Guess what I found!

"Man, so much crazy shit has been happening to me recently, I've been meaning to call you all week to tell you about it. You know that magazine 'Found'?"

My friend is obsessed with Found Magazine. It's a publication full of stuff people have ... found. Scraps of paper with notes on them, old pictures, letters written to loved ones. All types of stuff. People will just find cool things, things which lack context and are therefore wonderful for those endowed with rich imagination, and mail them in. And there's a magazine full of this kind of stuff.

"Yeah," I said. "What did you find?"

"Well I was walking home from class the other day, and ever since I got into this magazine, I've been scouring the streets for stuff I could send in. Whenever I'm walking on the sidewalk, I'm just constantly keeping my eyes out for that kind of stuff. So the other day, I'm looking, and I see this bag..."

Yeah...

"..And I bend down to pick it up, and what do I find? Like two grams of the dankest buds I've seen in like six months."

"Nice!"

"I know!"

"That is incredible. That has never happened to me."

"Me either man, it was awesome."

"So what was the other crazy shit that's been happening to you? You said there was a lot of stuff."

"Oh," he said, as if I'd kind of caught him off guard. "Ya know man, I really can't remember."

I wonder why.

"Eeeeeeee!"

Come along with me on a little peak into Tom's world. It is a strange world. You should know that beforehand.

Tom is also known as TK or Hot Dog Man.

The mechanics of an "Eee!"

This will all make sense later, I promise. But before we can proceed, we need to learn how to execute a proper "Eee!":

1) Point your finger at the person you want to "Eee!"
2) In the highest pitched, most annoying voice you can muster, say "Eee!", while continuing to point. (For emphasis, you can prolong its duration: "Eeeeeeeeee!" while maintaining the point. For a quicker, more efficient/more dismissive effect, shorten it to just two letters: "Ee!", and do a jabbing motion with your pointer finger towards the target.)
3) Wait for the targeted person to admit the validity of the "Eee!" This will be communicated when he says the word "Azen."

Say it: Azen. Ah-zen. It is an important word. It is to "Eee!" what peanut butter is to jelly, what headphones are to older model iPods. Without "Azen" there is no "Eee!"

Your mind right now: "What the hell is 'Eee!'?"

My answer: What is pornography? It's hard to explain. Keep reading, and you'll understand.

Tanned and toned

"I put chases height into an ideal weight calculator for his height of 6 2. 190 was the output, which is his exact weight."

How do you respond to a text message like that?

This is Chase. He's also known as "The After Picture." Just imagine how excited Tom must be that he landed a job in D.C., which is where Chase lives.

"There is a reason Tom's nickname is 'Gay Boy,'" I thought to myself. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I called him the first chance I had that night when I got home.

"I was BORED, Bayyyyylesssss." Tom always prolongs the pronunciation of my name when I'm making fun of him.

"What did the ideal weight calculator say about you?" There was no question he'd entered in his own measurements.

"It said I was the ideal weight, too," Tom boasted, while trying to seem like he wasn't boasting, even though he wasn't fooling anyone, "but truthfully, I could stand to lose about ten pounds."

Tom has always said that his sole goal in life is to become tanned and "toned." The rest of our friends in college only cared about getting stoned. But not Tom. He was the only one -- besides Chase, of course, as you would expect from The After Picture -- who cared at all about physical fitness in those days. Sure, Hunter did his occasional push ups, and Jamison secretly lifted weights up in his room while wanting us to think he was writing poetry. But Tom was the biker/runner guy. He and his boys from high school biked across the country the summer after second year, from Virginia Beach to San Diego. And he started running after that, oftentimes with a black do-rag tied around his head, the flap fluttering against his neck in step with his lanky 6'5" frame, and always in Sambas.

And occasionally a baby costume.

The point of all this is that Tom is "not unattractive," as my cousin Katie so diplomatically put it during college, when I was trying my hardest to facilitate a union between the Parsley family and Tom.

This is actually TK, who is Tom's alter ego. (TK knows Tom; Tom has never met TK.)

Not only is he not unattractive, but he's actually quite toned. I told him this after he said he "could stand to lose about ten pounds."

"But Bayless, you have to remember, I've gained like 25 pounds since I got back from South Africa."

"Yeah dude, but you had lost about 25 pounds while you were there. You look fine, Tom."

It was an exchange that two girls would have: I'm fat/Omg no you're not.

Tom is seriously worried about this. That is the humor. You know it really, truly bothers Tom that he's "ten pounds overweight," even though he's not. I mean, look at Chase. He's the After Picture. You know Tom thinks about it -- he really thinks about it -- every time he sees himself naked in the mirror before getting into the shower.

I need to get more toned...

He does a quick belly pinch.

Chase is so much more ideal than me...

Does the quick profile shot, and sucks in a breath, just to see what he'd look like if he were The After Picture.

Ten pounds and I would be so much more toned...

Considering Tom's friends from high school are as obsessed with Chase's ideal "After Pictureness" as Tom, it isn't so surprising that he's so fixated on being toned.

Now we're going to take a step back, and learn something about where Tom comes from. We're going to dig deeper into this strange world of his.

The origins of "Eee!"

Remember the thing we used to do when we were kids and we decided to proclaim that someone was "crazy?" You point at them and use your other hand to draw an invisible circle around your temple. You are loco... It is in this annoying custom that you find the origins of "Eee!"

When Tom and his little brother Jacob were kids, they and their mother (who wrote this children's novel about James Cameron) used to do the loco thing all the time. They would also add in an annoying, high pitched sound while pointing: the modern day "Eee!" noise. At some point, the twirling component faded away, and all that was left was the finger point and the "Eee!"

Your mind right now: "And I repeat: what the hell is 'Eee!'?"

My answer: What is pornography? It's hard to explain. Keep reading, and you'll understand.

Just accept the "Eee!"

"Eee!" doesn't really mean, "You are clinically insane." It means, "You just did something that you most likely wouldn't have wanted us to know about, and if you did want us to know about it, odds are you're not going to try and defend your actions. You know you deserve to get made fun of for it."

It could also mean, "You're a bitch." But not in the pejorative sense. Older people, I find, have a hard time delineating between the multiple meanings of this word. My dog Pacifico is a bitch. My fourth grade teacher Mrs. Hughes was a bitch. And Ricky Martin is a bitch. But all three are different types of bitches, and Ricky Martin is the only one whose very existence I would "Eee!" Does that help?

Here is a great example of an "Eee!" situation from my own personal experience: a few months ago, a girl I liked asked if I wanted to accompany her on a short jog around the Rice track. I don't jog; or at least I didn't jog at that time. But I went jogging so I could run game on a pretty girl.

That, my friends, is a HUGE "EEEEEEEE!" situation.

And what do we say in a legitimate "Eee!" situation? Anyone remember?

"Azen."

Another great "Eee!" example comes from last January. Tony decided to wait until we were already in the car to hit me with the news that I was gonna be playing the part of third wheel at the concert that night. "We gotta go pick up Lauren first." He'd been seeing her a short time, and was still very much in the game-running phase. I was riding shotgun when he informed me that three was going to be the magic number that night. Soon, she would be getting in the car.

Tony clearly was torn: "Bro's before ho's" or increasing his chances with Lauren?

It just so happened that Tony had been asking me what "Eee!" meant all week, and even with good examples to give him, he still couldn't quite get it 100 percent. "Eee!" oftentimes is something you don't get until you get "Eee'd!" It's like people who are atheists until they have a near death experience and see the light: you don't know until you know.

Me: "Should I get in the back?"

Tony: "No."

Me: "Are you sure?"

Tony: "Yeah man, just stay in the front. I'm gonna go knock on her door real quick." (He's standing on the street with the driver's door open as he says this.)

It would be me that came out looking like the asshole if, as the third wheel, I made the girl sit in the back.

Me: "I mean ... you're putting me in a very difficult situation, Tony."

He pondered the situation for a bit. One one thousand, two one thousand...

Tony: "Ya know what, get in the back."

Me: (as the door is just about to shut) "EEEEEEE!"

Your mind right now: "Ohhhhhkay, I get it now."

Tony: (who suddenly completely got what "Eee!" was, and seemed very excited about the revelation) "What's that word again??"

Me: (screaming because the door was shut now) "Azen!"

Tony: (screaming because the door was shut now) "Azen!"

BOOM. That is "Eee!"

It wasn't surprising that Tony said "Azen" on his own volition, because Tony is the quintessential "well raised child." He's like Chase, or Hunter. Just solid. The kind of person that always says "Bless you" when a stranger sneezes. But not everyone is so good at admitting they've been "Eee'd!" with merit (which is the definition of the word "azen," an admission that you deserve to be "Eee'd!").

Some try to fight it: "That's not an 'Eee!' That's not an 'Eee!'" This is almost always an exercise in futility. Denying an "Eee!" simply leads to more "Eee's!" Of course, it's up to the person volleying the "Eee's!" that he does so responsibly. An unjustified "Eee!" is a low blow. If you gain a reputation for flippant "Eee'ing!" you will quickly lose credibility, a la the boy who cried wolf. The best thing you can do when someone "Eee's!" you, unless you are 100 percent convicted that it was uncalled for, is eat it: "Azen."

Press '3' for 'Eee!'

Since Tom lives in Philly, we were talking about Chase's ideal weight and Tom's need to shed ten pounds over the phone, and not in person.

I don't know how I never thought of it until then, but I realized that the sound of numbers being pressed on my phone were extremely high-pitched and annoying -- kind of like the "Eee!" sound. So when he was talking about his tonedness, I just held down the number '3.'

"3333333333333333333333!" ThreeeEeeeeeeeeee! How perfect is that?

"What was that?" Tom asked.

"I just 'Eee'd!' you using my phone."

"Why?"

"Because you're a gay boy." Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Tom quickly texted back the word "azen": 2-9-3-6.

3-3-3-3-3-3-3-3-3-3-3! I punched repeatedly.

2-9-3-6, 2-9-3-6, he answered.

Then Tom realized, he had "spelled it wrong."

"What do you mean you spelled it wrong? It's 'azen.'"

"No, the official spelling is A-Z-I-N," he said.

"There's no 'official spelling' for 'azen,'" I protested.

"Yes there is, Bayyyylessssssss." This from the man who had to ask me how to spell Pennsylvania our first year. He is from Pennsylvania, and was making a shirt that was trying to make fun of me: Don't Mess with Pennsylvania.

"But you pronounce it, 'ah-ZEN.'"

"BAYLESS! I say it's 'azin.' That's the official spelling. 2-9-4-6. That's how I spelled it in my UVa application essay, and that's how it's spelled."

And then I remembered: Tom had written his college application essay about "Eee!" and "azen."

I warned you: he comes from a strange world.

My new Chevelle.

My favorite thing about the bike shop guy I talked to last night was that he was successfully able to explain to me that my bike was an overpriced piece of shit (and that's before I almost matched the cost of buying it in the repairs it needed after a decade of collecting dust in some random Asian family's garage) while simultaneously convincing me that it was the shit. Not many people can do that: "Man, your girlfriend is so ugly. But ugly is the new thing! I'm jealous." See? It's a difficult skill to acquire.

They'd said it would take a week to fix my piece of junk, a 12-speed Meridian that is nearly 30 years old. It took a month. Apparently a 9mm Cotter pin takes that long to arrive in the mail. The Pony Express could have moved a Ukrainian tank from the coast of Somalia to the Houston Ship Channel in less time. But such is life. I was just happy to hear the message on my phone Tuesday from Brent, another guy who works there, saying that she was ready for me to come pick up.

Brent is an example of why you shouldn't take ecstasy. He doesn't smile; he surely doesn't laugh; and his voice is about as expressive as Stephen Hawking's computer. Just Say No.

The other guy, though, was way nicer.

"How much did you pay for it?" he asked as I lingered around the door, waiting for Tony to finish his sandwich. I sheepishly told him. "Wow," he said, "that's a lot." (Grimace.) "But hey man, this baby's awesome!" (Don't try to make me feel better.) "These things are coming back in style, man. I bet you I've seen more of these old school bikes in the last three years than I saw my entire life before that -- and I'm FROM the 80's, dude." (Fashion is cyclical -- get it? Cycle?)

I asked him about the brakes -- they seem to be in a strange location.

"Oh, yeah, these ones... I would love to know how many lawsuits this bike company received over the years before they finally stopped putting brake handles right there." He pointed to the top ones. "Because... they don't work! Ha!" (Ha. Haa...) "Naw man, but seriously, this bike is the shit." (Do you mean that in the way a native speaker would mean it? Or do you mean it in the way Maria Elena, my friend from Rome means it? As in, "bad"?) "It's like driving an old school car," he said, before clarifying: "But it ain't a Mustang, I won't lie."

"More like an El Camino?" I asked, citing the first old, shitty car that came to mind.

"No, not even like an El Camino," he laughed. Not even that good? "It's more like a Chevelle."

I didn't know what a Chevelle was, but I took it to mean "bad."

"Well..."

"Hey man, you've got a bike!"

That I do. A $284 piece of crap with brakes that were made obsolete by the high number of lawsuits it generated. And with gear shifters harder to figure out than a girl's bra when you're 15. That creaks like Jeff Bagwell's right shoulder. But I've got a bike. And I'm happy about that.

Craig.

Jamison has a man crush on my neighbor Craig. He gets giddy whenever he sees the guy pop his head out of his back door when we're out chilling on my deck. "Is Craig a part of this story?" is the only thing Jamison wanted to know when I called him ready to tell an extremely enthusiastic tale about something that happened when I was cooking a frozen pizza two nights ago. And the only guaranteed character he has in mind for a TV show he wants to write together is, you guessed it, Craig.

Craig is probably in his 40's. I'm not quite positive about that. He lives in the apartment complex about three feet from the outside wall of my Embassy Suites of efficiencies spot. He's always got a five o'clock shadow, and about 80 percent of the time, Craig is dressed in tennis clothes: the high socks pushed down to just medium length, with lots of wrinkles and fold ups are my favorite part.

Here was how my first encounter with Craig went:

Me: (walking out my front door)

Craig: (walking to his car, which is parked in front of my front door) "Is that incense you got burning in there?"

Me: "Yeah." (thinking he likes the smell and is going to compliment me with the standard Austin reply of "right on.")

Craig: "Yeah not my favorite."

Me: (wondering if he ever smelled this place before I moved in, and which he'd prefer if given the option) "Oh."

It's Craig. He tells new neighbors that he doesn't like their taste in smell. (Now that would be a hard sentence for a non-native speaker to understand.)

Craig drives two cars: one is a boring minivan. The other is freaking incredible. It's an old school Volvo that looks like a Jeston's car. Dark green, from the 70's, with a big, bubbly back windshield. Ninety-eight percent of the time, it just sits in the grass beside the dumpster in front of the building. But sometimes he drives it. When I found out the car was Craig's, I wasn't surprised.

"Yeah man, I see you've been getting a lot of free stuff on my list," Craig said tonight during one of his patented, pop-out/pop-in maneuvers he pulls from the steps abutting his back door, while we were on the deck. Craig is so good at timing those things perfectly: he never lingers awkwardly, and he never gives the brief "elevator hello." These pop-out/pop-in's average about two minutes in length, I'd say if forced to guess. The "Craig's" list joke was perfect for a two minute Craig performance. "I'll be sure to leave you the bill for my services."

Craig also loves to say "Looks like a party." He's the no-incense guy, he's the tennis clothes guy, but he's also the "Looks like a party" guy. I'm pretty sure he's said it every time Jamison has come over. We're chilling on the deck, Craig walks out, and wait, let me guess:

"Looks like a party..!"

(I want to petition to whatever committee decides these things that we need a compromise punctuation mark that straddles the line of the period and the exclamation point. How do we indicate excitement? But not like "WHOOO! LOOKS LIKE A PARTY!!" excitement. The kind of "I'm acting excited, but I'm actually quite relaxed" tone of voice.)

Jamison and I are standing out on the front porch the other day, and Craig is in his kitchen, watching. Jamison notices him and whispers, "Craig!" I turn. Craig is drinking coffee and looking at me through his screen.

"Hi Craig," I say.

"Looks like a party," he answers.

And he did it again tonight. And Jamison was happy.

Go Big or Go Home!

Wes pushes 'em all in.

"Wes," I said after he'd told me the whole story, "Can you please extract some of your pimp juice, place it in a vial and send it to me in the mail? You are the man."

Wes celebrating another successful sip of beer

The best thing about the news that Wes got engaged last weekend is that I will never have to stumble over saying his fiance's last name again. Lizzie Ferrer..i. Ferrer...a. Ferrer..uhhhhh. No matter how many times I'm corrected on it, I never feel fully confident that I'm saying it right. That's partly why I always called her "Wes' Lizzie" -- that, and because both Tom and I had girlfriends of the same name in college. Soon, though, it won't be Lizzie Ferrari. It will be Lizzie Petticrew. Lizzie "Push 'em" Petticrew.

Wes' self-adorned nickname is "Push 'em." Because he always pushes 'em in in poker. Or so he claims.

Anyone who was friends with me my first year in college will remember Wes. He's the guy whose fake photo of him and his "boys" from back home in Virginia Beach spawned the entire concept of www.newcollegeidentities.com.

Click here to read the story of how Wes became "Wes the Original Beach Kid."

I met him my first day of college. He was roommates with Tom. They both lived on my hall in Humphreys. The first thing I thought when I saw Wes was, "This guy looks like Rudy Ruettiger at age 40."

The real Rudy

"Biiiiitch," he would say about 30 times a day, "I RUN shit in VB!" VB is Virginia Beach, the 757, a part of the country where Michael Vick, Allen Iverson and Bruce Smith all hail from, but where Wes was the one who ran shit. He even grew up down the street from another guy that was on our hall that year, Washington Nationals third baseman Ryan Zimmerman, but Wes still ran shit. Zim wasn't the three-time national champion before age 16, after all, twice in body boarding, once in AAU basketball. That was Wes. No wonder Wes' AIM screen name was VaBeachHNIC. He ran shit.

Wes met a girl our first year named Lizzie. She also lived in Humphreys. Wes fell in love with her. She did not fall in love with him, at least not immediately. That could be because the first time they ever had a real conversation, it was when Wes was coming home from the police station, where he had spent the night after being arrested for doing something bad, I don't know. It involved drinking and being black out. You'll have to ask him for more details. The point is that Wes meets girl, Wes falls in love with girl, girl doesn't fall in love with Wes, but Wes and girl become friends, Wes sets goal to be more than friends, and by third year, Wes has prevailed.

Lizzie from Humphreys became "Wes' Lizzie," and four years later, still dating, they find themselves back in Charlottesville, for the Clemson-Virginia basketball game.

"I told her we had to go meet up with Ben at the chemistry building, so he could give us our tickets," Wes said Sunday night when he called to tell me about how it all went down.

"Where did you ask her?" I asked immediately, trying to cut to the chase. I'd known for months that he was trying to pop the question where it all began, at UVa, just like The Bob did when he asked my mom to marry him, but I didn't realize just how pimp his plans were until they'd already unfolded.

"Right in front of Humphreys."

"YES!" I screamed. "Yes, Wes."

"But it was hard to get her there because it was out of the way to the arena, and Lizzie was like, 'Why do we have to go all the way to the chemistry building? That's stupid. Why can't we just drive to the arena and park there and...' I was just like, 'Jeez, can you please shut up for two seconds?'"

Lizzie didn't realize that she was ruining Wes' plans. The chemistry building is right next to Humphreys, our old dorm, the place where Wes met girl, and fell in love with girl. It wasn't where girl fell in love with Wes, but it was gonna be where she said yes. She didn't know he'd bought a ring, and she didn't know that there were no Clemson tickets. But she knew it didn't make sense to go all the way to the chemistry building if they were trying to go to the game.

"I just want you to know," Wes said, as I heard Lizzie laughing in the background, "that you played a part in making it all go down perfectly." Me? "I told her that we had to go that way anyway because Bayless said he'd heard that they'd installed a permanent four square court at Old Dorms, and he thinks it's because of him, since he thinks he's the one who started four square."

I am the one who started four square. Or at least, I'm one of the four who started it at Old Dorms in 2002.

"So when we get to the benches outside of Humphreys, I asked her what her favorite memory of first year was."

It felt like a "Sleepless in Seattle" moment, as I drove in my car listening to this story of true love.

"And she said, 'That time you started a fire outside of the dorms and the fire department came...'"

The time Wes went middle school style after exams first year and lit all his notes on fire was not the answer he was looking for there.

"So I was like, 'How 'bout another memory?'" Lizzie was ruining his plans. "And she said, 'That time you were coming back from the police station..'"

Wes would probably describe that encounter as "the first time we talked," not "the time I was coming back from getting arrested," but that was the answer he was looking for, and he got down on his knee.

"And I just said, 'Bet you I can top that..'"

ALL IN. Wes went all in. In the most pimp fashion any of us from Humphreys will ever do it.

The best part? They went and scalped tickets to the Clemson game. And Virginia beat the No. 12 Tigers in overtime.

Now that was a good day for Push 'em. That's the way you run shit.

You know those weird "house noises" that are constantly humming in the background, but which you don't ever notice except for random, brief moments every few days or so?

My new place has got some freaky house noises. Like right now. It's so high pitched, it's up and down, but always high pitched. Kind of like cicadas from the future. It is coming from the sink area. I'm about to pour molten lead into my ear canals. I think I'm going insane.

Have you ever met someone who tells you how much he or she appreciates you? Not just you, but everyone with whom they come into contact? It's quite rare, those who express appreciation. We all feel it for those who make positive impacts upon our lives: people who make us laugh, or who do us favors, or open doors, or let us into traffic, or even give us something as free and benign as a friendly smile while passing on the sidewalk. We appreciate these people, and we try to make them feel it with our body language and facial expressions, maybe even tossing in a few hand movements to make our intentions understood. But we never say it. Because that would seem weird and uncomfortable.

There was a guy who turned 25 yesterday that hosted us at his house in San Marcos for the big party last night. And this morning, while the remaining attendees were all sitting around the table outside in the front yard, he made sure to tell us, "I want to thank you all for coming, and to know that I appreciate each and every one of you, and that I'm happy that you're here with me right now."

It was as simple as that, and I guarantee you it made all of the people who heard feel really good inside. I think I'm going to start telling people that I appreciate them more often, too.

The Tanzanian Devil

Syracuse coach Jim Boeheim calls him "the best we've had in this league." His own coach, John Calhoun, says he is "one of the most amazing forces in basketball in America." I call him "the Tanzanian orphan I wish we would have sponsored the most."

I mean, the 67 Tanzanian orphans we did sponsor were cute and all, but ... have you seen "The Air Up There"? How cool would it be to have a badass NBA player feel a sense of obligation towards you?

One of my Mzungu friends who lived in Dar es Salaam for five years -- he is the son of the former Belgian ambassador to Tanzania -- got to play with Thabeet one day when the 7'3" monster came to practice in the nice, indoor gym at the international school there. Not only did he play with him, but he threw the future top five NBA pick an alley oop.

I just got daps from him.

For the first and only time during my time in Africa, I was able to meet someone who stood out even more than me.

He was at our court in Soweto for about an hour, and was supposed to have been accompanied by Dikembe "Who Wants to Sex?" Mutombo. But Mutombo was M.I.A., and the lone Mbongo, the slang term for a Tanzanian, was swarmed by throngs of his countrymen from Arusha, none of whom came within a foot of his towering, awkward frame.

"Mazoezi tu," I remember him mumbling, barely audible in his shy, baritone voice -- one that is as deep if not deeper than the Cookie Monster Mutombo's. "Just practice." That was the lie he was telling to all the short little Tanzanian fans he had staring up at him, when asked what the secret was to success on the basketball court. Mazoezi? TU? How about mazoezi NA UREFU SANA. Practice and height. Zaidi ya fiti saba. More than seven feet of it.

I waited for a lull in group conversation and asked him how he enjoyed Houston, where he played his high school ball.

"It's a nice place," he said. And then he gave me a fist bump -- or, depending on your perspective, I gave him a fist bump.

The last time I'd gotten to meet a famous athlete like that, it was when Vince Young, "cousin" of my junior high basketball coach Ivory Young, came over to our house on Christmas Eve in 2004, the night before the Texas team left for Pasadena and their Rose Bowl matchup with Michigan. I gave him that wonderful custom appropriated by us white boys from black culture, the "slap hug," before he left.

Vince ran for 192 yards and four touchdowns, passed for 180 yards and another score and drove the Longhorns to the winning kick in that game as a result.

Thabeet, who only gave me the fist bump, and no hug, then proceeded to shoot around on our court, and missed badly on his first 12 or 13 shots, making me wonder just how much mazoezi he had actually put in during his life.

But after getting a call from Chase this afternoon and hearing that Thabeet dropped 25, 20 and nine (nine blocks is by far the most impressive part of that stat line) against Seton Hall today, I'm feeling pretty proud of my boy.

"Not Gayless."

1) Why can't someone invent a Post It Note that actually sticks to stuff?

2) Is there anything more awkward than a Coyote Ugly bar that is practically empty? Jamison and I walked by one last night on 6th St. after we left the Mad Professor show at Flamingo Cantina (which smells a lot like an Amsterdam coffee shop -- I love Austin), and I kind of felt sad for the girl I saw standing on the bar, trying to lively up the sedated customers.

This was on a Thursday, too. I'd hate to see what that place looks like on a Monday. Or a Sunday. Or any day that isn't Friday or Saturday.

It does make you wonder, though: what kind of person is walking into a near-empty Coyote Ugly, looks around, coughs, hears an echo of that cough bounce off the walls, says to themselves, "Yup, this is the one," and plops down on a stool right below a so-so Coyote Ugly girl parading around the bar counter with a microphone in hand? There are hundreds of bars on 6th St., and you choose the empty Coyote Ugly. What is wrong with you?

3) JESUS CHRIST I JUST CAUGHT A SQUIRREL TRYING TO SNEAK INTO MY APARTMENT THROUGH THE OPEN DOOR AND IT SCARED THE LIVING CRAP OUT OF ME. I looked over and saw him creeping up, with his nose past the plane, and the sudden movement of my head sent him scrambling away across the patio, like Marquis Weeks running from the cops.

Wahoowa.

Do I need to close my doors to keep out squirrels? Think about the damage one of those little bastards could cause if it got inside while I was in the shower or something. Thank God this isn't Africa, where their version of squirrels (monkeys) have opposable thumbs.

4) (the following was a word-for-word dialogue that took place after I left my card at Flamingo Cantina and had to go back to get it, walking by the depressing sight of the Coyote Ugly crowd on the way. I ran into this girl who I'd been dancing next to at the show, and had already chatted with for a few moments, and saw it as a sign -- maybe I left my card here for a reason...)

Me: "You said your name was Kelly?" (acting like I wasn't sure, though I was 100 percent positive, as I hold out my hand to re-introduce myself in a less noisy spot)

Kelly: (not holding out her hand) "What?"

Me: "You said your name was Kelly?" (it's about to get real awkward if she doesn't shake my hand soon, because then I'm gonna have to retract it, and we all know how cool that makes you feel)

Kelly: "Yeah." (relief: she shakes my hand)

Me: "I'm Bayless."

Kelly: "Gayless?"

(The rule of thumb for when a girl mishears your name and responds with "Gayless?" is that you are done.)

Me: "No, Bayless."

Kelly: "Oh."

Me: "Not Gayless."

(three second pause; I pretend to be more interested in the music than this conversation)

Me: (after a short, awkward exchange about the show, and how it was good) "Okay I'll see you around."

Las Suegras..

"Let me tell you something," the well to do, wise Spaniard said, "about mothers-in-law." Breck was sitting quietly across the desk from his girlfriend's father, and he was asking permission to seek her hand in marriage. "Las suegras," he said (en español, por supuesto, ya que es de España, y ya que Breck habla español muy bien), "son como las estrellas: cuanto más lejos, más bellas."

"Mothers-in-law are like the stars: the farther away, the more beautiful."

Great advice from the man who was shortly to become Breck's new suegro.

My own father used to always give me advice about mothers-in-law as well. Only, his was more focused on the chica, and what she'd look like when she became a suegra to the guy coming to my office to ask my permission for something.

"Now Bayless," he'd say, his tone of voice betraying the fact that what was about to come next was a "haha--seriously though" tip on life, "when you're deciding on which girl you end up marrying, always, look, at the mother." (allow for dramatic pause) "That'll give you a pretty good indication of what you're going to be dealing with about 30 years down the line."

If that's the case, I shouldn't have ever broken up with the first girl I ever seriously dated, and who, ironically enough, is the only girl to this day I've dated for longer than a year (a year and a half, when I was 15 and 16, and long distance, at that). Her mom was smoking hot. Here's to you, Mrs. Vaughan. I'm sure The Bob would agree if you asked him. Speaking of my dad, I don't know why I never thought to ask until now but ... does that mean he was checking out my grandmother in the early 80's?

Ah, las suegras. Hot or not, I'm looking forward to having one one day, if only so that I'll be able to write about her antics. ("It'd be FUUUNNY!" is how Tom would paraphrase that desire if he were trying to mimic me.) Just think of all the material. Like this guy. This guy's got great material.

Broken chair free for pick up. (austin)

I have a broken chair that was broken when my overweight Mother inlaw was sitting on it. I think that maybe a handyman good at woodworking can fix it. I would just hate to throw it away since it cost me money a few years ago.

If only I were seeing this on YouTube rather than witnessing the aftermath on craigslist. I typed in "fat mother-in-law breaking chair" just in case, and it came up with nada.

Maybe instead of just using craigslist 24/7 to look for free stuff to continue furnishing my apartment (so far I've gotten a great couch, a solid coffee table, a spacious bed, functional bookshelves, a sturdy picnic table, several uncracked coffee mugs, a stylish candle holder, a timeless book of Aesop's Fables, and I wasn't able to reply to the ad promising "free douche bags" before it was flagged and removed), I could use it to post want ads for future wives:

Para las chicas que tienen madres muy buenas...

After all, for a man who can't even afford to buy his own chairs, I surely can't afford to have a suegra who's gonna go around breaking the ones I can find for free on craigslist.

p.s. when I first met Breck, at his home in Switzerland, he was living with his wife and children just a few minutes away from his mother-in-law.

p.p.s. while writing this story, I saw an ad for a free printer/scanner/copier/fax machine (retail: $107.51), which I don't particularly need, but have already made arrangements to go pick up tomorrow morning. The list just keeps on growing... and pretty soon I'll have those chairs.

There's a guy at work a year older than me who grew up in Belgrade. His family fled in 1993, when hyperinflation was at its peak, 500 billion dinar notes were as valuable as a ply of toilet paper and the nightly news featured a special "Let's all take out our money and scratch off a few zeros" segment before the weather. The guy is brilliant, and can talk your ear off -- in a good way -- about all things Balkan until the cows come home, or until his wife calls him to ask why he's still at work an hour after quitting time.

There aren't any cows in downtown Austin.

But before his phone rang, he told me a great anecdote, as we stood by a giant, wall sized map of the world, one so big that even Luxembourg looks semi-formidable.

When he was studying in Quebec, "writing a paper on democracy and all that bullshit," he remembers one day falling upon a whole section of books tucked far away in dark, dusty corner of the library. All were written by French Canadian authors, "all with titles like, 'How to Make it Work' ... no, really, they all had that exact title." They were essentially a bunch of how-to manuals on federalist political systems comprising different ethnic groups, and all were about -- you guessed it -- Yugoslavia.

Needless to say, none of the books had been checked out in some time.

After being encouraged to rewrite the previous post "with more tact" by "Kathryn G." -- and after David made me feel like I'm going to Hell -- here is my rewrite:

There's no way that guy is serious, is there? If he is, then I am not excited about the laptop.

There. Officially off my conscience.

Is it bad that I was still excited about this free craigslist opportunity, even after I read it?

And better yet: is it bad that there is someone out there that is actually going to follow through on this? (I almost emailed him; I actually got as far as copying and pasting the email address, but then I was like, "Wait. No. No.")

free laptop and accessories (austin)

---

Reply to: sale-1029712014@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2009-02-10, 7:18PM CST



i plan on killing myself sometime this week. i dont own much, but what i do have of value can be yours in exchange for a simple promise. you will get a fujitsu lifebook t4010d with a bunch of accessories, an mp3 player, a gp2x, and some other various computer related items. my younger brother died last year, and the only things important to me that he left behind was a huge amount of music and music projects. all you have to do is remix and /or finish 3 of these projects so i have something fresh but familiar to listen to as i die. its that simple.

guy minus girl @aim

whiterliar@gmail.com

Lance.

"Shit." I should have gotten on the freeway -- 12th St. is a little farther down than I realized. I'm still new to Austin.

It was because of that mistake, though, that I saw him coming from a football field away: a hardcore cyclist, looking like the pitchman for Chiquita Bananas decked in all yellow, in the highest of high tech gear. From the thousand dollar bike, to the sleek helmet, to the tight shirt and even tighter shorts, it was yellow, yellow, yellow, like he was leading the Tour de France.

"Who does this guy think he is?" I remember thinking to myself. "Lance?"

It was raining outside. Couldn't the dude just wait to go gallivanting around Austin on his bike? "All right, Lance," is what I would have said in a mocking tone had there been anyone else in the car.

And then, he got closer. And closer. And closer. I was sitting at a red light on the feeder, just east of I-35. The Lance wannabe was cruising underneath the overpass, directly towards me. Closer. Closer.

And then, all of the sudden, he wasn't getting closer; he was just close. And that's when I realized that it wasn't "Lance." It was LANCE. Without quotes.

It IS Lance. Lance Freaking Armstrong!

"HOLY SHIT!" is what I would have screamed to the world had any of its six billion inhabitants had been in the car next to me.

But I didn't yell a thing, even though my window was already rolled down, and I was less than ten feet away from the guy. I was stunned. My mouth was wide open, and not a sound escaped between my lips. It was like my voice was an unintelligent dog who doesn't realize he can just push the kennel door open, and remains in captivity when freedom is but a nudge away. Anything I'd ever wanted to say to him, I had the chance at this moment. And I... I... I...

I just drove away. The light turned green at the very moment I realized it wasn't "Lance," but Lance, and almost immediately the goosebumps took over my body. They are the goosebumps that come from encounters with greatness, whether in the flesh, or through a story, or a TV screen, a song or a book. The goosebumps of greatness. My jaw was so floored that it practically hit the accelerator for me, powering my car away as I stared at his tired, focused face in the side mirror, until he was gone.

Within 10 seconds I was on the phone with Chase in D.C.

Chase: "Hello?" (in his quiet, "I'm at work, can't you just text me this?" voice)

Me: (before Chase even gets to the second syllable of "hello") "OH MY GOD I JUST SAW LANCE ARMSTRONG RIDING HIS BIKE UNDER THE FREEWAY!!"

Something tells me the people working in his vicinity heard the news at the same time as Chase.

I used a similar opener in the conversations that followed shortly thereafter with Tom, Tener and Wes' voicemail.

Everyone's question was, "Does he live in Austin or something?"

Uhh.... yeah.

Lance and Matthew McConaughey: two of the three reasons why all the ladies want to move to Austin.

This guy: the third reason.

"It's too bad Wes wasn't with you," Tom said. "He loves to yell, 'This isn't the Tour de France!' whenever he sees dudes in all their bike gear like that. In this case, it would have been extremely ironic.

"Or you could have just screamed at him, 'The first cut is the deepest!'" he continued after we reminisced about other things Wes has yelled at innocent passersby (whenever the tour of prospective UVa students was being led around dorms, he'd scream, "F*** THE TOUR!!").

"'The first cut is the deepest'?" I asked.

"That's what people used to scream outside his hotel when he was in the midst of breaking up with Sheryl Crow. That's her song."

Baaaaaby, I knew that already, duh.

Tener hit it on the head, though: "Of course, for the next 24 hours, all you're gonna do is think about what you could have said."

So true. It consumed me the rest of the day at work. And, obviously, it's still consuming me now, eight hours later.

Maybe I would have congratulated him on the recent news that he got his wife pregnant, one ball and all, something he never thought possible, which the mightily expensive in vitro bills he's had to pay can attest to.

Or then again, maybe I would have just yelled something about how his new wife must be cheating on him, and that it'd be easier to win seven Tour titles than impregnate anyone with goods as damaged as his own.

Actually, no, wait, I've got it.

"F*** THE TOUR!!!"

Thanks, Wes.

I was trying to Google some movie this morning for a detail I needed for a pun I was trying to form, when I came across a small thumbnail image of Jean Claude Van Damme standing in front of the Dome of the Rock.

"Hmmm...." and I clicked on it.

Please tell me "The Order" was a straight to DVD film. For the love of God, please, tell me this movie did not come out in theaters.

Best part: Van Damme's name is "Rudy" in the film

Read the two reviews from imdb.com:

1) "Van Damme plays Rudy whose father, Oscar is an archaeologist. His father goes to Israel. When his father disappears, he goes to Israel to find him. The chief of police claims that his father never entered the country, but an old friend of his father's was expecting him and before he could tell him more, some people start shooting at them. He manages to get away, and when he goes back to the police chief, he still refuses to believe that a crime has been committed. He then has Rudy deported, but Rudy convinces the police woman assigned to bring him to the airport not to and help him find his father. Written by {rcs0411@yahoo.com}"

2) In the year 1099, during the Crusades in the 11th Century, Christian soldiers arrive in Jerusalem and slaughter the local population. Christian soldier Charles Le Vaillant becomes demoralized by the horrors of war and decides to create a new religious order. This new order brings together, in a peaceful manner, members from the three religions of the region: Christians, Jews, and Muslims. As a self-imposed leader and messiah, Charles writes the sacred texts of the Order. The Christian Crusaders accuse Charles of heresy, and attack him and his disciples. During the attack, the last chapter from the sacred texts becomes lost in the desert. Now, in modern-day Israel, a devout contingent of Le Vaillant's followers continues to practice his peaceful teachings. But a disciple named Cyrus has a distorted view of the Order's peaceful intention. Rudy Cafmeyer is a thief and smuggler of valuable historical artifacts. Rudy manages to break into a high security building where he steals a Faberge Egg, the kind decorated with precious stones and manufactured expressly for the Russian Tsars. Needless to say, the alarm goes off, and Rudy has to fight his way out of the building. Despite this theft, Rudy is not really a bad guy. He stole the egg from the personal collection of a powerful Russian mafia boss. Rudy is a loving son who would do anything for his father Oscar "Ozzie" Cafmeyer. Ozzie, an archaeologist and museum curator, discovers the manuscripts that were lost during the crusades. The manuscripts clearly extol interfaith harmony. In those manuscripts, there is also an ancient map of Jerusalem, which shows the location of a mythical Jewish treasure. Ozzie travels to Israel, where Cyrus has him kidnapped. Rudy, who heard the kidnapping take place while talking to Ozzie on the phone, travels to Jerusalem to rescue Oscar. Oscar's associate, Professor Walt Finley, hands Rudy the key to a safe-deposit box in East Jerusalem before being gunned down by unknown assailants. Israeli Police Chief Ben Ner views Rudy's arrival with hostility and takes steps to have Rudy deported, but police lieutenant Dalia Barr risks her life and career to help Rudy -- she was once a disciple of the Order, but she left when she was 18-years-old. Cyrus uses a car bomb to assassinate the Order's leader, Pierre Gaudet, and Cyrus steps up his own rhetoric, hoping to inflame his followers. Rudy opens the safe-deposit box and finds a map that shows a series of tunnels and a treasure room beneath Jerusalem. Ben Ner, who has partnered with Cyrus, covets the gold that the underground tunnels lead to, but Cyrus hopes to plant a bomb during Ramadan that will turn the Israelis against the Palestinians. Dalia and Rudy must get to the Order's monastery, free Ozzie, and prevent an explosion that could push tensions in the area way past the boiling point. Written by Todd Baldridge


Do I even have to say anything?

Gratuitous Motion Girl

My favorite part of the Jim Rome Show is when clones call in to "war" one thing or another. "War the guy in a suit who rides his bike to work." It's essentially like saying "What's the deal with?" I don't know the origins of the clones' use of the word "war" in this context -- I'm sure a quick Google search would explain it -- but it usually precedes some arcane social observation that is funny and tinged with a trace of anger and/or annoyance.

"War the guy who turns to you in the elevator and says, 'Nice day, huh?'"

I went and saw Devotchka (which is Serbian for "girl" -- I knew it was something all along) last night with Jamison. I got two free tickets, actually, courtesy of my good friend Sarah, who knows all the Chicago rock stars, including Jeff Tweedy, a married man whose wife was informed by Sarah's daughter Pearl that her mommy "loved" Mrs. Tweedy's husband.

War the guy next to you at the urinals who pees like a self-milked cow: standing up and squirting in powerful, intermittent gusts.

And war the offensive lineman chick with the gelled, short cropped and bleach blonde hair, tats up and down her arms and back, piercings galore and a black wife beater who enters your peaceful dancing space and, as Jamison put it, despoils the soothing music with "gratuitous motion."

War the gratuitous motion girl.

"I can't take it, man," I would yell between songs, after another tune in which I couldn't concentrate at all on the music, so savage were gratuitous motion girl's shoulder bumps and foot stomps. "I can't take it anymore."

Jamison, who was positioned slightly in front of and to the right of me, out of range from her salvos, would just cackle, barely audible over the sound of the music pumping out of the speakers less than ten feet away. "You should fight back, man!"

But I was scared. Gratuitious motion girl was huge. Fat, yes, but more scarily, strong. She could definitely take me. And her fullback friend, slightly smaller but still a fan of Campbell's Chunky Soup, could easily take Jamison, who has pretty big muscles, even for a guy. They could take us.

"No way." And I'd try in vain, once again, to simply scoot over more.

But scooting over just wasn't working. La Zona Rosa was packed, and there was nowhere to move. The few inches of free space I had to work with only translated into the expansion of her territory by a few more inches -- nature, and butch girls who dance with too much gusto, abhor a vacuum.

If you give gratuitous motion girl an inch, she'll take a mile. So I decided to fight back.

After three or four songs of getting manhandled, I let loose with my own wave of shoulder bumps and foot planting. Now I was the one all up in her space as she tried to enjoy the show. I timed it perfectly so that our shoulders were ramming into one another at the exact same time. And with a six or seven inch height advantage, I was making my presence felt. Sometimes I'd add on a little something to make it felt just a little more -- the left forearm came in handy in those situations. And the battle for field position was raging the whole time. My left foot, and her right, were the yard markers in that struggle. Whoever could plant their respective foot the deepest into the opponent's territory maintained a significant tactical advantage, sort of like controlling the Golan Heights, or the really big sand castle in the final scene of "Glory." And once that foot was down -- or at least, once my foot was down, seeing as I can't even be sure gratuitous motion girl ever knew there was an actual battle taking place -- it wasn't moving.

We duked it out like this for a few minutes a couple of times, but I just couldn't take it. She was too strong. I thought maybe the fact that I was being so annoying with my shoulder bumps and unnecessary flailing of the arms would alert her to the fact that, "Hmmm... maybe I'M annoying HIM, too!" But no. Like the overweight pit bull that she resembled, she had no inhibitions or concept of doing unto others.

This was when I redoubled my efforts in the field position game. Lebensraum -- all I wanted was a little living space. So when her guard was down, I pounced. My earlier Blitzkrieg tactics had not worked, but if I could get my left foot planted as deep into her territory as possible, it would create a set of facts on the ground that could not be denied. Like a West Bank settlement, facts on the ground create a new reality, one where my dancing space is not under dispute, and thanks to which I can live out the remainder of the show in peace, free of strife and gratuitous motion. And this is what happened. She let her guard up, and BOOM! Look whose foot is all up in your space now!

For about two full songs, my body looked like an oil derrick in the process of slant drilling. My left leg formed a 45 degree angle with my crotch, and all the pressure of my 175 lbs. pushed down on my right knee. I was in pain, I wasn't dancing, but at least I was free from the bull rush of the white, female Kevin Mawae. My foot was quite a separation barrier.

Finally, as often happens at Sunday shows, the crowd started to thin out, just enough for me to be able to simply scoot over a few feet. And like pulling the plug out of a bath tub drain, gratuitous motion girl immediately went back to her swirling and twirling, safely out of range of my shoulder and foot, though, finally.

The end.

Note to all those who use Facebook: I don't care if you can think of 25 things about yourself. Do not include me on your findings.

Thank you.

So far, I've done pretty well in my mission to completely furnish my shed with free stuff from craigslist. My new friend Maria unloaded her black leather couch and cheap wooden coffee table on me the other day, and my even newer friend Tommy hooked me up with a box spring and two double bed mattresses a couple days later. Now, all that's left is a desk, maybe some bookshelves, and the other random stuff that makes house into a home.

Like a beautiful Persian cat, for example. I never wanted a cat until I found out I could get one for free on craigslist.

Beautiful Persian Cat to Good Home (Central Austin)

---

Reply to: sale-1022805808@craigslist.org ^[?]
Date: 2009-02-05, 10:06PM CST


I am looking for a good home for my beautiful persian cat. I will be moving and will be unable to take her along. She is 2 years old and orange. She is de-clawed and spaid. If interested in more details, please respond, and I will send you some pictures of her.



My Lord could you have found a scarier photo than the one on the left?

The Perfect Shirt for the Almost Perfect Season.

Na kwa nini Mwindaji aniitumie.

The first quarter of the first journal I kept in Africa is full of zeal and optimism, or naïveté, depending on your perspective. There were tons of things I felt like I wanted to get out of my African experience in those days. I was bursting at the seams with anticipation of all the adventures to come, all the sights to behold. But one dream stood out above all others. I don't have the journal with me at the moment, and so I can't remember the exact wording, but I know that I recorded my paramount desire in all caps, in bold:


To see a Tanzanian walking around in a hand me down, American sports t-shirt commemorating a championship for some team that had actually lost, thereby making the thousands of pre-printed shirts unsellable.


Since before my tenth birthday, I'd associated these types of shirts with two things: Mr. O'Donnell and Africa.

Mr. O'Donnell was the father of "Meghan O.," a girl in my class at St. Vincent's, and not to be confused with "Meaghan E." or "Meagan N." (which is more amazing: that three of the 28 girls in the Class of '98 were named Meghan, or that they all three spelled it a different way?). He worked for either Logo Athletic or Logo 7, I can't remember which, but he had access to these treasure troves of unsellable sports memorabilia, and knowing me, a sports-crazy pack rat, he would always hook it up. I've still got a bunch of the stuff, mainly hats: Atlanta Falcons Super Bowl Champions, Houston Astros 1998 World Series Champions, Green Bay Packers Back-to-Back Super Bowl Champs, even a Kansas Jayhawks Final Four title hat, from the year they got upset by Mike Bibby and Arizona.

And Africa? I've got a super ancient memory of sitting in my living room and watching one of those Save the Children infomercials filmed in a nondescript African country -- the ones with the white-bearded guy speaking in an extremely compassionate voice while holding some sick, sad African child, where he flashes the 800 number on the screen every three or four seconds -- when I saw some sick, sad African child in the background wearing a Buffalo Bills Super Bowl Champion shirt. Everyone, even in Africa, (or so I thought), knew that the Bills had been to the Super Bowl four times in a row, and amazingly, had lost all four times. And there I was, a well-fed, vaccinated, white American child, sitting in my home which had A/C and central heating, someone who put Band Aids on boo boo's and made regular visits to the dentist, with my heart boiling with envy of that sick, sad African kid: How come he got a Buffalo Bills Super Bowl Champions t-shirt, and I didn't?

I wish someone had conducted some sort of psychological study on me in the early 90's.

If asked what they most wanted to see during a year in East Africa, most people would probably go with the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro, or part of the wildebeest migration across the plains of the Serengeti, or even the snow white beaches of Zanzibar.








I saw all of those. And I also saw a bunch of cool throwback stuff during my 14 months in Africa, all of it donated to poor, shirtless Africans by wealthy, vaccinated Americans, and subsequently sold in markets across Tanzania for profit by the same people the wealthy, vaccinated Americans thought to be destitute and in need of clothing.

For example, the gold Ricky Williams Saints jersey I bought in Tengeru for $4.

(And we met a girl with a UVa Cheerleading shirt.)

Or the dude we saw rocking a Tim Biakabutuka Panthers jersey in Dar es Salaam.

(Greatest name in sports history.)

Or all the other great stuff I saw when I didn't feel comfortable whipping out my camera, like a throwback Rockets Starter jacket, and a Gallery Furniture hat, and thousands and thousands of Astros hats. But in 14 months, I never saw what I wanted to see the most: a championship t-shirt from a professional sports team in America who didn't actually win the championship.

It was a huge disappointment for me. I'd signed up to save the world for an entire year, and I didn't see a single Utah Jazz title shirt.

Hunter and I both came home in August. But he went back to Tanzania three weeks ago to work for a school out in Monduli. And you'll never guess what he wrote to me in a text message this morning:

"Just got patriots superbowl champs 19-0 perfect season tshirts donated to the school."

I can't think of a better way to start my morning. (That's not true, actually. But waking up to news like that is still pretty nice.)

I asked him to save one or two of those for me (I want to wear one, and I want to give one to my friend Joe, from good ole Lowell, Massachusetts). And guess what he said? That he would "try" but that the shirts were "4 the kids."

Are you freaking KIDDING me man? They're for the kids?! They don't understand the significance of those shirts!

And neither do these little Nicaraguans.

I will personally ship half of my t-shirt wardrobe over to Tanzania in exchange for ah Patriots perfect season shirt. To Hunter's Maasai students, Patriots 19-0 is some meaningless logo on yet another free shirt from Wazungu. It's no different from a "Just Married" bride t-shirt, or a YMCA rec league jersey. It's cotton, and it has sleeves. To me, Patriots 19-0 gear is the fulfillment of my destiny. Watching that Giants-Pats Super Bowl in Arusha last year was one of the great sports memories of my life. We woke up in the middle of the night, we watched the sun rise, we reveled in the glory of David Tyree for a full 24 hours afterwards, since it was the only NFL game either of us got to watch in its entirety all season. And it just seems too perfect that of all the runners up in major American sports championships to choose from, it's the 2007 Patriots shirt that Hunter finds upon his return to TZ.

And he's going to "try" to get me one.

Mwindaji, unsemaje? Ukisoma hii hadithi, nakuomba, NAKUOMBA, lete shati moja basi! Moja TU. Ukinisaidia, kama mchizi afanye, nakupa ahadi kwamba nitakapofika huko Tanzania nitakufanya puli vizuri sana, na husafishe kwa sababu mimi mwenyewe nitasafisha zote baada ya kumaliza. Tafadhali msela. Ndo shati moja tu. Wanafunzi wenu hawatajua.

My personal appeal to my best friend, in code language.

I know he'll come through for me. After all, he'll always remember who bought him his "Lo Mejor De Lo Mejor" shirt from his beloved Panthers Super Bowl trip.



This guy.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

P.S. Just as I was about to post this story my phone beeped again. It was Mwindaji, again. And he said they'd reserved a shirt for me.

Asante mwanangu.

Reverse Homeless.
Anything will help.
God Bless.

The best cure for an echo in your bedroom is to put things inside of it to absorb the sound waves that are bouncing around naked walls. Right now, I have no things. I've got a roof over my head, but barely enough stuff to fill a grocery cart. I'm like a reverse homeless person: my toes are cold, I'm hungry, yet I'm laying on the floor typing on a laptop. Today was move in day. I now live within walking distance of my favorite place in Austin, Barton Springs. But if you could scope the scene of my room right now, you'd probably take one look and assume that I'm in the final stages of moving out.

I don't know what to call it. I do, but I don't like saying "my efficiency." What a horrible name for a living structure. In truth, I live in two efficiencies pushed up against one another. But I'm not ever going to be like, "What up, you wanna come by to my efficiencies? 'Where two become wuuuuuunnn...'" Some people (like Two Weeks Ago Bayless) don't even know what an efficiency is, thereby making it inefficient to have to explain it. But what do I say instead? I can't lie and be like, "my apartment." It's not an apartment, though I do have neighboring efficiencies abutting my spot, and I live next door to an apartment complex. But it's not a house, either, though I do have a humongous back porch and no neighbors above or below. It's more like a really nice shed. I'm fine with that. It's a really nice shed with carpet, electricity, gas and running water. And a kitchenette, not to be confused with a kitchen, which is bigger than a kitchenette. I love the word kitchenette.

I basically live in a bigger version of the standard room you'd find at an Extended Stay Hotel, without any things inside of it just yet.

So it's settled. "My shed." I'm going to refer to it as The Shed. Boom! Done. Sometimes my brain doesn't decide something so much as my fingers punch it out unconsciously during a rambling course of writing.

It sure smells like a shed, by the way, inside the closet. And no one wants their clothes to smell like the old shed out back. It's almost as bad as your grandmother whose entire being smells like mothballs. One of the first things on my To Buy list is incense.

The rest of the place smells like week-old paint. And the wood outside appears to be rotting, though I'm sure if I just ignore it everything will be fine. I'm just glad to have a place of my own.

Remember how excited I became when I found out that craigslist has a free section? Manastash! Well I've decided that it would be a great conversation starter, not to mention a great money saver, if I furnished The Shed entirely with free shit from craigslist. I am talking everything. Couch, chairs, desk, maybe a hutch, perhaps a desk/hutch one-two combo, tables, cutlery, pots, pans, plates, bowls, zote. Kila kitu. Sve. Todos.

Even a mattress.

My dad, The Bob, thinks it's gross to fart, and he used to feign nausea whenever I'd get too close to him with my reeking piece of hemp tied around my neck during my peak heady years. How do you think he would feel about the idea of me sleeping on a mattress left out on the curb for the earliest bird?

"In all seriousness," he said yesterday when I told him my great new idea, "you need to buy a mattress." He'd laughed as I excitedly listed off all the possibilities for scavenging the Internet provides, but wasn't kidding about my sleeping situation. "And if you need help with money, I'd be more than happy to spring for one."

Get it? Spring for one? Dad, you are so clever. And while I appreciate the offer, I think it would simply be dishonest of me to try and start a conversation with, "I got everything in my shed from craigslist," if the most important thing in the room came from my dad's credit card.

If you'll excuse me, I have to go drive out to Round Rock. My new friend Maria is trying to get rid of a comfy black leather couch and a coffee table.