January 2003

Gabrielle Chapais Turek Rudderow celebrated her birthday shortly before the SuperBowl at Lewene’s in Annapolis Sunday. She was joined by a select group of friends and family.

The visibly upset mother of four made one of the last wishes of her lifetime shortly before gorging herself with cake.

An avid skater, motorcyclist and teddy bear collector, Rudderow expressed gratitude for the party held in her honor.

“Sigh,” a suprisingly non-intoxicated Rudderow said. “[I’m halfway dead.]”

Other attendees were in a state of shock at being included on the guest list.

“I can see green and blue auras around my hand sometimes,” exotic dancer Jennifer Everett said.

“Bob, you’re crazy too,” she added. “I’m crazy, we’re all crazy.”

Ruth Reese agreed: “Everyone’s entitled to their own beliefs, Bob. [Just because Sherpaguide has the audacity to claim he cured a boy’s cancer doesn’t mean he’s a complete and utter waste of flesh. By the way, despite what you previously thought I’m a psycho, too.]”

Reese, Everett, and Lauren Rudderow continued to stare as if they were the only sane ones in the room, a fact quickly disputed by almost every other guest.

See today’s Style Section for photos of the event. Evidence of alien, psycho-kinetic and telepathic occurrences experienced by the lunatic fringe were unavailable at press time.

Work starts tomorrow on my final project involving the RVan.

It won’t be much, but a nice photo essay on what the van has become over the past few years will be posted soon. I’m hoping to make it somewhat interactive, giving me a chance to flex my html muscles a little since it’s been a long time since I did a project other than posting blog entries. It may even jumpstart the new rudderow.com as well.

The reason for my van memoirs? I hope to bestow her to Chris and Lisa if they’ll accept. My dad said it was okay by him, and aside from probably needing new brake pads in the next three or four months RVan is in tip-top shape (as evidenced by the 120-mile trip to Delaware Friday evening to pick up Dave’s new television). While I have a hungry eye on the Honda Element, it would sicken me to just abandon my current vehicle when I wouldn’t have room to store the seats and other stuff I’d like to keep. So if I can help out some po’ folks and keep the van alive at the same time, it’s a perfect scenario.

I exercised this weekend but not in any gym. This was the apartment-movers full body workout, complete with couch-up-nine-flights-of-stairs routine. It was definitely nowhere near a relaxing weekend, though it was tremendous fun.

I picked up Dan on our way through Baltimore late Friday night (I enticed him into the car with a Tony Luke’s cheesesteak), and he and I met Pat at his place around 10:30 a.m. the next morning. It wasn’t easy getting up because we had stayed up to watch Shipmates, which is only a mediocre concept but more than makes up for it with the way it edits the show to make participants look really stupid.

As a result, we got to Pat’s place on time only by skipping breakfast and jumped right into manual labor that lasted until 4:30 p.m., making my Moons Over My Hammy at Denny’s that much tastier. The bigger disappointment was that the Krispy Kreme bakery was closed for renovations and we had to degrade ourselves by eating Dunkin’ Donuts instead.

The new condo was pretty sweet. Pat’s well on his way to erasing the filth of the previous tenants: He ripped up the disgusting carpet and laid new hardwood flooring, installed new light fixtures and switchplates, and already had enough furniture to hammer out a pretty decent L-shape — even though he won’t listen to me and face it in the proper direction. Putz. There’s also a pool, a trash chute, and a balcony facing an attractive wooded community.

The move went smoothly enough with five us us. Pat’s coworker, Robert, showed up around noon and even helped move after a little while, and Pat’s brother had driven down the night before and helped him start packing. Normally I would have been angry that the packing wasn’t done, but we only had to move the big things and boxes that were ready. Everything was, for the most part, scheduled, organized and enjoyable.

After our very late breakfast at Denny’s, I headed home to pick up Dia, who had stayed behind to study — big surprise there. By the time I got there I realized how tired I was and nearly fell asleep on the couch. I convinced Dan and Pat to come up to my house for the night, and meet us after dinner to see Confessions of a Dangerous Mind with some of my family. (In retrospect, big mistake considering the implicit NC40+ rating: children — or in this case, twenty-somethings — should only be accompanied by persons their own age. I cringed through the first 20 minutes at least, wondering how my parents would take the F-banter, sport-sex, and other depraved scenes from the life of “Strawberry Dick” Barris.) I loved the movie though and it rejuvenated me for midnight bowling in Annapolis, where I picked up three strikes and a few spares before my thumb started bleeding.

The next morning we trudged off to church, and later my dad cooked eggs and we played Settlers until my mom’s birthday party, where we mingled (more about this later), stuffed our faces, and missed the best SuperBowl commercials. Dia and I left after the game and made it home by 2 a.m.

My iPod battery was drained and so I had nothing to listen to in the RVan tonight. Yes, everything is once again happy in Rudderow North.

Indeed, the iPod is back in my loving arms. After calls to PennDOT, then their sub-contrator Atlantic towing, then the guy who loaned his rig to the guy that towed us Saturday, I learned that it was still in the cab of the tow truck. The dude’s exact words were “What’s an MP3 player?”. I didn’t have any money to give the guy — I don’t know why, maybe for being delightfully ignorant — so I gave him my Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar in trade. He wouldn’t take it at first, but he changed his mind after I put it on the dashboard and assured him that it was the perfect addition to any truck. I was walking on air way before that when I talked to the guy at 3:00 p.m., but after I finally had it in my hands again I was so excited I could barely drive.

As for the van, it’s been outfitted with a new accelerator cable, and the diagnosis on the brakes is that they’re tip-top. Hard to believe, I know, but I can’t imagine Strauss Auto passing up an opportunity to sell me new brakes, rotors, and other things I’d be completely clueless about. The gas pedal is too sensitive but I guess it balances out the brake pedal which goes all the way to the floor.

So all is well. I’m out $250 for the van, but I don’t mind spending a little money on my baby (I actually have a few vehicle arrangements in mind but I have to hash them out before I take them public). I won’t be making any more long hauls in it anytime soon, but it’ll get me to work and back okay at least for a little while longer and I can help move another television when Dave takes a trip to Tweeter on Friday.

Wednesday morning, my van was acting up a little. It’s extremely scary when, while idling at a red light, you lift your foot off the brake pedal ever so slightly to roll a small distance forward and instead lurch toward the car ahead of you. I noticed that the trusty RVan was stuck in second gear for some reason, but when I continued on my way and dropped immediately back to first, I thought nothing of it. Ditto the next two days, until Friday when things took a turn for the worse….

I’m mentally drained right now. Yesterday’s events have almost left me without words to narrate them in detail. I guess I can begin by expressing how glad I am that I’m still able to get into adventures while completely sober; mind-altering substances are great, but every now and again I wonder if I can summon zany adventures like those of old without any help. Now I know.

…Matt e-mailed me yesterday morning to let me know he would be around that night for one last night of fun. I wasn’t planning another bender so soon, both because it was too soon after last weekend and because I wanted to include the non-drinkers. Little did I know that our tentative plans of “an early dinner at Nifty Fifty’s, some minor drinking in Olde City, and maybe some late night bowling” would end up being completely different….

One of my favorite books when I was a kid was Fortunately by Remy Charlip. (No, I didn’t know that off-hand. I looked it up, jerk.) There has never been a better time to mirror the simple formula of that book than to recount last night’s events. It may get tedious at times, but I had more fun writing it this way so bear with me.

…I knew Matt was hoping for something more than just dinner, and I wasn’t too eager to go to a strip club because I wanted non-strip-club-types to join us.

Fortunately… we are able to compromise on a Flyers game to which Dave had alerted me and Matt is more than eager to attend; Dia takes some convincing, but soon we are on our way with a quick stop at Denny’s for lunch.

Unfortunately, the van starts acting weird, like getting stuck in third gear and going 60 miles per hour, for a minute or two.

Fortunately, some fiddling with the cruise control buttons and the gas pedal smoothes over the problem, if not Matt and Dia’s concerns, and we arrive at the First Union Center without any further glitches.

Unfortunately, there aren’t any seats left in groups of three.

Fortunately, a scalper has three tickets right next to each other.

Unfortunately, the face value on the tickets is $55.

Fortunately, we talk the guy and his friend down to $100 for all three, mainly as a result of Dia’s frugality and Matt’s mention of going off to war.

Unfortunately, we only have $82 in cash.

Fortunately, during their sales pitch I heard them mention that they were such great seats that they would be sitting right next to us during the game, and so I tell them that they can get the last $18 from us at the seats. (Which they never come to collect, so hockey tickets for $27.50 apiece. Boo-yah!)

Unfortunately, during the game my cell phone gets turned off and Dave, who is in the Motorola skybox with free food and drink, is unable to let us know he can bring the three of us up with him during the third period.

Fortunately, we don’t feel too bad because we’re not freeloaders, the Flyers win 3-2 even though they were a little sloppy, we didn’t succumb to buying any $5.25 beers, and we have the Betabrite to amuse us while we hook up with the rest of the crew scattered throughout Philadelphia.

Unfortunately, things start to go horribly wrong as the van starts accelerating without any signal from me.

Fortunately, I can temporarily brake enough to avoid traffic and turn into a dead end warehouse street — of which there are plenty in South Philadelphia — to assess the situation.

Unfortunately, no matter how much “fiddling” I do this time, it’s a lot harder to gauge the problem in a warehouse back-lot alley than on a highway, no matter how wide or deserted the lot is.

Fortunately, I don’t have to use the brake too much and once I pop the van into neutral it comes back down to first gear.

Unfortunately, when I start to drive again, the van starts accelerating almost immediately and I find myself gaining speed (despite the fact that I’m using both the brake and the parking brake) as the circle I’m driving in gets wider and wider.

Fortunately, when I drop into neutral a second time, I find that using a lower gear temporarily solves the problem and will probably buy us enough time to get home.

Unfortunately, I am a stubborn guy and vehemently opposed to interrupting the evening so we can get another car; besides, “the van is fine now that it’s in a lower gear, at least for the rest of the evening.”

Fortunately, Matt and Dia don’t have to complain for very long as the van is once again hurtling almost uncontrollably along I-95 at 80 mph, and I agree that we’re going straight home before something bad happens.

Unfortunately, something bad happens: I really can’t fiddle my way out of accelerating this time, since shifting to neutral on the highway wouldn’t leave me with much maneuverability or a chance to put it in drive again without stopping first.

Fortunately, I can ride the brake enough to remain in control, however tentatively.

Unfortunately, a car pulls up next to us with its windows open to shout, “Dude! You’re wheels are on fire!”

Fortunately, they are not actually on fire.

Unfortunately, they are pretty messed up; when we pull over there is smoke coming up from the tires, and the brakes’ disks are a deep, glowing, red-hot-poker red.

Fortunately, everyone is OK and I call AAA — the best money I ever spent — who dispatch a tow truck that will arrive within the hour.

Unfortunately, it is growing steadily colder as we wait, and Matt and Dia are becoming increasingly uninterested in doing anything else for the rest of the night.

Fortunately, I had driven Tim and his television around just two days earlier, so he agrees to return the favor by picking us up; Matt and Dia are warming to the idea of getting something to eat once we’ve taken care of the van, since it is only 20 more minutes until the tow truck arrives.

Unfortunately, PennDOT comes along and tells us we can’t be parked on the side of the road in a construction zone, and he has to tow us to the next exit.

Fortunately, we are able to eat and drink in the warmth of Dagwood’s Pub while we wait for the tow truck.

Unfortunately, calling AAA to change our location added another 45 minutes to our wait time.

Fortunately, Tim arrives shortly to keep us company and wait to give us a ride after the van is towed to Strauss Auto on the corner of Grant and Academy.

Unfortunately, I realize that my iPod fell out of my pocket while I was in the PennDOT tow truck.

Fortunately, I had filled out a form with my name and phone number, and if the guy isn’t a dickhead he’ll call me to say that he’s found it.

Unfortunately, he is apparently a dickhead.

Fortunately, if that’s the worst thing that happens to us, we’re lucky; we can also call the towing company in the morning.

Unfortunately, our evening looks pretty much shot at this point.

Fortunately, Tim is willing to drive us to Jillian’s for some bowling; Pat can pick up Chris and Lisa in Center City and be there within the hour; Dave is on his way down from Horsham to join us, too.

Unfortunately, Jillian’s is packed, and the wait for a lane is infinite: there are 15 parties ahead of us and we’re not even allowed to put our name in until that number drops below eight.

Fortunately, I’m convinced that Matt is suave enough to bribe the lady behind the counter without any problem, and once I say “Airborne” to him there’s no way he can say no.

Unfortunately, she tells Matt the same thing she told me.

Fortunately, Matt slides a bill across the counter and says, “You see, this lane is for me and my friend President Jackson”; we’re told to fork over our shoe sizes because lane 16 just opened up.

Unfortunately, I bowl the worst games of my life.

But fortunately, we are safe, warm and happy, and despite being punctuated by brief periods of intense hell, it is a pretty good evening after all.

The end.

I spent last night cavorting all over the greater Philadelphia area with Tim, Tim’s friend, and Tim’s television. From work — exit 8a off the New Jersey turnpike — I drove straight to City Line Ave. to pick up the trio, then up to the Best Buy on Route 63. From there it was up Route 1 to the turnpike, through King of Prussia, and down 202 for 15 minutes to drop off the still-broken television to Tim’s place (which is a really sweet place).

I shouldn’t be driving the van so much since it isn’t doing so hot and I can’t say it was really fun running errands non-stop from 6:45 to 11:20 p.m., but I’m glad I could help Tim out. I did earn about a quarter tank of gas for my efforts, but I was really drained after a long day.

I’m afraid the van is on its last legs. I’ve always been proud of my ability to jury-rig the little things that crop up, but the gas pedal is really problematic now. I tied another knot in the gas cable, and now I keep accelerating for two seconds after when I lift my foot from the pedal. I’m pretty sure it’s the cruise control that’s out of whack — normally when cruise control is activated, the pedal depresses to indicate that it’s functioning properly, but it doesn’t do that anymore. Everything still works fine, but I can feel the pedal cable rubbing against something and it gets me thinking about how much longer I have.

I’m prepared to say my goodbyes, the first of which will be expressed in the forthcoming pictorial, “RVan, You’re a Piece of Shit But You’ve Done Your Job Well.”

The days fly by anymore. Work is looking to get more interesting real soon when I’ll be working on something more substantial, but it still takes up eight hours of my day; I wish there were something I could do to change that.

I got really depressed when I came home from work today. I had planned on heading over to Bally’s and finally submitting the application to transfer my dad’s membership to me, but it’s one of those mail-in deals. I was really psyched to hop on the stair climber and read for about an hour or so, and taking a walk around the community didn’t fill the void physically or mentally. Uploading pictures to my granparent’s photo frame didn’t help the situation either. It took a lot longer than planned and flipping through my photo albums always gets me yearning to revisit the past, or head out on a new vacation or road trip. I realize I hang out with my friends in healthy doses, but it’s seldom that there’s a big crowd heading out of state or over to a new laser tag place.

So after I spent about two hours editing photos and listening to music, unable to shake the depressed feeling that comes with realizing I’ll never beable to relive my favorite moments again, it hit me that Matt is leaving for good in a few days. I know he’ll probably be okay, but it hit me all at once. I saw some of the last pictures he’ll be taking in the United States posted, and he gave me admin status on his blog. I don’t even care about the money he owes me at this point. I’d gladly give it up and so much more just to have him around a little while longer.

I’m feeling better now that Dia’s home and I have someone to talk to, but the only real solution to my imaginary problems are to make sure to make time to make more memories. This goes beyond missing The Triangle days; lately, I find myself thinking about lots of things that are long-gone. I have a feeling it’s because I’ve been reading more. I only wish it were my creativity that was being fueled instead of my imagination.

Why is it that no matter how much I get done, I feel overwhelmed and lazy? I’m figuring out how to get the mpeg files in an editable format on the G4, yet I just can’t bring myself to take the time and finalize the process. I fixed the gas pedal on the van yet again, but I can’t find the time to take a much-needed trip to Jiffy Lube. I’m getting out and about more often and cleaning up a little bit every day, but all I long to do is go to bed so I can read more.

There are so many more productive things I should be doing rather than reading. What kind of lazy bastard sits around and reads all day? Me for one, and I’m not too proud about it. I know more than a few people who consider it a virtue, but I don’t see how reading is any better than television, video games, or drinking.

I’m not just trying to make excuses for other indulgences either, though tonight I did enjoy the latest episode of 24 and hanging out at Casper’s at the usual time. Highlight of the evening: Susan pulled me aside to ask how old Hager was. We all had a good laugh about it when we told her he was 24 and married. I ate way too much pizza, but was able to escape Northeast Philly with eating only two donuts.

Tomorrow is guaranteed to be more productive than today since I offered to help Tim take his television to Best Buy. We’ll see if it goes off without a hitch.

Happy Birthday to my old man. 53 years of putting family and work before all else. Now if only he’d stop pressuring me from asking for a raise. If only he knew….

Yesterday was spent almost entirely at home, thinking about football. The plan was to head to Veteran’s Stadium to tailgate with Tim and his friend, but Friday night rendered that all but impossible. Instead, it was a rag-tag group of late-planners that decided to head out to a sports bar at around 5:00 p.m.

Easier said than done, as we found ourselves sitting at Al E. Gator’s restaurant and bar dealing with the shitiest service I’ve ever received at a non-Pizzeria Uno establishment. I should have known what to expect when I saw a shoddy Help Wanted sign on the front door advertising their shortage of bartenders. Our representative on the pre-teen waitstaff took over 45 minutes to bring half of us our cold, fatty wings and then another 15 for our first stack of napkins and my order. Don’t even get me started on how many more sodas I could have used. When Al and Mary finally arrived we split, leaving the worst tip I’ve left in years.

I made our way home with Al in tow and two different family cars taking turns asking me for directions. It was a nice surprise having them stop by for a visit; I felt bad when I heard how they drove all the way up for Dana’s birthday, only to have her tell them that “the party wasn’t for them to attend” or something like that. The only complaint I have is that when I need to get somewhere, I dutifully get the address and Mapquest it myself. Surprise, I have to give directions to two different cars on the fly while paying the check and then leading a caravan.

The game was exciting enough, and the game of Settlers next to the 11-inch television helped move it along until the third quarter. My sister Jamie and her boyfriend Mark spent most of the visit perusing the crap on the wall and looking through one of my precious junk boxes. Even Lauren’s dog wasn’t any bother, except for the fact that it has Dia hankering for a cat.

I’m psyched for next Sunday, and would love to do it all again if I don’t get tickets. I’ve already registered with Ticketmaster, but I’m sure the rest of our city has as well.

My head hurts, not as a physical result of last night’s binge but rather because memories are floating to the surface.

Since narratives are boring anyway, so here’s a run-down. Calls were placed between 3-3:30 a.m. to my sister (to wish her a happy birthday, until I handed the phone over to Andy at which point the conversation took a turn for the worse), Steve, Lisa, Nathan (I believe Andy wanted to “option” his mom and give her a hard sell), and Sean. Before that, a shot-girl — who moonlights as a stripper in New Jersey on Tuesdays — grabbed my crotch on her way to the bar. Old chicks were danced with, pisses were taken in the parking garage, and au pairs were hit upon.

The evening was not without its share of disappointments. Matt kept spending my money on drinks for girls who gave him about 30 seconds of their time. I also found out that Matt now smokes menthol cigarettes. The cheesesteak drippings on my most comfortable pair of khakis.

I made up for these mistakes by rescuing a dollar bill from the hands of a homeless guy. Coming out of Polly Esther’s we were hit up by a guy for money. Andy, in his drunken Party Guy stupor, handed him a dollar. I hopped out of the car to chide the man for preying on the inebriated, and while ushering Andy to the safety of the car I swiped the buck back. Score one for the non-fake-homeless.

Wrapping up, my intake calculations are as follows:
2 bottles of Smirnoff Ice at Ross’s place and the car ride down,
3 vodkas, 2 ciders, and a Kamikaze at SugarMom’s,
4 vodkas at Tom’s Drinking Tavern, and
1 Cher at the Culture Club.

I’m proud to announce that while I did experience my second hangover for about an hour, I still have not vomited from a night of hard drinking.

Our friend Matt is dead. He went off to war on January 6 without a goodbye, and he was shot in the head late last night because he didn’t have his frickin’ helmet.

The dearly departed is survived by his mother, the inheritance-stingy Ice Bitch (though she seems pretty nice to me), and an X-Box, which was left to me. I grieve for his death because it means I’m out $120 that he borrowed to take Ellen out on a date.

Private O’Connell, for leaving me in this world alone — without an X-Box, short $120, and in possession of a foul, sweat-smelling helmet that I have no room or use for — I wish you a bon voyage to Hell.

Rudderow out.

Safari, Apple’s new OS X browser, is sweet as all hell.

There are other topics I should be addressing — like how I got lost in Northeast Philadelphia for an hour tonight, why two months of posts are down and my hits are way up (for a little while anyway), how scared I am that Matt left for Iraq already without saying goodbye — but I don’t have the time to devote as much energy as I should to these subjects. Instead, I’m taking the superficial route and discussing software to prime my rusty pump. Hopefully it’ll get me excited enough to wake up early and write some more.

For now, I’ll sing the praises of a browser that kills all pop-up ads, conserves space by consolidating features without sacrificing an ounce of functionality, and as far as I can tell meets the latest Internet standards. Here’s the skinny on what I’ve seen so far (I’m not just rehashing what’s on Apple’s site):

1. First off, how would someone like me know if Safari was compliant with Internet standards? Well, for two years I listened as people at The Triangle questioned Gus about why Netscape wouldn’t navigate thetriangle.org correctly. Gus always responded the same way: Internet Explorer is the only browser that hasn’t deviated from stringent browser standards. Well if this was at one time the case, it is no longer. I was expecting to find pull-down menus inoperable and buttons out of whack, but the entire site works fine. I know how detailed Mr. Nasis is with his coding, so if this new browser can open his site without any problem, it’s up to snuff.

2. Next up is speed, sweet speed. Besides loading most pages in mere seconds, when you refresh a page it loads only the portion that has actually changed. When working on entries to this blog and refreshing to see my changes, every other part of the html table remains static while the changes in the main window reload. Also, if I’m scrolled halfway down a really long page, the page refreshes right to the spot where I was.

3. So far, not a single pop-up window yet, not even after tooling around on Yahoo! for half an hour.

4. Google can be searched right from the browser menu bar. At first, it was such a joke to have a Search button that went to either Altavista or Ask Jeeves or some other inferior search engine. Eventually, you could enter any search site you wanted to. This is the next logical step in the progression, the search field that is on every window in Mac OS X, iTunes, and most mail programs.

5. Without creating a browser that feels cramped or watered-down, Apple has designed its browser to be a lot sleeker. The bar at the bottom was only ever useful to see the page loading status, so now it’s pretty much obsolete now that the status is right in the address field. The buttons are all extremely small and don’t have any text option; come on, how many people really need a giant Home button with the word “Home” underneath it?

6. Finally, all the pretty touches that Apple thrives on are part of Safari. The sleek metal look, helpful little icons (even if they are a little cutesy) next to various sites in the history menu, easy-to-edit bookmark buttons, and integration with links in the Address Book program built into OS X.

The geek in me is loose. Tomorrow morning it’s going to be inner turmoil when I decide between blogging recent events or rendering Gals & Dolls so I can burn it to DVD (another post in itself). What’s a nerd to do?

The van made a trip to Cherry Hill for a night of expensive moviegoing with the engaged, Jewish contingent. Dave and Tara drove to Levittown and we headed out to pick up Mitch and Jenn at Volvo central — the Steinberg house.

The most eventful part of the evening wasn’t Catch Me If You Can, which is certainly worth mentioning; while there aren’t really any Oscar-worthy performances, it was nice to see a light, entertaining movie which wasn’t brainless (though idiotic movies have their place too). No, the best part of my night was seeing Mitch’s sister on the wall of the Steinberg’s dining room. Word on the picture is that her parent’s are trying to sell copies of it online. Though it is a truly delightful image, and confirms what I’ve been saying for years (that she’s hot hot hot!), I don’t think it’ll be a big seller. Considering how much smut is readily available on the Internet I don’t think a tasteful picture would be worth too much, even if it is poster sized. Also, I did find it a little bit odd that this picture would be hanging in the dining room. People quietly eating mashed potatoes and looking up to see a hot chick straddling a motorcycle doesn’t scream “classy” to me. Then again, maybe I’m just biased because it’s something I could picture my dad doing, though it’s safe to say that if a picture of Lauren was on the wall like that, I’d take my meals in the other room.

Dana (my middle sister) has earned a spot on the short list of people who I will not help move again. I swear, I need to start requesting some sort of affidavit that states the following:

1. The person being moved will help with the move at all times. Dana didn’t make the second trip to her ex-boyfriend’s apartment with us, and when we finally made it back despite Lauren’s poor navigating skills, Dana had gone shopping for groceries.
2. Transportation has been secured. Dana arranged to borrow her new roommate’s truck, which the roommate’s boyfriend “borrowed” from FedEx (where he is an employee). After unloading her roommate’s furniture from the truck, the guy tried to split and would have too, if we didn’t guilt trip into sticking around an extra three hours to help us out. Close calls like that could be avoided by placing a simple call to the fine folks at U-Haul.
3. There will be no “waiting around”. My file transfer date with Ryan ran a little long, so I got to Willow Grove to help out at 12:30. I realize I was a little late for the 11:00 a.m. meeting time, but I was raring to go as soon as I arrived. First of all, sitting in my van for half an hour and waiting for someone, anyone, to answer their cell phones is not my idea of a great start; I had no idea which apartment they were in, so there I sat. When they finally came outside, it was off to breakfast while we waited for the truck to arrive. Then we waited some more back at the apartment.

So when we finished moving the second load of Dana’s furniture without Dana’s help, I took off without much fanfare.

I really should be asleep now, since I have a lot to do tomorrow, like driving into the city to claim some files that Ryan has been storing for me, and moving my sister out of her ex-boyfriend’s apartment. I’m pretty tired after rushing out to see About Schmidt with Ross, Lara, Dia, and Tim (which was a great movie by the way, not as humorous as I expected but very entertaining).

Instead, I’m awake and posting about Susan at Caspers. I forgot to write how on New Year’s Eve she took a minute to ask me where we were all from. After I blathered something about Maryland then Philly, I spit it out that we all met at Drexel over the past few years, and she said that I have such a nice group of friends, “really — a great group of people you have here.”

And of course she’s right. Over the past few months especially, with Hager’s bachelor party, the holiday get-togethers, drunken free-for-alls, movie outings and game nights, there’s rarely a dull moment. My New Year’s resolution is to keep up the good work.

It was a pretty successful New Year’s Eve, starting out as a nice quiet evening at Casper’s and progressing sloppily from there.

It so happens that our usual barkeep doesn’t arrive until 7:00 p.m. on Tuesdays. The old wench on duty until Susan arrives wasn’t too polite. When she asked us to pay for our pitchers right away I said, “Oh, of course” and handed her the money. As she took it, I just wanted to explain that the reason I didn’t have the money ready was because Susan usually lets us run a tab. Apparently she mistook my explanation for a request and said, “Well, the next time Susan’s here she can do that for you.” Ouch. What’s more, she wouldn’t accept my $2 bills for the pizza because she didn’t have a special drawer for them or whatever. Whatever is right. I should have told that bitch to take it, like it, and suck it. Geof was quick with the cash though, so I let the matter drop. Let’s just say we all breathed a sigh of relief when Susan walked in. The old lady still hung around for a while longer, and while she was unknowingly right behind me I started bad-mouthing her for not taking my money. Nothing came of it, but it was nice to reaffirm my talent for stuffing my foot in my mouth. The only other embarassment at Casper’s was shufflepuck-related, and it pains me to say that Geof and Tony once again trounced everyone they played.

Greg, Tim, and the two chest-thumpers went their own ways and Al, Mary, Dia, Matt, and I headed into the city. After spending 15 minutes following Al while he looked for a parking spot we took the van to pester Chris and Lisa. After that we all walked across the Parkway to crash Don’s party. As the security guard in Don’s building was asking me to which room we were headed, the balloon under my arm (I found it on the street) popped and I splattered vodka all over the floor. A great way to kick off any celebration.

Things start to get blurry at this point, as I’m well on my way into the bottle of Edgewater vodka. I remember Matt saying he kissed two girls at the same time and me being really happy for him; he had been lamenting not having anyone to kiss on the final party night before he leaves. One of the girls reportedly wanted to know how old I was and also said I had peanut breath. At this point I’m not sure I was aware of either. Al spent most of the night trying to fight his penchant for laying on the floor, we all took a piss on the roof of Don’s building at one point or another, and the lady across the hall from Don’s apartment came out complaining that we were keeping her kids awake. I wish I had gotten a picture of this lady’s door, apparently it’s plastered with stupid signs like “Fragile lungs living here,” “Please, sick child inside; Be kind,” and other phrases related to her feeble child. Dia also spotted Dr. Morscheck in the hall, and everyone in the kitchen who knew him was amazed (an exaggerated drunk amazement) at running into The Triangle’s former advisor.

We all stumbled back across the parkway so we could embarass ourselves in a slightly less public place. I only vaguely remember grabbing a can of nuts from Tim’s trunk on the way over, but I definitely remember Ross wearing his tiara and Al’s countless battles with gravity. Once at Chris and Lisa’s we were terribly loud, they kept trying to shush us but fortunately they remained in good spirits. I hope they weren’t too sad that we kept them from going out to see a movie. For the hour or so that we were there, Matt played down his three-way make-out session by explaining they were all pity kisses, Tim settled down in front of Chris’s video game controller, Sean fought me for my camera, Al and Mary played their usual roles, and Lara tolerated Ross’s belligerence. I think the goal was to play games while we were there, but I didn’t have the presence of mind to play Candyland, let alone anything requiring thought. It was probably for the best that we didn’t try, since things were starting to wind down anyway.

On our way out we ran into the wheelchair lady who lives down the hall from Lisa, the one Chris almost wheeled into traffic the time she asked him to push her; In his defense, she is a lot of woman. Anyway, she was pretty toasted too, and last I saw she and her friend were wheeling themselves down the street in a drunken stupor. Again, I’m kicking myself for not getting any pictures of her, though the thought crossed my mind when she told me to “eat my peanut butter and pickle sandwich” for the fourth time. I was as drunk as she was, but I’m pretty sure she was a lifetime idiot on top of that.

Poor Dia drove Matt and me home, during which time I made way too many phone calls to almost everyone on my cell phone. I got home, jotted down some drunken notes, and crashed a few minutes later. Except for waking up once choking on bile — not to mention having it run down my nose and making my eyes water — I slept until noon. My New Year’s resolution for 2003 is to do this kind of thing a whole lot more.

You don’t have to take my word for any of this, here’s the evidence.