There’s something about a big storm that brings out the child-like wonder in me. I think it’s that way for a lot of people.

In that respect, it’s tough being in an office and trying not to act excited when the sky goes black, thunder and lightning start to roll, and the rain comes down in buckets. I try to maintain a certain level of professionalism, when all I want to do is point out the window and yell, “Look at that! IT’S SO COOOOOOOL!”

So when the rain rolls in, we make comments about the downpour; casual remarks about putting up the windows in our cars and driving home later. I try to keep my voice at a normal volume and regard the biblical-level storm with a seemingly passing interest. I also try not to break out too many rain-related jokes, of which I seem to have a large stock. I suppose when I think of a joke about rain, I’m forced to hold it in until a rainy day; which is why I have to try so hard not to let them all out at once… like a downpour.

Today I managed to keep myself composed. If I can manage not to sound like a fool, not to jump up and down, and not to shout with excitment at each passing storm, I might be able to convince myself, and everyone else, that I'm more mature.

But that storm today was sooooo coooool!

I wrote this last Saturday but never posted it. I just forgot. It was funny at the time:

New England Central News
Home of the most accurate professional weather radar system on the east coast!

Tom: Good evening folks. Tonight, "Baby Dangling," officially a crime, says superior courts!

But first, here's Chuck with the weather. Chuck?

Chuck: ... (Chuck shrugs)

Fucked if I know, Tom!

Have you people been outside lately? It's insane! The sun is out, it's 48 degrees and it's raining. It's mid June. It was 90 degrees two days ago.

I'm not a religious man, Tom, but this is some Apocalyptic shit.

Our “mighty” radar system has short circuited. Currently, all consoles are locked up and all printers are printing, “Fuck this, I quit!” on all available paper.

The last satellite picture before the crash showed a warm front with more thunder storms coming in from the west, but we didn’t get a really good look at it, so it could be anything. I’m putting my money on locusts.

Back to you, Tom.

My weekend kind of started on Thursday night when my dad and I went to see Batman Beyond… no, Returns… no, Forever… no, wait, Batman Befuddled. Oh, wait, I remember, Batman Begins (Or, as I like to call it, “Batman Begins Again and Does a Good Job of Apologizing For the Last Few Movies”).

To give credit where credit is due, Tim Burton’s Batman and, to a much smaller degree, Batman Returns were good movies. I can’t say the same for the sequels, “Batman Sucks,” and “Batman Blows,” or, you know, whatever their names were.

Batman Begins was excellent. Christian Bale is a fantastic actor and I think he makes a kick-ass Batman/Bruce Wayne. Christopher Nolan is a good director in my book and, apparently, he is a fan of the realism that makes Batman such a good character. Cillian Murphy was really good as the Scarecrow (I’m inclined to seek out other films he’s been in, besides this and 28 Days Later). Michael Caine, Liam Neeson, Gary Oldman, and Morgan Freeman comprise a great all-star cast. Katie Holmes is hot.

Anyway, Friday was pretty mellow, which is always good after a long day at work.

Saturday was game day as my mom, dad, and I attended our first Fisher Cats game.

For those of you who don’t have your fingers on the pulse of the animal community, a fisher cat is small yet surly member of the weasel family. It looks like a cross between two different animals, like a ferret and a badger were out drinking one night, and things got a little carried away; next thing you know the badger’s all like, “I’m having your baby,” and the ferret’s all like, “It couldn’t be my baby, I’m… um… sterile,” (ferrets will say anything), and the badger’s all like, “Fine, I’ll raise him on my own and teach him the ways of the wild. You just walk away and go make your stupid little movie!” because, you know, the ferret was working on Beastmaster at the time. And thus was born the Fisher Cat. (Technically the “Fisher,” no one really knows where that “Cat” crap came from).

But, despite the complicated name, the Fisher Cats seemed to do pretty well against the Trenton New Jersey… well, I guess they were just “Trenton.” Not the “Trenton Wildcats,” or the “New Jersey Wolverines,” they were just… “Trenton” (like in El Dorado, James Caan was just “Mississippi,”).

The new stadium was nice, and small enough so that very few seats could be considered “Cheap Seats.” Of course, we got great seats behind home base, and we paid only $9 per ticket, so technically speaking, they’re all cheap seats.

For all the niceties of the newly constructed field, the only major drawback was the food. Not only was the food service sloooooow, but the quality of the food was lackluster. I know what you’re thinking, “Hello, Ballpark.” But, even the hot dogs failed to please me. And the chili cheese fries might have been good, had I found more than ten fries forcefully drowned at the bottom of my bowl of chili. It was horrible, like those ten fries had double-crossed the mob and they’d all been sent to sleep with the beans.

Not a bad experience overall though. I’ll give it an 8. I’d give it a 9, but there were virtually no hot chicks in my age range there.

A quick call from “S,” led me to the Hog’s Trough Saloon later that evening. Formerly a biker bar known as “Stepping Out,” (Which I assume referred to “Stepping Outside For A Beating.”), The Hog’s Trough is now actually a decent, all audience, rock club. Although, I still hesitated when ordering my drink, hoping I could order something light without getting my ass kicked.

“S” was there because a friend of a friend played bass in one of the featured bands. The music was good, but suffered from a small-ass venue / big-ass speaker problem. Otherwise, it was pretty good rock. The band with which friend’s friend played was particularly good. What caught me off guard was the name. The band’s name was “37 Seconds Left,” which, the first few times the singer said it, made me think, “Wow, that was a short set.” After the third time I realized he was saying “We are '37 Seconds Left'.” Oh.

Sunday was a mish-mash of various weather patterns that made me hesitant to stain my neighbor’s deck, as I had promised. I made the vow to do it over two months ago, but those of you who live near me know that it’s been raining like a bastard for two months. We’ve had our random sunny days, but when you need one clear weekend day for staining, followed by 48 hours without rain for drying, well, you’re pretty much fucked. And thus, I was fucked. Again. This will be remembered as the year that April winds and May and June showers brought forth flowers sometime in early August (I’ve no hope for July). We should be in full bloom by Halloween.

And so on Sunday I relaxed, I gave dad his father’s day gift (An nVidia 6600 OC AGP computer video card with 256MB of DDRAM, Ooga Ooga! …that may not make any sense to you, but trust me, he loves it), and I sat around reading articles on men’s health and attracting the right woman. (Which reminds me, “GQ” is completely full of shit).

So Michael Jackson’s innocent. As little as I care, I can’t help but know that because it’s everywhere. It’s on the internet, the TV, and the radio. Co-workers are telling each other and even my mom told me when she got back from work.

I pride myself in generally not giving a shit about celebrity trials. In fact, I usually go out of my way to not read the articles, not watch the TV specials, and not listen to the gossip around the cooler. Even if there's some chance I might care about the verdict (like if some hot young starlet is on trial and, if found guilty, her punishment would be to date me), I know that the trial itself will be long, drawn out, heavily examined, dissected, reenacted, and over publicized, turning it into a media circus where the main attractions are watching paint dry and a side show game called, "Make A Mockery of American Justice." And the end result is always the same. The jury emerges from their seemingly endless deliberations, and announces the verdict that, without fail, shocks and baffles people all across the globe. Nine times out of ten, that verdict is “Innocent.”

To Michael Jackson’s credit, it’s not really his fault he’s screwed up. He has been pushed to the limits of sanity from birth. His parents ruined him, but the world loved him. He grew up being beaten and manipulated, and we gave him a crown and the world’s biggest paycheck. Is the end result really that surprising?

My opinion of him changed today. While some of the world breathed a sigh of relief, and some of the world screamed for a retrial or a hanging, I stopped hating him as much as I had before. My hate had been replaced by pity. I pity him because, had he been found guilty, he might have gotten some help. Regardless of whether or not he crossed the line, his actions are not that of a healthy, sane man. He might have been brought down to earth by a prison stay or time in an institution with a good shrink. But now he’s going back home, same as always, nothing has changed. I pity him because the best thing in the world he can do right now is disappear from the public eye for a while, and I know he’s not capable of that. I believe that in his mind he could never conceive of not being the center of attention.

So he’ll go on making a spectacle of himself. He’ll get in and out of trouble again and again. He’ll be an idol for some and a whipping boy for others.

What does all this mean to me? Nothing. Like I said, I don’t give a shit.

It seems as though the last few times I've gone to see the dentist, they've made some ridiculous recommendation about how I could improve my dental health.

For the record, my dental health is fine. I go for my regular checkups and I brush, rinse, and sometimes even floss (note to self, need to floss more) every morning and night.

This time I had a minor cavity, which has been a rarity since I was 12. The cavity was so minor, I was given the option to make an appointment to have it drilled, or see where it goes and worry about it at my next cleaning. Though convenient, the danger of waiting meant that the cavity, though small, might go deeper, impacting the nerve. I was faced with the choice of being punched in the face now, or kicked in the balls later. I opted for the punch in the face.

It's on my annual checkup/cleanings that they suggest changing certain things in my life to benefit my teeth. We're not talking about little things either. Example: Last year, I was told I shouldn't ever drink soda. No soda. Ever. Like I'm not a big enough wuss when it comes to alcohol, now they want me to ask the host of the party if they have any sugar free juice or sports drinks. I said, "Fuck that!" Well, not to the dentist. I said it long after I got home.

Last week they discovered some wear and tear on my teeth attributed to minor grinding or clenching I was probably doing in my sleep. Their recommendation? Don't sleep on your side at all. Not on your side. Ever. Sure, I'll just strap myself down to the mattress so I don't unconsciously do something abnormal, like roll over. I said, "Fuck that!" Again, not to the dentist.

The only other option was to get a night guard to put in my mouth at night... to guard my teeth. The dentist showed me an example of a custom fitted night guard; a small piece of plastic, remarkably similar to the retainer I had just finished wearing. Though as much as I disliked the retainer, and have enough nightly rituals to worry about, if it would save my teeth and alleviate my phantom jaw pain, then I would do it. Then they told me the price. $300. Three hundred dollars. DOLLARS! I said, "Fuck that!" This time to the dentist (well, under my breath, with my mouth closed).

I went home that night and did some research. Generic night guards were available at the drug store for $25. This was much more acceptable. I picked one up yesterday, a "boil-and-bite" mouth guard that you heat up then mold to your teeth, much like the one I would wear in Tae Kwon Do so I didn't get my teeth kicked out of my head.

I can tell it's going to take a while to get used to it. Putting it in my mouth is like biting down on a balled up sock. I've trimmed it a little to cut down on the size, but it's still uncomfortable. The instructions say I don't heave to wear it every night, and it might eventually "train" my mouth not to grind, so I'm going to keep at it as long as it takes to get used to it. The only other option is $300 dollars worth of custom fitting, and well, Fuck That.

I've come to face the fact that I have an addiction.

I'm addicted to not going to the gym.

Granted, this is infinitely less harmful than most addictions, it's still a pretty serious problem. Any delusions I had about being energetic and physically fit have washed away as, time after time, I find reasons not to go to the gym.

For weeks I'd been fooling myself. "Hey!" I'd say, "I can stop not going to the gym whenever I want! I don't 'need' to not go to the gym."

But as the weeks went on, I invented lame excuses like, "I've got bad gas today," or "I just forgot... that my gym bag was sitting in the car seat next to me."

The gym bag itself became a kind of string around my finger. Every time I saw it, I thought, "Oh yea, Scrubs is on tonight!"

Even when I manage to go to the gym, all I can think about is being at home doing something else. At its worst, the feeling leaves me angry and sad, curled up on the ab bench, mumbling things like, "Daddy needs his medicine!"

It would seem, even after months of regular three-day-a-week gym attendance when I first joined, that I don't feel the same about exercise as everyone else. I've never tapped into that feeling of accomplishment or that "Runner's High." It's as if there was a terrible endorphin accident in my body that left no survivors. All that's left are the chemicals that make me crave chocolate and television.

But my resolve, what little there is, has not failed. I will not quit the gym and I will not stop bringing my gym bag to work two to three days a week. I will keep telling myself to go, and I will keep feeling guilty if I don't. I won't give up, for the sake of my personal betterment...or for the cute girls in short shorts on the cardio trainer.