Before heading out to the bar tonight, I spoke to my friend Mindy from work. We ended up talking for quite a while. She is an interesting girl. In an earlier conversation she had asked why I referred to Luis as "the boy." I told her it was in homage to The Simpsons. It was not unusual for an angry Homer to refer to Bart as "the boy."

It makes sense, because when you're angry at someone you tend to objectify them, or at least strip them down to their most base characteristics. It creates a distance, an impartiality, I think. But what do I know? I'm not really here to break down the psychological significance of The Simpsons. That would take all night.

Mindy asked me if Luis was bothered by being called that. I had to think about that one. "I don't know," I said. "I'll have to ask him."

This evening, Luis and I had driven to Blockbuster Videos so that he could rent a movie. It is a short distance away from my house. On the way, I asked him my question.

"Does it bother you that I call you 'the boy'?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Well, what would you prefer I called you?"

"Jackass." He laughed.

"Shut up, boy, I'm not going to call you that."

At the video store, Luis chose to rent Pee-Wee's Big Adventure. It is one of our favorites. I really need to purchase that movie for my Tim Burton collection. (It's not a truly loyal collection; I refuse to purchase his remake of Planet of the Apes.)

I also rented Kill Bill Volume 1 for Miguel. Also, I might as well watch it before I finally go to see Volume 2.

* * * * * *

Drunk dialing.

Dangerous words, aren't they?

I don't do it very often myself. It has been quite a while since I've done it at all.

But it is always flattering to be on the receiving end of one.

Even if it is by almost complete accident.

From what I can patch together, somewhere in California, Julie was going through Erin's cell phone calling the phone numbers that would catch her fancy (and trust me, Julie has a very catchable fancy).

She came upon a number that was labeled as "Warm Crevice." Intrigued, she dialed it.

Somewhere in Arizona, right outside of Silver Mine Subs, a very confused Guillermo answered.

After I had correctly guessed who it was (a game I hate playing), we chatted for a bit. I tried to explain to her that "Warm Crevice" was going to be the brand name of the blatant knock-off of "Hot Pockets" that Erin and I were going to put out on the market. (I would write the commercial and Erin would star in it.)

I say I tried to explain because I'm pretty sure I failed.

Julie then tantalized me with talk of coming back down to Phoenix to visit. I was so excited that a drunk guy stumbled into me.

Wait.

I was so excited, and then a drunk guy stumbled into me. He had thrown his hands up and shouted "I'm harmless!"

I doubted it, since he had managed to knock into me, the only person within a 20-foot radius.

Julie then entered her parking garage in which reception is almost nil. At that point, the drunk-dialing gods decided to intervene and the call was dropped.

I also have to commend Jaden for trying her damnedest to leave me a drunken voice-mail.

The fatal flaw in her plan was that she called me at night.

If anyone expects to leave me a drunken voice-mail, they had best be blitzed by 11:00 am because that's the likeliest time that I won't answer the phone.

We discussed many things, like the music of Prince, how sometimes it's okay to be submissive, and how most guys in bars are terrible at approaching women.

I told her about "Damn-Bros", the term that either Donovan or Alan came up with for frat boys since everything they ever said seemed to start with "DAMN, BRO!"

Mark this day. The term "Damn-Bros" has officially hit the West Coast.

Word.

* * * * * *

I was thinking that if I ever have to classify my writing so far, it would fit easiest into two periods: The Innocence Period and the Yearning For That Lost Innocence Period.

Having said that...


The blister that had formed on his finger after the cigarette had grazed him burst as he was driving home. The blister wept a clear fluid that dripped past his white knuckles and then onto the frayed cover of the steering wheel. The radio was on full-blast and the frigid wind was roaring through both open windows, but they were not enough drown out the echo of her voice:

"You talk so much shit about the worthlessness of emotion! But look at you, what are you? You use reason like a ball of twine. Venture into every emotional labyrinth you come across, then just string it out behind you, the whole time hoping it's long enough so you'll be able to find your way back. Hypocrite."

* * * * *

After creating Dilbert, Scott Adams worked for six more years at the engineering job he despised before the comic strip was successful enough to fully support him.

I have to work in four hours. Seven months down, five years and five months to go.