There is the moment when the aching in your elbows is too much to ignore. You put down the book you've been reading and absent-mindedly rub your elbows. You glance at the clock and raise an eyebrow. 2:30 AM?! 2:30 ante-frikkin-meridiem?!

You understand that you've just spent the better part of your Friday night reading. What you don't understand is why you, a jive-talking, antic-inducing man-about-town has spent the first half of his weekend being "lame."

A derisive snort escapes you. Whatever your are, it clearly isn't "lame." You go to the kitchen and mix yourself up a tall glass of chocolate milk.

You settle down in front of your computer screen.

You stare at the cursor as it blinks steadily, a lone soldier on a blank, white battlefield.

Then you stare down at your glass of chocolate milk. Little clumps of chocolate powder are swirling about, stubbornly refusing to dissolve.

You stare back at the empty screen. You take a sip of the grainy concoction and try to will the letters to appear on the screen by the sheer force of your thoughts.

They don't.

You take another sip and grimace. You shouldn't have made it a double. You should have just mixed up another glass after you finished. Too late now.

You adjust your glasses so that the smudges on them only kind of obstruct your vision.

You hear the clatter of fingertips striking a keyboard and realize that you have begun to type...

* * * * * *

I just stumbled across a program for a play that Eric Piatkowski was in a couple of weeks ago. Lonely Planet by Steven Dietz. Great, I missed another play he was in.

He's going to be all famous and when I mention I went to school with him people will say "I'll bet you went to all of his plays!" and I'll have say "No, but that was because in person he was a real asshole."

I'm lying, of course. Eric is a great guy. The lie just adds some legitimacy to my actions. Like if I never went to see The Lord of the Rings movies.

"You never went to see Lord of the Rings!?"

"No, but Peter Jackson killed my father."

See, you always have to have a plan for these sorts of things.

I'm also prepared for when the exceptional female actors I know become world-renowned and universally adored. Example: "You knew Beth/Lauren/Erin/Julie?!"

To which I'll reply, "Yeah, she was pretty cool. Except for after we broke up she wouldn't give back my cat."

I'm not above fabricating stories to exploit the successes of my friends for the sole purpose of elevating myself in the eyes of complete strangers.

If you thought I was...well, I'm just not.

* * * * *

More things you didn't know you were eating: In JIF-brand peanut butter: Rapeseed oil.

Don't believe me? Check the label.

I can't believe you eat rapeseed. You disgust me.


* * * * * *

Now let us listen in on a conversation between Professor DoBell of Zombitorium University and Teaching Assistant Lopez of The Remedial Learning Center for Gurgs...

"You know," Dobell said, "as odd as it would seem to have American gangsta-rap influence a territory once occupied by the former Soviet Union... it's still believable. Damn NWA!"

"Not to mention SWV," Lopez chimed in. "Wait, no. That was Sistas With Voice."

"This goes far beyond my knowledge of hip-hop history." DoBell said.

"I only remember because that was back in the day when it was the rule to mention your band name in each song."

"And speaking of hip-hop, " Dobell continued, "Arizona State University is looking for someone to be a hip-hop instructor. Now, my white Jewness doesn't have the skills to pay the bills for such a lofty position."

"Shoooot, just list your street cred."

DoBell paused. "Now how would you go about listing 'street-cred' on a resume?

Lopez grinned, "See, it has to be tattooed on you. You need a tattoo of the time you robbed a liquor store! Or tattoos of teardrops running down your cheeks symbolizing every fool you've iced!"

"I figured street cred is something that is conveyed through word of mouth."

Lopez shook his head. "And during your interview, continuously pour out a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor for your numerous dead homies."

"Sure, physical aspects can be used for street cred," DoBell mused. "Bullet-hole scars are certain to impress... but it would be interesting to go into an interview with a 'posse' of your closest 'homies' who will 'spit' tales that will enhance said 'street cred'.

"Word."

* * * * * *

You look up from the computer. This all took a little longer than you had planned. It usually does. It also didn't help that you took that snack break.

You scan back to the beginning. You want to somehow add in how you used to make chocolate milk by filling the glass up with milk and then carefully adding the powder.

You would try to pour it all in the center so it would make a tiny island that would float on the surface of the milk. You would watch as the edges of your island slowly crumbled; a tiny chocolate Atlantis falling into a pasteurized ocean.

There's no room for it, though, so you tuck the thought away, as well as the thought of having to be ready for work in a few short hours.

Yes, yes, you do use a lot of commas.

Yes, yes, there is always tomorrow.