I had plenty of interesting topics running through my mind yesterday. The stunning emergence of Corby fever on a national scale after Mizzou's near-upset of Nebraska. A nasty rip on the current trend of disco movies. The glory of watching red goo (that I think actually might become beer one day) explode in my kitchen. Something about the long-shot presidential hopes of Bruce Babbitt. Perhaps a tribute to the U.S. soccer team, which did indeed clinch a trip to France and the 1998 World Cup with a 3-0 road win over Canada.
But I woke up this morning, and all joy and hope vanished. Once again, my special friend decided to pay a visit.
This is a friend not unlike the one delicate ladies enthusiastically euphemize. Except that my friend is a guy, and guys are never regular when it comes to timing. No, this friend comes in whenever he likes, takes up residence and doesn't leave until I chase him out. And even then, he steals a lot of food and the remote controls for both my TV and stereo.
It pisses me off.
When I was in college, my friend most liked to visit when I hadn't gotten enough sleep. He would distract me during lectures and during those all-important "study sessions" with my girlfriend. He even would take the lowest road possible, stopping by when I was doing my weekly radio show. Not a nice guy, this friend.
I could usually drive him off with mega-doses of caffeine, although that always led to a vicious circle, as he would stay longer and longer whenever I didn't ingest said wonder drug that really works wonders. At the first hint of his arrival, I would slam a Dr. Pepper and follow that up with a couple 200 mg tabs of Ibuprofen. This rude treatment would sometimes keep him occupied in the corner of my brain with my imaginary Nintendo, but I knew he soon would get bored and distract me once more.
Finally, I learned to remove my contacts and take an antihistamine as last-minute prophylactic measures, and those measures worked for a while. Until I moved to Florida.
That foul-weathered state is where I learned the true nature of my trusty ol' pal. Whenever the sun shone and the temperature rose above 85 degrees (which is every day for 10 months of the year), he would wander in, wishing to frolic. I had no power, no special diversionary tactic against his desire. All I could do was stay indoors as much as possible and keep the shades drawn during sunlit hours. As I am a night person in general, this wasn't as big a challenge as it sounds.
Nonetheless, I rejoiced at my recent relocation to Pennsylvania, a state where clouds fill the sky as often as not, and where the temperature rarely rises above 85, even in the summer. My friend seemed to agree with my feelings, as he avoided York like the plague. Oh, he'd stop by for a moment or two, but just to say hi. No knock-down drag-out heart-to-hearts like we are having today (as I write this insipid commentary, in fact). Even an hour in my specially-constructed white trash-style sensory depravation tank didn't drive the bastard away.
The sun will come out tomorrow. That's the horror, really. Today was a sunless Sunday, high barely above 50. If he decides he likes this weather as well, I'm totally screwed.
I've decided simply to follow the all-purpose advice of Charlie Papazian (patron saint of small-scale fermentation): "Relax. Have a homebrew."
It can't hurt.
Jon Worley would be glad to send you the plans for his white trash-style sensory depravation tank. All you need is a bathtub and hot water and his secret know-how. For plans, send $200 to: Inventors' Enterprises, 400 W. Philadelphia, York, PA 17404.