In other news, there is no other news.

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1. Hanging out on a back porch that looked like a conflation of critus' and mighty_man's old place, with montieth and a pregnant british girl (who was flirting shamelessly with me), we ended up flying from Atlanta to Ottowa, with a stop in Boston (I had to get off in Boston for logistical reasons... I had to get to NYC or DC for some reason), on the least-comfortable airplane ever. I may not be a runway model, but I ain't pudgy, and the seatback tray was wedged into my navel, which made it darn challenging to make the drink du jour that the three of us had invented (blackberry syrup, champagne, and titration-grade alcohol, chilled to well below 0 F, served in oversize champagne flutes with a flake of dry ice).

Nor did it mean I was well-disposed to listen to Bill Murray extoll the virtues of Delta Airlines from the seat directly across the aisle from me, and I regaled him with how they'd fucked aishlynn and I over at Christmas a couple years back (breaking a gift, having a work slowdown and blaming mechanical difficulties, etc).

2. Rich Stadium (the former name of the place where the Buffalo Bills ostensibly play football) had been relocated to two blocks from my parents' house, and I was walking over to see the pregame workouts, accompanied by our cats, who insisted on playing in traffic on the (admittedly quiet) side street along the way. Being cats, they don't listen well, but managed not to be run over. Upon reaching the stadium (which resembled the one at Carnegie Mellon University far more than it's actual self), former NY Jets coach Herm Edwards was being interviewed by Bonnie Bernstein or Suzi Kolber (definitely not Rachael Jillson), with accompanying footage of him as a HS quarterback to illustrate his leadership style (hardass); I know this was fucked up, because the man ain't six foot ten, as was reported.

3. My dad and I were doing some cleanup outside the stadium, since there was some roadway flooding. Using a stone rake in eight inches of water to pick up leaves and sticks is ineffective, so I trade him for a regular leaf rake, and as I made my way to the box office/admin offices, a secretary of some sort struck up a conversation, and regaled me of stories of some guy who had tried to pick her up at a strip club while she was watching a friend of hers perform, and she got him shitfaced on something or other on NYE 2001.

I have no fucking idea what my subconscious is trying to tell me.