True story: on Easter Sunday, I was awoken by my mother who excitedly notified me that I had been visited by the Easter Bunny. On the counter in my kitchen was a 1.69 oz bag of M&Ms and a purple plastic egg. "Open it," exclaimed my mom while pointing to the egg. So I did. Inside I found... nothing. The egg was entirely empty. "Why," I asked my mother, "did you wake me up to have me open an egg with nothing in it?" Replied my mother with a frown, "I was going to give you cash, but I ran out of money."

It's like an O. Henry story without the irony. And now you can probably imagine what my Christmases are like.

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Another Independence Day come and gone. July 4th is without a doubt my favorite holiday, though I don't care for picnics, fireworks, or parades. Ironic? I don't think so. If others enjoy their crowded public places, I'll stay in my own suddenly quiet neighborhood. Everybody wins.

My brother and his girl were disgusted by my favorite Independence Day activity: watching the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest. Sure, it's gross, but it's much more entertaining than, say, Easter Sunrise Mass or a Christmas Day NBA double-header. (While it's not quite Thanksgiving Day NFL football, the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Competition only takes 10 minutes, barring overtime, and I'm not forced to watch this with the very same extended family that I try to avoid for the rest of the year.) How can you not love a competition that was cancelled by promoters in 1971 to protest "the reign of free love"? And I'm not alone in my appreciation of this grand event: it's estimated that nearly as many people showed up just to watch this year's contest as ran in Atlanta's Peachtree Road Race earlier the same day.

Maybe all of this success is because of the unique nature of the competition as a quintessentially American event complete with hot dogs, gluttony, and red, white, and blue bunting. When asked why he competes annually in this contest, 2007-08 champion Joey Chestnut summed it all up, "I love to eat. I love the competition. And... it's Fourth of July, and you can get away with it on this day, push your body this hard over something silly like this." Damn straight, Joey. It sure beats running a 10K.

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This year, ABC broadcast the annual Scripps National Spelling Bee with such innovations as pre-produced informational segments, competitor interviews, running commentary, and television time-outs. It was like watching a televised football game without any actual football. I recall watching once as some Fox announcers tried to spell the name of Green Bay Packer defensive end Kabeer Gbaja-Biamila before some organized football broke out and shut them up. No such luck at Scripps. The ABC commentators frequently stepped all over the children's frequently amusing banter with the official pronouncer (which, by the way, is one of the best job titles ever).

I can proudly say that I was able to spell two of the words on the program: "basenji" and "Rorschach." The first is an African breed of dog renowned for its lack of bark. And while the second is the name of the familiar ink-blot psychological test, it is also the name of a super hero. I'll admit that I failed to correctly spell "empyrean," despite the fact that it was the name of my High School's yearbook, so you can see where my interests lie.

I'd rather watch than participate in a spelling bee, mainly because my spelling has historically been so terrible. "You're a phonetic speller," my mom would always explain to me whenever I failed yet another spelling test in elementary school. When I would ask what that word meant, she'd tell me to "look it up." Parents can be so cruel to their children.

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Though I don't care for parties, champagne, ball drops, singing, resolutions, hangovers, Dick Clark, or anything else that is traditionally associated with "New Years" ("why do you have to be so negative all the time?" grumbles my father), I do like to start the year out on the right foot. Therefore, I present for you my favorite poem, written almost 2 decades ago by a man destined to be a reality tv-show star, to get you in the proper mood for the New Year:

We both lie silently still in the dead of the night.
Although we both lie close together, we feel miles apart inside.
Was it something I said or something I did?
Did my words not come out right?
Though I tried not to hurt you, though I tried.

But I guess that's why they say,
"Every rose has its thorn.
Just like every night has its dawn.
Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song.
Every rose has its thorn."

Yes, it does. You'd do well to take these words to heart. That's not negative; it's just the way it is. I'm sure that the lesson that you learn could get you into Heaven one day.

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Georgia beat Georgia Tech for the 6th year in a row today. My father, a Tech graduate, was very irritable in the stands after Georgia scored the go-ahead points in the final 2 minutes. But even he still had a good time. I suspect that we'll be playing in the Dec. 30 Chick-Fil-A Bowl, but I'll be damned if I know what ACC team we'll play against.

It's been a long, puzzling season for the Bulldogs. Frankly, I'm a little surprised that we finished with a respectable 8-4 record. After the Homecoming loss to Vanderbilt, I figured we had no chance against Auburn or Georgia Tech. I guess that goes to show what I know.

Looking back at the season, I remember the hecklers during the Tennessee game, the buffalo on the sideline at the Colorado game, and the UGA tailgaters offering the Vanderbilt faithful barbecue after their victory. Yes, it's been a pretty good year, all things considered. And there are only 280 days to go until our September 1, 2007 kickoff against Oklahoma State. Go Dawgs!

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I just returned from Philadelphia, where my brother and I watched the Philadelphia Eagles defeat the Miami Dolphins. Despite the scattered rain, bitter cold, and Dolphins' tenth loss of the season (0 for 10: we're still prefect!), I had a great time.

Philadelphia fans have a reputation as real assholes. And I can now tell you first hand that everything that you hear about them is all true. Though most of the fans were good natured before and during the game (a father pointed me out to his toddler as "the enemy," the security guard frisking me upon entering harassed me for wearing Dolphins' gear to the game, and the attendant who announced the discontinuation of alcohol service at halftime urged the crowd to yell at me instead of her), by the fourth quarter, with the Eagles' firmly in control of the game, the fans had worked up enough courage to devolve into a surly bunch of jerks. One fellow continued to taunt me until the final second ticked off the clock for supporting a "bunch of losers," and another that I encountered in line for the bathroom told me that "the Dolphins' fucking suck" and he hoped that I personally would die a slow and painful death.

My brother repeatedly pointed out that insulting me for being a Dolphins' fan during this winless season was the equivalent of abusing a helpless puppy. Well, now I know how Philadelphians treat puppies: they must be Michael Vick fans.

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I've just returned from the Newnan High School homecoming football game against Lithonia High School. We left at halftime, as the NHS Cougars were beating the LHS Bulldogs 35-0 and I simply didn't care to see any more, especially if I was going to have to sit through the halftime Homecoming Court presentation. (I'd've stayed if the LHS band was going to take the field. Their drum corps was much, much better than their football team.)

As we left the stadium, I realized that I did not have my wallet on me, and I was convinced that it had fallen out of my pocket in the stadium. My brother patiently explained that my wallet must still be on my bed. Since my slightly-paranoid neurotic nature would have alerted me to the wallet's absence during the game if it had been present and then disappeared, he explained, my realizing it only after my departure was because enough time (and football) had passed for me to forget that I hadn't brought it in the first place. Therefore, I was fretting only because I had forgotten that I had not brought it to the game.

He was, it turns out, quite right. My wallet was right where I had left it, on my bed. I dropped it there before we left the game because I was excited upon putting on a pair of pants and finding $6 in the pocket. (Yes, I am so broke that $6 is a huge find.)

So now I'm the worst of both worlds: a paranoid with a memory short enough to be suspicious of my own behavior and motivations. And finding $6 is enough to get me too excited to pay attention to anything for about an hour. Great. What's that they say that's the first thing to go, again? Cause I'm sure that's already gone.

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My brother has taught my mother's Boston Terrier, Mister, a trick. When he lifts the dog over his head and gives the command "Superman," Mister pushes his front legs forward and his rear legs back, holding them roughly parallel to the ground in a pose similar to that always used by Krypto in flight. Mister is a lot smaller than Krypto, and like all Bostons, he wears a black cowl, so he looks more like a flying canine sidekick for the Hamburglar than anything else. But its a swell trick nonetheless.

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I called my brother and said, "come over to my house and help me put up some curtains."

"Hanging curtains is for women," he said.

"No," I said, "I mean we've got to install some curtain rods."

And he replied, "Oh, ok. Installing curtain rods is manly."

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As I mentioned, I've been relocating to new digs over the past week. What stands out about the misadventure is that less than 2 hours after being laughed at over how diligently I was tying down the tarp on the trailer hauling my furniture, the darn tarp ripped in half on the highway. (As seen below. My brother took the opportunity to chuckle at my expense.) Fortunately for me, the weather waited until after the tarp ripped to begin producing rain. Mother Nature is a woman with a sadistic sense of humor.

At least the move is complete and my computer is now (mostly) installed and running in its new location. After over 7 years, I am physically no longer living in Athens, GA. I don't know what I'll do, living in a town with less than 1 bar/liquor store per citizen.

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