We ate lunch Saturday with a couple sisters-in-law and sat on the deck of a local pizza place. The subject of metrosexuals came up and we discovered my wife had never heard that term before. She asked me what a metrosexual is, and I pondered for a few minutes. I thoughtfully fingered the fine weave on my new Banana Republic polo shirt. I flexed my toes in my Kenneth Cole Reaction sandals (or Mandals as one of the sisters-in-law calls them). The sun popped out from behind a cloud, and I gave thanks that I remembered to apply my Gillette aftershave that contains SPF 15 after my morning shower. For some reason, I couldn’t come up with a good definition. A little help?
People ask me all the time about the differences between Kansas City and Indianapolis. I generally tick off the things that aren’t different first, then say, “The food is much better in Kansas City though”. People here are often surprised by that statement, not in defense of Indy, but because they don’t know about the tradition of food in Kansas City. As I’ve learned, it’s not really a matter of there being no good locally owned restaurants here. There are plenty of good local places tucked between the PF Chang’s, Chili’s, Outbacks, etc. It’s more a case of there being no place like Southwest Boulevard, where you have your choice of dozens of Mexican restaurants to chose from if you’re in the mood for something spicy. It’s a matter of the racial divide being more rigid here, and people in the suburbs are not as willing to drive into the hood to eat barbecue as Kansas Citians are. Saturday, when we were out with some friends driving downtown, we passed a couple down home looking barbecue places. “Wow, I should check those out sometime.” The reaction I got was a cross between absolute disbelief and wondering if I was just being funny. But the biggest difference is that there’s no nationally known “Indy food”. Tell someone you’re from Kansas City, and chances are, even if they’ve never been there, they know about Kansas City barbecue. They may not know about the Boulevard or the huge number of nationally recognized steak houses, but they’ve heard about Kansas City barbecue.
In fact, Indianapolis does have a signature food item, the pork tenderloin sandwich. It’s appropriately the most popular food item during race weekends at the Speedway. I’ve yet to have a tenderloin since moving here, so I clearly need to get on that. The two articles below from today’s Indy Star may make your stomach rumble, so you might want to read after lunch.
First day of the last year! Finally a college senior. Two easy semesters and then I’m out of here. Time to enjoy the ride. Only three classes this semester, plus a full time job. No reason not to get good grades. What’s first on the schedule? Sociology of the Family. Ah yes, easy class. Took it two years ago then quit on Drop Day for some silly reason. Not my finest hour, that semester. I should cruise through it this time.
Get to class early, grab a good seat, check out the honeys. There’s my spot: second row, middle seat. Not too aggressive, not too passive. In the heart of the action. Sit down, open the paper, act like you’re reading. Let them come to you. Wow, someone saw a plastic surgeon over the summer! Whoa, girls didn’t look like that when I was a freshman. Hello there, it’s that cool chick from Spanish last spring.
“Hey, what’s happening?”
“Hi! You’re still around?”
“Yeah, I’m an X year senior.”
“Sure, X protects me from the embarrassment of revealing how long I’ve actually been here!”
“I see, you’re probably just hanging around for basketball tickets anyway. How was your summer?”
“Flew by. Took two classes, worked full time, took a trip to California for a wedding. Not the plan I had in mind for my last summer of freedom. How was yours?”
“Went way fast too. Had an internship back home in Chicago and took a night class. Wasn’t exactly the most thrilling summer either. I only think I made it to the pool five times.”
Hmmm, looks to me like she made it to the pool plenty. I really should have gone to more of the study groups she hosted last year.
“So, what did you get in Spanish last semester?” she asks with a knowing smile. Like she doesn’t know already.
“Well, I got an A but it was a lucky A.” Chicks dig humility.
“Whatever, you and Sandra had your own little conversations the rest of the class never understood.”
Nice smile, nice laugh.
She leans in and whispers. “Who is that? I should probably know but have no idea.” She points towards the door.
Holy shit! Marshall Phelps! The highest rated basketball recruit to arrive on campus in over a decade! There in the flesh, looking like your average lost freshman. Except he’s 6’7” and weighs more than me and the cutie together.
He’s walking this way. OK, OK, act cool. Act cooooool. What was the line in Pulp Fiction? How did Fonzi act? Something like that.
“That’s Marshall Phelps,” I whisper back. “He’s a freshman. Best high school player in the country last year. He’s the guy that’s taking us back to the Final Four.”
“Well, I figured he was a basketball player, but I don’t know them as well as you do.”
“My other hobby, on top of private conversations with Spanish teachers, is memorizing meaningless details about high school athletes.” Another laugh, excellent.
Good God, he’s sitting down next to me. Don’t stare, be friendly, DON’T STARE!
“Hey, ummm, what’s up?” Softer voice than I expected, but he’s probably scared out of his mind. I know I was the morning of my first college class five years ago.
“Hey. Errrr, welcome to campus.” Idiot.
Awkward silence. Don’t say anything stupid. More awkward silence. Blink.
“Umm, where’d you get that paper dude?”
“This? Oh, you can get them all over campus. I think there’s a bin out in the building entrance. You want mine? I’ve pretty much read the whole thing.”
“Yeah, sure, that’s cool, thanks.”
“Hello everyone, welcome to Sociology of the Family. I’m excited about the semester ahead and hope you are too. Let’s get started…”
Marshall Phelps is going to be my man!
Damn, running late for class. Gotta get there quick so I can claim my seat. Can’t believe I didn’t say anything else to Marshall on Monday. Pop through the door, still plenty of open seats. Same row as Monday, slightly to the right side of the room this time. Shit, there’s Spanish cutie, one row away, staring right at me. How did I miss her?
“Hey, sorry, I’m out of it today, didn’t see you.”
A weak smile back, no words. Probably blew that, not that I had a chance anyway. Oh well, Marshall’s going to roll in any second and sit next to me. I’m going to find a way to casually mention how impressed I was with his performance in the McDonald’s All America game last year. Then he’s going to ask if he can study with me this semester. Next thing, we’ll be hanging together on weekends. He’ll leave me tickets for road games. I’ll offer to bring him home for Easter.
Two minutes to class.
One minute, grad assistant is setting up at her desk.
Thirty seconds, no Marshall, one seat left next to me.
Class starts, seat taken.
Marshall walks in, takes a seat in the back corner, doesn’t even look at me.
This is based on a couple unrelated events, the first of which I’ve been struggling to write some kind of fictional account for at least two years. I even had a 15 page early draft of a short story based on the incident, but hated where it was going and it’s now tucked safely away on a disk somewhere. I needed to write something about it, though, so you, my loyal and dear readers, are subject to the experiment. I don’t claim it to be good, just something other than my regular observations.
Inspiration? The guts of this come from the day Paul Pierce walked into my sociology class when he was a freshman and I was a, well, X year senior. I damn near jumped out of my chair. I looked around and no one else seemed to be paying attention. I had been following Pierce’s high school career for almost two years. The day he committed to attend Kansas, I ran through my parents’ house screaming. And now he was looking for a seat in my class! Nine years later, he’s my favorite NBA player and I missed the chance to latch onto him before he made it. All because he chose seats poorly. The girl angle is based on a real event as well; also a missed opportunity from my college years. A certain symmetry I found ironic.
Hey, the Palmers live in Indy! We should look them up sometime. “Your son is really amazing. This house is amazing. You were a model, Mrs. Palmer? Amazing!” I’m sure Jessica and Tara were impressed by Indy in the early spring. Bare trees, dead grass, dreary skies. Not quite white sand beaches, is it ladies? I know we don’t see everything on the show, but did they really take the group to Indianapolis’ most famous restaurant, St. Elmo’s Steakhouse, and sit them in the wine cellar for drinks and snacks but no real meal? Stupid. What do you think the conversation between Mr. & Mrs. Palmer after Tara’s visit was like? “I hate her.” “I love her.” “What?!?!”
I read a book during most of the show, so let’s skip ahead since nothing too important happened before the dramatic conclusion.
Jessica. I’ve been a fan all along. I think she’s got her act more together than Tara, and is a classic beauty. Poor choice on the dress and the hair, though. Didn’t look like herself at all. Thumbs down to Jesse for throwing a “but” in his little speech to Jessica. Not cool at all. However, props for not being an idiot and proposing. This boy might have some brains after all. “I’d like to go on a real date with you. Maybe do that for a year, perhaps two, then we’ll see if we belong together.” Some future bachelor needs to make this speech.
Tara. That dress, good lord! That should earn her a spot as the next Bachelorette, so long as she agrees to wear it each week. If not, it should immediately be retired to the dress hall of fame. Someone else (who is free to take credit in the comments) said Jesse should have switched to speech B when he saw the dress. Too bad Jessica went first! I think Tara has all kinds of issues. Not sure why, exactly. I was a little uncomfortable with her drinking beer and ripping on her dad to his face. Seemed like her gripes weren’t sarcastic and loving at all, more based on 23 years of accumulated bitterness. Maybe it’s just me.
We’ve got puking! We’ve got tears! We’ve got a woman refusing to exit the limo! Finally ABC delivers on its promise of The Most Dramatic Rose Ceremony Yet! Why couldn’t host Chris have come over and held her hair back? That would have been a nice touch. Best of all, while she’s having her breakdown, you hear her voice over about how she’s never felt the way she feels about Jesse before. This woman was engaged before, and after the equivalent of 48 hours together, she’s head over heels?
In another side discussion, we’ve wondered what kind of pressure is put on these women off camera. ABC handlers are no doubt rushing around for six weeks telling them, “Isn’t he great?” I’m sorry, “Isn’t he amazing? This is such a great opportunity for you!” Etc. etc. etc. No wonder they’re all messes by the end when there’s no rational reason for them to act like a multi-year relationship is ending. I leaned over to my wife’s stomach and addressed the Little Girlfriend: “You’re never going to act like this over some boy. Boys are going to act like this because of you!” She kicked, so I think the message was received.
Jesse looked thoroughly uncomfortable the entire time he was with Tara, so I guess that bodes well for his future with Jessica. Then again, maybe he was just bored and was busy concentrating on who the Giants would draft and what that meant to his career. Worth further investigation. Tara’s outburst was absolutely priceless, a reality TV classic. Much better than the whole Trish mess, since it was genuine (allegedly). How about just coming out on national TV and making 90% of viewers think Jesse got some Oklahoma style lovin’ on a recent date? Props to Jesse! Bet that was a joy to explain to Jessica. “No, really, nothing happened. She’s just nuts, you know that.” Nervous laughter and a sweaty forehead from Jessie. “So are we going to Home Depot today or what?”
Now the two J’s will live happily ever after, for about six months. Then Jessica’s age or the uncertainty of Jessie’s career will tear them apart. They’ll insist they respect each other, and wish it had worked, but there were just too many issues. Meanwhile, Tara becomes America’s sweetheart and spins away on talk shows so she emerges as the big winner. Trish becomes a Carmelite Nun and moves to Bangladesh in hopes of solving world hunger. Or just continues to sleep with married men, I’m not real clear on this one yet.
Thankfully, another dramatic season of The Bachelor has come to a close. They were running ads for future potential bachelors, so looks like we’ll have the show to kick around again soon. I can think of a certain PhD candidate in St. Louis who would make for extremely entertaining television. In the meantime, we can be totally creeped out by what’s suggested in the promos for The Ultimate Love Test. I’m pretty sure I won’t be watching that one.
I’m still struggling with my affection for the local NBA squad. I watched most of the game last night, but was distracted for much of the second half when I heard Randy Johnson was throwing a perfect game and switched over to TBS (no AI in this house). I’ve stated my indifference for Reggie Miller before. Jamaal Tinsley could drive any fan insane with his erratic play. It doesn’t help his case with me that he was 4-0 against KU in his Iowa State career. But I struggle most with Ron Artest. He brings it every night. He totally sells out to win games. Some nights he can look like the best player in the league. But he plays such a physical style that I’m always a little uncomfortable cheering for him. I love Jermaine O’Neal, Al Harrington, Jeff Foster, and Jonathan Bender. Maybe next year things will finally click between me and the blue and gold.
Worth noting, both Saturday and last night, I devoured some outstanding brisket courtesy of John H. Both nights, the Pacers win. Better keep the smoker stocked for a few more weeks, John!
The trade rumors of Shaquille O’Neal for Jermaine O’Neal are completely insane. Why trade away a franchise player you’ve signed to a long term deal, who happens to not even be in his prime yet for an aging superstar who is one more leg injury from becoming an ineffective, 400 pound, salary hog?
I’m clearly getting old. I watch NBA games and become enraged at the fact no one holds their pivot foot anymore. Some guys post up, get the ball, then slide their pivot foot six feet as they try to determine if they should shoot or pass (Chris Webber). Others completely change their pivot foot, but if they fake two passes between establishing their first foot and changing to the second, referees never call it. I feel like those old guys who go to games and count on their own three second calls the entire night. “One…two….THREE!!!!!!!”
People I love: citizens with seats near the high cameras at basketball games who insist on standing and waving their hands in front of the camera each time they have a chance to cheer. I like them so much I think they should be shot. Some idiot in Miami last night insisted on not only putting his head and hands in America’s face, but swinging some noise maker around as well. Thank goodness for the local coverage of the game, which used a different set of cameras.
Something I actually like: spring downpours. We got a good soaker last night. I love sitting in the house, having no place to go, no need to step outside, then hearing monsoonal rains hit the roof. Of course, as a native Kansan, I revel in all spring weather. On our second night in Indy last year, we were at the in-laws for dinner when the tornado sirens went off. Indiana gets its share of storms, so everyone sat calmly at the table eating, watching the radar on TV to make sure they didn’t need to head to the basement. The Kansan in the house went running outside to look for the storm. I spent at least 20 minutes staring at one set of clouds. “Are you going to eat or not?”
Hey, I heard Fred White doing the Royals game last night! That was outstanding. No body can replace the almost impossible to listen to Denny Matthews better than the monumentally horrid White. I thought the Royals ran him off. What’s with this guilt that he was “wronged” and bringing him back to cover for vacations? They did him a favor by manufacturing several excuses for his dismissal rather than just saying he’s an awful announcer. Is there some kind of law that the Royals have to have the worst announcers in baseball? Denny, Ryan, and Fred are all historically bad. Bob Davis is exceptionally poor. Paul Splittorf is ok, but he’s not the most dynamic person in the world. Sleepy announcers for a sleepy team, I suppose. Maybe they’ll perk up now that the Zack Greinke era is about to begin. .500 here we come!
In the blog template updates last week, I also changed the tracking software I use. I think the service I’m using now, eXTReMe Tracking, does a much more accurate job of tracking who visits on a daily basis as well as telling me exactly who visits. The true coup is the search engine tracking it includes, which is always fun. Here are some recent search engine queries that led people to my site:
Is Diana Degarmo Hispanic?
Single Armenian men in Nashville Tennessee
Prince song “Sweet Thing”
Diana Degarmo ethnicity (X3)
Murray + Barbecue + Ontario + “honey brown”
Michigan’s Ugliest Baby
Michigan’s Fab Five
Fat Ugly Red Sox Fans Pics
Giada De Laurentis
I think I see why young Miss Degarmo is so popular. People want to keep her coming back so they can figure out what her ethnic makeup is. I’ve always assumed she’s a white girl. Am I missing something?
Also, in a week, people have visited from the following countries:
Unknown (My all time favorite country! I loved those guys in the 1984 Olympics.)
I stumbled into the kitchen this morning and grabbed a brand new box of Honey Nut Cheerios out of the cabinet. I noticed some Shrek artwork on the box, and words that said something free was inside, but didn’t take time to read them. I opened the box up, and lying on top of the sealed wax bag of cereal was a small package. I pulled it out, unwrapped it, and found a digital watch with the Three Little Pigs from Shrek as the artwork. Not only do kids get kick ass toys in cereal now (I realize the watch may work about as long as a “Rolex” purchased in Hong Kong, but still, it’s a digital watch!), but they also don’t have to go elbow deep into the box, or spend the morning pouring an entire box into a huge salad bowl and then carefully returning it to get their gear. It’s resting softly on top, like a wedding ring on a pillow. I remember at least two “incidents”, generally with Fruity or Cocoa Pebbles, that ended with roughly a third of the total volume of cereal scattered on the floor from my efforts to get some plastic Fred Flintstone bicycle reflector out of the bottom of the box. Kids these days…
We joke often about Will Ferrell’s line in Old School about the big Saturday he and his wife have planned: a trip to Home Depot and maybe Bed, Bath, & Beyond. I found another outstanding addition to that lineup over the weekend. Friday evening, we attended an open house for a relative who’s graduating from high school. After the open house, we decided to swing by Super Target to pick up some food for the weekend and get some important things like socks and Lime Away. My 24 year old sister-in-law was along for the ride and as we pulled into the Super Target parking lot, her roommate called. “Where are you?” “Super Target!” “Why???” OK, Super Target on Friday nights isn’t aimed at the mid 20s demographic.
While we were placing our items on the check out conveyor, the people in front of us noticed a noise making gift we got for a friend’s son. “Wow, that’s really cool. It makes noise!” I told them it was a gift for a six year old. “That’s awesome, our five year old would love that!” When they were checking out, they asked for change in fives and tens so they could “pay the babysitter”. “Big night out at Target?” I asked. Taking no offense at all, they happily agreed. So if you and your loved one are looking for a nice addition to your weekend lineups, I heartily recommend your local Target.
What was concerning about Target on Friday night, though, was the packs of roving kids. Apparently if you live too far from the mall and can’t drive, you find a way to get to Target. We ran into at least three groups of pre-teen packs numbering 6-10 kids.
Baby development update, S is off to the doctor this morning for her 28 week (actually 29 week) check-up and her gestational diabetes test. As I type this Sunday night, I can see her stomach twitching and pitching as the Little Girlfriend kicks away. S did a quick ultrasound last week and the baby was still positioned across her stomach rather than vertically. Since then, though, it seems like she’s probably moved into a more vertical position, hopefully head down like she’s supposed to be. The kicking/standing tends to cause more discomfort to S, since they tend to find targets that are relatively important organs rather than just being into empty space. But all in all, things are continuing to progress normally and without incident, although S is obviously dreaded the accelerated weight gain that generally accompanies the third trimester.
Last weekend, I gained an ally in my plan to make sure our girl is a little sportster. One of my sisters-in-law said, very matter of factly, “You’re not going to have a prissy girl. I’m going to make sure she’s a soccer player.” OK, excellent. For the record, I’m comfortable with soccer and basketball. Gymnastics are definitely out. Swimming would be cool. Softball, no offense to other softball players, but I think we’ll not steer her that direction. And she, along with all future children in this house, will not play in the leagues that force them to practice three times a week and play two times a week. Over the course of a six month season. At the age of five. I remember my Little Leagues starting practice the last week of April, starting games in late May, and being done by Fourth of July. Sure, we wanted more games, but we never got burnt out on the sport. I want my kids to enjoy sports, and if they happen to turn into something they’re good at and can play into high school and perhaps beyond, that’s great. But I’m not turning my kids into little freaks who hate the things that are supposed to make them happy.
I’ve probably mentioned that so far S’s only real craving has been sweets. I’ve been trying to get back on a regular running schedule and make my gym workouts really count to offset the added desserts we’ve consumed over the last month. But the surest sign of how pregnancy can alter a woman’s appetite came Sunday. We were at a birthday party for a six year old that included a cook out for adults. I looked at S’s plate and saw a half eaten hot dog. “Are you eating a hot dog?” “Yes, and it’s not bad.” She’s long been on the record as declaring hot dogs the single most disgusting food know to man. She thinks the last time she ate a hot dog was when she was five. We’ll see if she comes home with a huge package of Ball Park franks this afternoon.
Saturday was Pole Day at the Speedway. No, not a stripper convention, but the day when the pole position was determined for the Indy 500. It ended up being a bit of a dud, with cold and rainy weather, so I didn’t watch much of the coverage. Missing that, I was able to take another step into solidifying my Indy resident status. We took a trip to Watson’s. Sadly, we missed an appearance by the Watson’s girl, who was helping to promote the grand opening of their new store. We’ve been looking for some wicker furniture for our sun room and decided it was at least worth the trip to check out their selection. First set we see when we walk in the door was an $8000 set of hand made furniture from the Philippines. We later learned the laborers, who no doubt earn something like a penny a day, hand harvest the wood, drag it through swamps to a village, and let the wood hang and cure for five days before it is hand fashioned into furniture. I was ready to turn around and walk out but was overruled. Pretty much everything was insanely expensive, even with the grand opening discounts, so we did our best to avoid the sales sharks who were circling frantically and escaped without buying anything. But now I’ve been to Watson’s!
Good song choice: ABC using Jeff Buckley’s “Last Goodbye” in their promotions for the final episode of The Practice. I didn’t watch it, but I dug the promos.
I can’t believe the Spurs choked away the series to the LA Cockroaches. I can’t see the Kings beating the Lakers. The Timberwolves are capable, but it won’t happen. And we all know no body from the East can beat the Lakers in a seven game series. Yep, Hollywood ending. Tears in their eyes. Emotional rally in downtown LA next month. And then Kobe will resign with them after flirting with every other team in the league for the past 12 months… He’s just used his “dalliances” with other teams to build the drama. He’s not going anywhere. Maybe Shaq will retire so the rest of the league has a chance next year.
I picked up my first prescription drug in at least 20 years the other night. It was a strange feeling; it made me feel old! I’ve been blessed with extremely good health throughout my life. I’ve had a couple hair line fractures and ligament tears from sporting injuries, but never anything that required a hard cast or strong pain killers. Never had mono, strep, bronchitis, or any other ailments that required antibiotics. In fact, the last time I think I had a prescription was when I had a stomach virus when I was 10. That was a good one. I’d be sitting there, feeling fine, and suddenly have this overwhelming urge to puke. I’d find a suitable location, unload, and five minutes later, I felt great again. I tended to act out in class a bit that year, so when I sheepishly walked over to my teacher to let him know I puked in the bushes at recess, he generally blew me off. I remember one day Mr. Dice flew into the restroom after me to confirm I was really throwing up. He was too late that day; I had already flushed. However, his demeanor changed the day I let loose at my desk during our CPR class. After the initial shock, the rest of the class loved me because they got recess 10 minutes early. Mr. Dice, racked with guilt, overloaded me with books to read while I was convalescing at home. Guilt can be a wonderful thing when aimed from children towards doubting adults. A week off from school and some medication later, I was good to go. After that, nothing from the pharmacy in 23 years.
As I shared back in March, I had been suffering from some pretty intense reflux. At first, I thought it was sympathetic pregnancy. Then it got worse, the pain changed, and it became easier to anticipate. I gave up my afternoon caffeine, which seemed to trigger it. That helped for about a day. I started downing Pepcid each day. That helped for about a week. I finally booked some time with my in-house health care professional who listened to my symptoms and said, “I think you might have an ulcer.” Great. I blame Roy Williams. So I’m popping the Little Purple Pill (not to be confused with the Little Blue Pill), Nexium, and hoping two weeks of that does the trick and I’m not forced to have a scope done to see what’s going on in my stomach.
We received our annual neighborhood directory last week. Very exciting times in this house, as this was the first edition since we became home owners. We marveled at our names in print, looked at the lot map and compared our property to that of our neighbors, and checked how long the people around us had been living in their respective homes. We also looked up the “interesting” people we’ve cataloged over the past 11 months.
One such family moved in shortly after we did last year. Separately, but at roughly the same time, both S. and I noticed that we only saw a woman at the home with two little boys. The woman did yard work, repairs to the outside of the house, picked up the mail, took out the trash, and played with the boys. She was there in the day and also in the evening. Once we realized we had both noticed the same thing, we came up with all kinds of theories. Widow. Lottery winner. Divorcee who got an especially sweet settlement. High class hooker. Or, most likely, married to a man who works constantly. “What’s the point of having a home like that if you’ve never, ever home?” we wondered. Well, finally, about two weeks ago, we saw her husband one weekend. So looks like the final theory was the winner, which just reinforces our question.
Another fascinating (even if only to us, but I’m sharing anyway) discovery came when we looked to see who moved into the other house we had looked at in our neighborhood. It was a smaller home, with a really bad yard, and didn’t interest us at all. As she was looking it up, S. said, “Well this is interesting. Someone with the same last name lives two houses down.” “Parents/grandparents?” I wondered. “Hmmm, the same kids are listed for each home owner.” Very interesting! Apparently there was a divorce last year and dad moved literally two houses away. If I wasn’t so fed up with the corporate life, I’d give them a call and see what company pays them well enough to afford two mortgages in this neighborhood.
I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks that Jesse Palmer uses the word amazing far too often. “What an amazing view, huh?” “You look amazing!” “It’s been an amazing day, hasn’t it?” And that was just with one woman! I think he’s just been watching too much Queer Eye to get his Metrosexual cred in order.
Long time Friend of the Blog Dale S. came up with the genius idea of a Jesse Palmer drinking game. Simple rules: every time he uses the word amazing, take a drink. Like the Century Club, it seems far too simple to have any effect. In practice, though, after an hour, you’ll be nicely toasted. I’ll add one bonus rule: each time Jesse tells a woman he is falling in love with her, but also falling in love with someone else, you have to slam whatever is left in your can/mug/flask. Should make a show that reached new lows of insulting our intelligence last night a little more fun. Props to Dale!