AAAHHH! Burning ball of flame in the sky! What is it? I feel it penetrating my spongy, mushroom speckled skin! It's making the clouds go away! Come back clouds! I can't remember life without you! It's drying up the water! How will I breathe without water? I'm starting to flop around, my tail fin is begining to ache. If all the water dries up, where will I go to spawn?

Um. OK. Got carried away with that spawn joke. I know.

I had that dream again where I was back in high school. But, it wasn’t like I was re-living my early years, I had long since graduated and I was back taking new classes, like I was trying to get my P.H.D in Home Ec., or something.

In fact, I was a senior again. I was cocky. I would wander the halls when I should have been in class. I didn’t even have a hall pass. Whenever anyone gave me shit, I was like, “Read the student I.D., Jr. I’ve been here for eight years! I’ve got seniority! I got my diploma when you were still making pictures of a turkey by tracing your hand.” (I have no idea why the hell I used that as an example).

I would sit out in the courtyard soaking up the sun while teenagers scurried to their home-rooms. When I decided to actually attend a class, I would wander through the new building that they recently added, trying to find the room number. I’m not sure what crazy system the kids of today are using, but all the rooms in the new building had the same number, and it wasn’t the number I was looking for.

In my dream, there had been a candy store which had been demolished to make way for the new building. As I wandered the halls, looking for my class, I remember thinking, “They tore down the candy store for this shit? What a waste.”

My alarm clock woke me up at roughly that point, which is fortunate because all the dreams I’ve had about high school have ended the same way; I realize that I have to stay there another year because I’ve been missing my morning gym class all semester. So, thank God for that.

Snooty Bartender: Good evening, sir. And what would you like to drink?
Jon: I’ll have a Mike’s Hard Lemonade.
Snooty Bartender: I’m sorry sir, but we can’t serve that drink to men.
Jon: …huh?
Snooty Bartender: We reserve Mike’s for our female patrons.
Jon: What? Why?
Snooty Bartender: Because it’s a bitch beer.
Jon: A bitch beer?
Snooty Bartender: Yes sir, a beer consumed by bitches.
Jon: So you’re saying all women are bitches?
Snooty Bartender: What I’m saying is that men order beer, and women order malt beverages. Men who consume malt beverages are bitches.
Jon: And what do you call women who drink beer?
Snooty Bartender: They are still women, and more appealing women, if I may say so.
Jon: But I don’t like beer.
Snooty Bartender: I believe that is a common side effect of having your testicles removed, sir. Why don't I just pour you a nice cold gingerale.
Jon: Sigh. Fine.

I truly despise the system of naming stadiums after their corporate sponsors. Places that once had character, location, and instant name recognition now operate under the label of the nationwide chains that support them. It’s really depressing. Sports fans or not, I’m sure you’re all with me on this.

Well, as some of you know, this corporate naming system has shrunk to a new, surprisingly stupid low. The name they have chosen for the Fisher Cats home stadium in downtown Manchester is, “Merchantsauto.com Stadium.”

I’ll repeat that for the stupidity-impaired. They have named our stadium after a website; a website for a company that sells cars, and just happens to have a website.

Now don’t get me wrong. I like Merchant’s Auto. I bought my car from them, and they are good, community minded people. But, at the very least, they could have considered “Merchant’s Auto Stadium.” No, they had to be as explicit as humanly possible to cover the lowest common denominator. They chose, “MerchantsautoDOTCOM Stadium.”

Shit, why stop there? Why not cover all your bases? Just to be sure, let’s call it “H-T-T-P Colon Backslash Backslash W-W-W Merchantsauto.com Stadium!”

But what about those people who don’t have computers? Yes, they are few in number, but as long as we’re catering to everyone, why not try some double billing with “Buy A Computer At Best Buy and Type http://www.merchantsauto.com in Your Web Browser Stadium.”

Granted, it’s an effective marketing ploy. Even as I rant about the absurdity of it, I’ve mentioned the web site enough to make some of you go, “Well, how good is this website anyway? I better check it out.” But, as I’ve said, I have nothing against the company.

So go, check it out. And if they ask, tell them JonathanEHoysradt.com sent you.

My chocolate bunny is deranged! Look at those crazy eyes man! He'll eat your soul!

The place is in Nashua which, so far, as turned out to be a pretty agreeable city. Sure, I’ve been to Nashua a bunch of times, and I’ve worked there for over a year, but it’s not until you actually live there that you feel like you’re getting to know the layout of the town and where all the important stuff is (I now know where to get crack. You know, if I need it).

Spreading out has been something of a mental hurdle. I have always been a centrally located kind of guy. Even my last apartment could have been considered a single, large room with a wall in the middle of it. Furthermore, when I moved back home I managed to shoehorn all the essentials back into my old room, having to leave only for food and toilet… and bathing. I didn’t forget bathing.

Now I’ve got three floors to share with only one other person and two cats. Yet still, my first instinct was to shove everything into my room. Oh sure, I put the kitchen utensils and stuff in the kitchen, but everything that was once in my room in the past was in my room now.

I had to sit down and think hard about what I could put elsewhere. I take comfort in having most everything I need at hand, and putting any of these items anywhere as remote and distant as downstairs made me nervous.

In the end, I managed to detach myself from my bookcase and my movie collection enough to put them in the shared living area. It was a beneficial arrangement, as now my roommate could borrow movies at her leisure. And, as time has passed, I’ve become comfortable with it.

Wow, how much of a basket case am I?

The basement area is slowly becoming a rec room. It is a task that neither of us has dedicated much time to yet. At the moment, it is more of a storage area, and the uncontested domain of the cats (a place they can run to when they hear the vacuum). I see so much potential for the room, but having the time and resources to realize my wild home design dreams is another issue.

As for working and living with the same person, I’d say it’s no trouble at all. We work in different departments, and when we’re home we go about our own business by ourselves. In fact, we’ve had dinner together more times before we moved in than since. She’s an agreeable girl, neat and considerate; all you could want in a roommate or a coworker. I consider myself very fortunate to have gotten to know her before we became roommates; I am much better off than if I had been forced to take out an ad for a roommate in the paper.

Wow, this blog is stagnant, does this guy ever update?

Oh wait, shit. This is my blog! Sorry.

I done moved. Again. While I don’t move as often as some people… cough cough greg cough… I feel like I haven’t settled anywhere in quite a while. Going home was supposed to be temporary. Then, all of the sudden, I woke up on the far side of two years and I was still living with my parents. I had become settled, sitting comfortably in a rut.

I was under the impression that I was just short of the financial means to get a place of my own, and I was. But who knows what I could have found if I had truly committed myself to searching. I might have discovered a tiny studio apartment to fit my needs; one that was a) clean, b) bigger than a box of Twinkies, and c) around $500 per month. Yea right! And my landlord would have been a majestic unicorn who grants wishes to anyone who can catch three woodland faries in a magical jar.

It wasn’t until I met someone at work who was also on the apartment hunt and thinking maybe a roommate would soften the blow of rent and utilities.

And long story short, here I am. Let me tell you, it feels good.

We saw our share of crappy apartments. We were given tours of cramped, dirty places whose landlords started the tour with phrases like, “It does need some work,” and, “I really don’t know how the skunk got in here.”

Then we found an excellent place. But we applied too late and didn’t get it, so forget that place. But then we found a better place, and we got that one. Ka-ching!

It’s a nice three-story townhouse in a quiet (read “mostly old”) community.

Some minor maintenance was required, but most of it was addressed before we moved in. The lingering problems involved certain windows not totally working (you know, opening and closing, none of that advanced window shit), and a smattering of plumbing problems (a slightly drippy sink and a mini dishwasher that doesn’t actually drain water (alright if you want to wash the dishes and the floor at the same time, but…)). The windows have been fixed, and the plumber, much like Jesus, will be coming back at some undetermined time in the future. I can’t complain though, we have all the amenities we need and then some.

You'd all be proud of me, I almost went to the gym today. Got my bag out and everything.

Those plans went to hell when Mike called me mid-day to tell me he got an X-Box 360, Call of Duty 2, and Oblivion.

He asked if I wanted to come try it out after work. The thought of saying, "I can't, I was planning on going to the gym." or, "Sure, but let me go to the gym first." NEVER crossed my mind. If any gym-related thought even came close to my conscious mind, it was probably, "Fuck the gym! I'll be there!"

Call of Duty 2 was fun, and the graphics were sharp. To be honest though, it didn't feel like a huge leap over the first one on the computer, much less the sequel on the same system. Yes, the high definition graphics were easy on the eyes, and yes, the X-Box controls were satisfactory (for a console FPS), but I wasn't blown away by it as much as I was by:

Oblivion. Pretty, very pretty. Plus it would seem all the tried and true Elder Scrolls elements are there (causing flashbacks of the hours and hours I spent on the prequel). I could imagine my computer trying to run it, and perhaps being able to do it, but not with all the effects cranked up like they are on the x-box. If anything, some effects were too brilliant: the darks too dark, the lights too bright. Strolling around a giant lake of lava, I found my eyes getting tired of the bright reds. But this is a minor complaint; I mean, I was strolling around a lake of FREAKING LAVA! Badass!

For some reason, everywhere I go I smell burnt popcorn.

I have a theory. Since I have a cold, and my right nostril is completely clogged, I think my left nostril has developed a more acute sense of smell; like a blind man whose other senses are sharpened to compensate for his lack of sight.

I believe that I now have superhuman smelling. Through my sole working nostril I am able to determine who has eaten what for breakfast, and if my clothes have been near burnt popcorn in the last three months.

I have not yet determined how to use this power to fight crime.

Going to a spa, in any context, is not considered a manly activity. It doesn’t matter if you’re getting a massage for a weightlifting injury, or trying to bang the manicurist, the minute you tell anyone you’re going to a spa, you get laughter, pointing, and the universal hand signal for, “You have huge breasts.”

Such was the response I often got from my friends and family when I told them that, prior to my friend’s wedding, he and I were going to a spa for a bit of R & R. Some people even went so far as to ask, “Are you going to order the happy ending?” to which I responded, in mock confusion, “What? Like, the sundae at Friendly’s?”

In the proper tradition of passing the buck, I’ll say that it was originally his idea (which, going back even further, was probably his fiancée’s idea). Honestly though, I liked the sound of it, so I said yes without any arm twisting... or hesitation for that matter.

The place was neat enough; a clean and stylish looking salon graced the upper floor, while a clinical-looking yet rainforest-themed downstairs area housed the mani-/pedi-cure areas, salt showers, and massage rooms (“pedicure,” I just added a hyphen, it’s not some bizarre sexual thing).

My friend and I sat on plush couches in a small lounge that was decked out in a Swiss Family Robinson motif (where you were surrounded by paintings and decorations that made you feel like you were in a jungle, but still had the luxury of sun chairs and an FM radio).

First came the manicure. We were ushered into the manicure… room… place… by a pair of women; let’s call them “Hot,” and “Not.” “Hot” sat me down across the table from her and my friend took a similar position across from “Not.” Though it was the weekend of his wedding, I’m sure he could tell that right off the bat that I had the advantage here.

What followed was a pleasant half-hour of buffing, oiling, massaging, and exfoliating, all below the wrist. I say buffing, oiling, massaging, and exfoliating, but I really don’t know what order they happened in. At any given time, I was completely unaware of what this woman was chipping away at my nails for, or what substance she was rubbing into my palms. I like to verify my manliness by saying that all I know about all the gels and creams on the table was that none of them was motor oil.

Conversation was light during the process. I tried making small talk with, “Hot,” while “Not,” tried to make small talk with my friend. Occasionally I felt the need to turn to my friend and say, “So, how about those Patriots?” or “That reminds me, I gotta take a look at my transmission.”

The process reached a climax of weirdness when my hands, buffed and oiled and massaged, were inserted into two plastic bags which, in turn, were inserted into two heated oven mitts. “Hot,” finished early and walked briefly into the next room. When the smell from someone’s lunch wafted in through the door, I was certain it was the smell of my hands being properly baked. I peeked inside the oven mitts to see if they were a golden brown yet. Not quite.

In the end, my friend would complain that he did not get as thorough a manicure as I did. I could have told him that when I heard “Not,” continuing to make small talk say, “This is my second to last day here, I’m going to work at another spa.” A dead silence filled the air. How the hell do you respond to that? What could you ask her if you don’t want to hear the answer? Sure, she could be leaving because she had to relocate or something, but do you really want to risk starting a conversation that could end with, “The people who are about to give you a massage are rotten bastards.”?

Regardless, the conversation went back to manicures when “Hot,” came back into the room and took off my oven mitts. I told her how I thought the smell of food coming from the other room was my hands. She didn’t even smile, just a short exhale through the nose, meaning either a tiny, stifled chuckle, or she had a boogie.

Our nails sparkling, we went back to the Swiss Family Lounge and sat back down, clumsily checking our cell phones and flipping through magazines without touching our newly buffed nails.

We were then instructed to change into the provided bath robes and slippers which, I can only guess, were fitted for Micky Mouse. Even with size 12 feet (or 13, depending on who's asking ;-), my slippers clopped on the floor like scuba flippers.

We were then directed to private rooms for the salt scrub. I never saw who my friend left with, but my attendee was… let’s call her, “Not Sr.” Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing ugly about her, but she was much older, and certainly not of the caliber of the young, attractive girls I had seen traversing the hallways. Besides, these procedures had nothing to do with the attractiveness of your host, but their skill. Having a hot chick rub you down was just an added benefit.

The salt scrub was… unique. Another “exfoliating,” procedure, the salt scrub takes off up to four layers of dead skin. I’m willing to wager I lost seven. I was initially rubbed down with oil, which was pleasant. I was then assaulted with an oil-salt mixture that felt like this woman was attacking me with a belt sander. I kept looking at her hands, wondering if she had switched from using a fine powder to winter road salt.

To answer what I’m sure is a burning question in everyone’s mind, no. I was not completely naked. The important parts were covered by a towel. No salt was applied to my buttocks or man-region which, as I’m sure you can guess, was a huge relief. I was comfortable though. These people are professionals.

I was then hosed down and left alone under a series of showerheads spraying warm water. I’m told that some people enjoy lying under those shower heads for up to a half hour. I was there for about two minutes before I started thinking, “Um… this is nice and all, but I can do this at home.” My attendant returned a few minutes later and turned off the water. When she left I re-robed and moved into the massage booth.

I suppose by keeping track of who had the hot attendant, I cursed myself. Scratch that. I cursed myself before we walked into the spa when I said, “With my luck I probably won’t get a hot masseuse. I bet I’ll get a dude.”

In walked David, my masseuse.

Now, as I said, looks have nothing to do with this. David is a skilled and strong-handed masseuse. He knew what he was doing, and it felt good.

Note to self: Cross, “He knew what he was doing, and it felt good,” off my list of things I’ll never say in my life.

I didn't feel like a new man afterwards, but I felt pretty good. I got dressed and waited for my friend, who was finished shortly after me. Then he and I chatted as I settled the bill (I decided I would treat him, as part of my wedding gift). I asked him what his masseuse looked like.

“She was pretty hot,” he said, with the casual disinterest you’d only hear from a married man. “I had the same girl for the salt scrub and the massage, so we had a chance to chat and be comfortable.”

I told him about David.

“David?” he said between bouts of suppressed laughter. “You got his name? Did you get his phone number too?”

“Of course,” I said. “After what went on in that room, I had to invite him to the wedding.”

We both laughed that time. I laughed louder because I really wanted the beautiful young girl at the counter to know I was joking.