event to describe, other than increased lethargy.  We have a vet appointment this morning, which will inevitably kill half of the day and our savings, but we both feel we need a follow-up and a course of action.

Reviews
Movies
Michael Clayton:
Amber: "Is this movie going to make me angry?"
Eric: "George Clooney is such a dreamboat."

2001: A Space Odyssey:
Amber: "Ohmygod, aliens are going to pop out, aren't they?  This is freaky, this is freaky, ohmygod, where is everyone, why is there only one person at a time, ohmygod..."
Eric: "Relax, there are no aliens and nothing jumps out.  Look, even Baker seems really into it."
Baker, staring at the movie for over an hour: "Mew!  Mew mew!"

It's been a pretty uneventful week, all around.  Amber slowly transitioned herself into work again.  Studies show 4-day weekends bring an average-intelligence adult's mental state down to that of a common jar of mayonnaise.  That's a lie.  But if that statement were true, Amber was living proof just around 5pm on Monday.  Once she fully descended back into the dark pit of Work Life, I met her with tea and jam.

We attempt something bold this week, something that defies all laws of nature: we tried to toilet-train the cats.  We have something called CitiKitty, which is a toilet seat-shaped plastic Frisbee with concentric rings that snap together.  The idea is you fill the thing with litter, place between the bowl and rim, and say to the cats: Hey, your beloved box of comfort has been removed, and in it's place is a much smaller, much shallower, and much higher up teacup of a receptacle.  Figure it out.

At first it didn't work for the boys, as they decided to hold it in instead of go on the floor; in their eyes, the only two options, apparently.  So we moved the thing to the floor in hopes of their adapting to the new box first, and the new location after that.  It worked, except we have two cats who are somewhat fully grown, and the CitiKitty can't seem to hold more than one gift at a time; once something has been deposited, the location for the next necessary release is the floor.  And even what is left in the CitiKitty isn't covered up like usual, because there isn't much litter in the thing.  So we were quickly left with messes and very, very strong odors (which may or may not have been aided by their pepperoni treats; regardless, our boys provide deadly deposits).

Between those two issues - especially the odors, and the potential repercussions for the poor souls who live above us - we abandoned the CitiKitty.  For now.  It should be mentioned that Amber, in her excitement for the endless hours of enjoyment of a toilet-trained cat, actually purchased the CitiKitty before we adopted the boys.  A week or so before, when we had decided to spend that following weekend taking home two kitties, she was type-typin' away on the interweb, selecting an appropriate shipping method for the plastic feline crapper.  It goes without saying that she is disappointed in the situation.  And understandably so.  We could have made a killing charging $5 a pop to see The Amazin', Aimin' Kitty Krappers.

The Super Rad Item of the week is that I've finally been biking to work.  When I got my bike back from the shop, I had been in the throws of my Avian bird SARS, and the subsequent week was marked with a constant debilitating dry cough, which still lingers today.  But on Tuesday, I threw caution to the bitter cold wind and rode my overweight, fruity helmet-wearing ass from Brooklyn Heights up to DUMBO: one whole mile!  But it's another mile back and repeated three days out of the week, so my Giant Sequoia Thighs are back to their 1997 state: 100% pure steel.  And just like in 1997, after a ride, I wail and gasp like an emphysema patient shot out of an airlock.  I deserve medals.


Reviews
Books
Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me:
Eric: "Great for honest, decent guys, and even for the rest of us."

Games
Professor Layton and the Curious Village:
Eric: "One of - if not the - best puzzle games I've ever played, and beautiful graphics and animation play out like a movie."

Expectations are always high when Uncle Weekend comes to town.  After a much training, I've learned to set the bar as low as possible.  That way, when Bastard Stepchild Monday rears its ugly carrot-top and you're forced to repeatedly answer to your crusty-eyed co-workers, you can respond honestly and positively: it was great because it wasn't disappointing, because it was simply there.

Therefore, this weekend was great.  Blondie relaxed, despite a close brush with what was presumably SARS.  For some twisted reason, she likes to cook as much as she likes to clean.  Which is to say she thinks she enjoys it, but if there was an additional digit on her e-pay-stub every week, she would do neither ever again.  As the Luckiest Man Alive, I am in the lofty position to reap half of the rewards outputted by Amber's intricate dances with our numerous gadgets from Williams-Sonoma, Linens & Things, and Foot Locker (they have a great selection of bunt cake pans).  Friday evening was smothered in barbecue chicken sandwiches, Saturday gave way to blueberry pancakes (lunch) and homemade pizzas (breakfast), and we capped Sunday night with a feast of tacos.  The fact that my congealed innards are allowing movement in my extremities is a miracle of science.

There was a handful of requirements Uncle Weekend brought with him this time 'round, but graciously, Uncle Weekend's hands are tiny.  The bike was tweaked and tested, our friends were visited, books were purchased and begun, and a new addition to our family of games was welcomed.  Calls were made, emails were sent, and blogs were redesigned.  Let me now say that - while this promise has been made before, and I understand that you have absolutely no reason to trust me - I swear that this new version of paperskies.com is permanent, and that my habit of waking Saturday mornings and delving straight into my white dragon chase of Photoshop has been kicked once and for all.  I have been saved, praise the Lord, I have been saved!

Speaking of addictions, there is something I feel I should say here.  And I speak for both myself and Amberino, who I consider my enabler of this and anything else to which I can offload blame.  The WoW itch... she burns...  I had a conversation with a fellow recovering addict last week, who pointed out that the new expansion pack is dropping in the near future.  He and I, and Amber too, have been loosely acting as mutual supporters since our most recent quitting.  I believe his raising the discussion - he started it! - was a cry for help.  In fact, he was very forthcoming about his intentions: when the Lich King arrives on his icy throne, my friend has every intention of falling - nay, leaping - off the wagon.  I want to say I am a stronger man and let the notion go, but the itch... the itch...  There are now almost twice as many players as when I quit the last time around, and even Gabe at Penny Arcade has dived back in (no thanks to Tycho).  And, frankly, I miss Tannk.

Judge not lest ye be judged, jerks:


Reviews
Books
Shopgirl:
Eric: "A great nugget of literature by one of the greater comedians of our time (though it ain't hilarious)."

Movies
Futurama: Bender's Big Score:
Eric: "I love the show, and I can only hope the other new stuff fares better than this."
Amber: "ZZZzzz..." (literally)

Thank Jeebus, there is light at the end of the tunnel, and it no longer appears to be the head of Death's mystical staff, The Harbinger.  My nose is still excessively spouting snotty modules ("snodules") and my chest congestion / cough is winding me.  But!  The fever appears to be completely absent now, and I haven't taken any Tylenol Day drugs for about 24 hours.  I can deal with cold-like crap.  I can even go to work and spread the disease.  But I can't function with fevers.  No mortal can.

The lady is still hard at work, and there are fears that her sniffling may be a sign of things to come.  She seems to have it under control though, and her mind is clear for more designing.  If she can stay off the whiskey, just for today, she'd be allowed to indulge in some Tylenol herself.  Unlikely, however.

Now we get to calmly and quietly sail this weekend into the sunset.  Amber needs to work, and I need to take it easy.  Biscuit is pretty tired today, so he's trying to relax and keep to himself.  Baker is up for shenanigans, so I may play with him a bit this afternoon, to steal some of his innate, mythical, wellness-inducing essence, to get me through the last mile.  At this rate, I'll wake up tomorrow ready to devour Mike Tyson's children.

Reviews
TV
Battlestar Galactica, Season 3:
Eric: "Loses a star for some early slowness and frequent plot stalls.  But still one of the most solid shows I've ever seen."
Amber: "If we have a girl, let's name her Starbuck."

Movies
3:10 to Yuma:

It's Day 4 of Eric's DeathWatch '08, I completely missed the Chinese New Year, and I'm still sick.  That's the bad news.  Or, if you work with me and haven't seen me since Tuesday, it's good news.  The better news, however, is that I seem to be on the up and up.  Either that, or the pills I'm taking have altered both my physical state and mental clarity.  I did see a unicorn yesterday, but the CVS pharmacist didn't want to hear it.

Speaking of CVS pharmacists, I think that if you're going to work as an in-store alternative to a real doctor, you should have some abilities that go beyond talking on the phone and reading back drug packagings to customers who are seeking advice.  I asked "which of your two recommendations is better, this Tylenol or this TheraFlu?"  (By the way, TheraFlu seems like a total sham; anyone could crack open a NyQuil and drop it in herbal tea.)  She responded "okay, let's see...  this one says coughing, fever, sore throat, and this one says the same thing but without fever.  Do you have a fever?".  I expect such shoddy service from Duane Reade or Meineke, but not you, CVS.  Not you.

Anyways, on Wednesday, I had just had a rough cough, sore throat, and body aches.  It were them dang aches that sealed the deal and kept me home.  When I woke up Thursday morning, and throughout most of the sleepless night before, I had developed a high fever.  So now, I had the exact same symptoms as my coworker, who had been out sick earlier in the week who sits next to me.  He said the whole thing only lasted two days, so I figured on Friday, I'd be able to swing at least a half-day in at work.  I guess I got the more hateful strain, because Friday morning was even worse than Thursday.  When I woke up and saw the cable and internet were acting weird, and I walked over to the cables and leaned over slightly for a closer look, I almost passed out.  In all likelihood, I would've cracked open my skull on the radiator and when they eventually found my body, clothed in choo-choo train pajama pants and a "Celine Dion '99 Tour" t-shirt, the sadness of my life would then be completely apparent: I had died trying to get online.

This image freaked out my shizz, so after fueling up with the awesome power of coffee, I bundled up and hit the streets for some medicinal relief, sweating like a plantation farmer in July.  If I got high, Friday probably would have been a good day to do it.  Or a terrible day, I'm not sure how it works.  But instead, I turned to the legal kind; that is, less potent, more expensive, and brought to us by the puppetmasters of our government.  One incident with a wannabe doctor and $17 later, I schlepped home and popped two shiny, teal plasmoids labeled 'Tylenol Cold, Severe - Day'.  Within minutes, my fever was gone, which is to say, it was suppressed, which is exactly why I avoid crap like this in the first place.  The drugs don't make you better, they just alter your state to make you feel better.  That's all well and good. I'd be a hypocritical lover - lover - of alcohol if I said that was such a terrible thing.  The difference is that the minute you pill-pop, your brain has diverged from your body, you've lost the ability to really know how well you are, and you continue intake for days.  With alcohol, unless it's your birthday, Arbor Day, or the primaries, intake doesn't last long, and you recover quickly.  Unless you're like me, and need an hour with the shrink following the usual Beer #4 Cry- & Shame-Fest.

So as of Saturday morning, my fever is much lower; our fancy new thermometer is showing my typical 99.0 body temp.  (Hot-blooded Irish-Italian, baby!  Slap it on a bumper sticker!)  I'm still congested with a mild sore throat, which I can deal with.  But all of this is predicated on my continual medication over the last 24 hours.  8 Tylenol Day pills and 2 Tylenol Night pills in, and I have no idea what state my body is really in, other than it's packed with Mexican food and the Tylenol has probably decimated my kidneys.  I would have preferred to ride this out without the meds, but then I also would have preferred to never have been infected in the first place.  At least I have my cute nurse with me (I'm making her wear a nurse costume).  She's stuck working from home - again - which works out, because I get out of having to escort her shopping, and now she gets to stay inside, clean up soggy tissues, feed me extravagant meals, and sponge me down every hour.  See how great this relationship is?

The only other necessity of the weekend is picking up additional meds for Biscuit - who is doing pretty good overall - and my bike, which I'd be more excited about if I were able to actually ride it.  I'm sure once I recover from this blasted virus, I'll ride to work and get hit by a taxi.  Year of the Rat, I condemn thee.

Reviews
Books
After the Quake:
Eric: "Murakami has quickly become one of my all-time favorite authors."

Movies
The Education of Shelby Knox:
Eric: "Firecracker and rabble-rouser Shelby should be praised for her efforts, as well as her parents.  Strangely, there were not as many characters or situations that infuriated me as I thought there would be, though it's still a sad situation in Lubbock, TX."
Star Wars, Episode III - Revenge of the Sith:
Eric: "The last 30 minutes or so of Episode III almost make up for the previous 7 hours of prequel crap.  But not really."
Amber: "Luke and Leia are twins, and children of Anakin, who is also Darth Vader?  I haven't been paying attention."

Super Bowl Sunday
On this, the holiest of holy days, Super Bowl Sunday, we celebrate the running, passing, kicking and defending of little leather baby Jesus.  And just how will we praise It?  By spending all weekend food shopping, cooking, and cleaning.  Though in all fairness to my female captor, 123 Awesome Street has been in dire need of a cleansing for some time now.  I'd venture to say as early as the first day she got deep in her project at work.  (Yes, I'm that useless.)

We're having our BFF's over to watch, eat, and pre-game with Guitar Hero.  I believe one pair has yet to play it evah.  Watching these virgins squirm and quit in frustration, only to defiantly and addictively pick the ax up again with a begrudged face wound as tightly as grandfather clock will be most enjoyable.  It is the only method of adapting yourself to Guitar Hero.  It is the way.  And once all of us have been ingratiated with the digital gaming gods, we will rock harder than Tom Petty or any Heartbreaker.

There are two things killing me about today's game.  The first is the food.  Some of our friends don't eat meat, and the others are health-conscious.  (Which I should be too.  I guess.)  So what should be buffalo wings, super nachos, and various double-dipped fried accessories will instead be low-fat cheese and crackers, fruit salad, and probably either tofu or some ungodly vegetable.  So the Super Bowl can not be counted as an America Day (more on this April 15th).  I suppose it's fair though.  Majority rules, and because really only Dan and I give a damn about football anyway, if he didn't come I'd probably concede to watching "Puppy Bowl" in it's entirety instead of the game.

The second thing eating away at my innards is that the game is being held in Arizona.  Geographically speaking, it's one of the furthest stadiums from both the Giants' and the Pats' hometowns / homeregions, which is ridiculous when you're a fence-sitter like myself.  (Where's the crowd to tell me who to root for in this farce of a game?)  And sport-ly speaking, the Arizona Cardinals are a mediocre team at best and, I would assume, have lulled their fans into deep comas, of which no football game, no matter how big and boisterous, could penetrate and wake them.  Had it been close to NY, despite my apathy towards the Giants, I may have tried to go, just to be part of the frenzy.  And to eat buffalo wings, super nachos, and double-dipped fried accessories.  I take solace in knowing Amber's family will be at the game, that they enjoy football and stand by their Cardinals, and will most likely have a buffalo wing in my honor.

Final prediction: Patriots over Giants, infinity over whatever.

Saturday
As mentioned repeatedly here, Baker desperately needs to lose his balls.  And as a person of the testicular persuasion, I don't say that lightly.  But his astronomic energy levels, lust for mischief, and (rare but still there) spraying need to be controlled with physical mutilation.  The predicament is that his brother's situation could impact him: if Baker has certain levels of certain things in his body, the anesthesia needing for neutering could be very dangerous.

So on Caturday, we brought him in for some blood work to be sure the procedure would not be too risky.  It took over 2 hours all told, and I almost snapped from inactivity and the subconscious realization of a fading day.  I also almost traded Baker in for a heart-meltingly adorable puppy in the waiting area.  Baker had been really, really good with all of the doctors and nurses, letting them hold the thermometer in his badonkadonk without so much as a twitch.  And, humans aside, I love him and his brother more than anything, but this puppy...  There is no way it's current owner is ever going to fawn over, spoil, and smother it like I would.  But the collective brute strength of Amber and the entire clinic's staff was too much; once they overpowered me and returned the puppy to it's rightful owner, we trekked home.

Earlier, on the way to the vet, I dropped off my bike at the shop to get it into riding shape - tires, tubes, decals, streamers, etc.  It's about time too, it's been inactively weathering the elements since I brought it Thanksgiving weekend.  The repairs should be a lot less than what I had originally estimated, so instead of not being able to afford a helmet to protect my precious cranium against the millions of lunatics commuting around our neighborhood alone, risking my life in a pointless game of Russian roulette, I now can afford a helmet.

I also need a bike lock.  This is because the workers fixing up the backyard of our building sawed through my last one.  To move my bike.  5 feet away.  I had had it locked to a pole off to the side where they didn't seem to be doing any work.  When they started about a month ago, I pointed out my bike and asked them if I needed to move it.  They said no, and so I told them to let me know if they did and I would gladly move it.  I guess this was too much to comprehend for the Hispanic workers who respond to everything I say with "Okay, Mister, very sorry", and the Asian workers who response with "Okay, no problem".  Observe:

Me: "Hi."
Worker #1: "Okay, Mister, very sorry."
Worker #2: "Okay, no problem."

How they've managed to get this far in the project together without setting all of Brooklyn on fire is a mystery, and a testament to the work ethic of America's working immigrants (seriously).  For a month, my bike sat locked, undisturbed, and as far as I could tell, out of their way.  Then last Saturday morning I woke up, looked outside, and found it moved to the back of the backyard, sawed-through lock dangling off the bike frame.  I'm actually impressed that they were able to cut through what was supposed to be the secure bike lock maker, Kryptonite.  They must have used some Jedi mind trick because I've never seen them use any tools other than a hoe (giggle).  I ran the situation by our landlord, who is thankfully super-cool and very understanding, and is reimbursing for the cost of a new one.  This time, I will choose a lock of unbreakable, fictional Adamantium.

And in case you missed it this week, it was the 50th anniversary of Lego.  If you are under 60 years old and have a soul, you will appreciate it.  Of the select aspects of one's life that determines who you are and who you will be, Lego is way at the top of my list.

Reviews
Slaughterhouse-Five: (3/5)  Eric: "Cerebral, science-fiction-y, morally sound, and very relevant."
The Best American Comics 2007: (5/5)  Eric: "Beautiful and well-written, you'll finish it with at least 3 new names you'll want to pursue."