  Standing KO I had to strip down to my boxers before I could get this one started. It sounds like I'm serious or something close to, but I'm wearing my Halloween pumpkin boxers, so maybe not. The title of this blog comes from the idea that the self is the only thing that can be known and verified. I only know me, therefore I can only verify me. It's just a small idea in the greater annuls of multiple philosphies I try to apply to my existence. This entire concept was blown to bits Friday given that something had to be out there to ram me up the ass the long way with the incredibly irritating small things in life. It's not the little things that kill, they maim and poke; killing would be too easy. I was in Connecticut for a doctor's appointment for late Friday afternoon and the trip from Boston to Southington wasn't bad. I got my blood test done and I even visited my friend Darren who's had a long, rough and tumble summer recovering from sugery and a complication or two. After that I had to head to Waterbury to get to my 4:30 doctor's appointment. The problem was the entire state of Connecticut was going in the same direction, compounded by construction and compounded by everybody trying to take the backroads at the same time.
I should have just walked. Really, I kid you not. I fought traffic all the way there and traffic all the way back. Insanely frustrating. On my way home I stopped at a little cottage we have on a lake in Wolcott to try and get some perspective and not cause a severe accident. I arrived and my cousin and aunt were out there. That was fine until the golden retriever puppy/not quite adult dog came out from the water and decided that jumping on me and the only clean clothes I had was the most awesome idea a golden retriever puppy/not quite adult dog could ever have.
Truly, never a better idea had been had until that point. I'm not quite sure where wanting to boot a golden retriever puts me on the list to eternal damnation, but I have a feeling it's slightly above beating up old people, but below having a van and some candy. At no point did I actually try to harm the dog, I just thought about it more than I was breathing on the way home. Given my template for an awesome mood, I was more than a swell child at dinner. For once I was sarcastic with my mother and she didn't deserve it.
[Bad kid alert, get the van and the candy. ] Keeping me from a good mood was the fact that I had to take a bus back to Boston, though I did manage to wash and dry the shorts before departure. [Sidenote: I'm having some monster deja vu. ] The bus was one step beyond fiasco, uber-fiasco you might say. The 8:15pm bus to Boston didn't exist, even though the website said it did, so I sat with my parents until 9pm for the 9:15pm bus.
I get on, they take off, and then I'm told the bus won't be leaving for at least a half an hour due to the New York buses being stuck in traffic. Sweet, sanitary Moses, just please get me to Boston. We finally leave at 9:50pm and we have the slowest driver ever. We passed one vehicle the entire way. We were passed by another Peter Pan bus (Isn't that a slap in the face?
What are the unwritten bus driver rules? ); it felt like we were going backwards. I sat there debating if I should claw at my own face or chew on the double A batteries in my CD player and see what happens. It was the most ridiculous combination of stupid things in life that really shouldn't matter but will not be ignored when grouped together in short bursts of time. I finally, finally got off the bus at South Station. All I wanted was a drink. Get me some alcohol or I will start taking hostages.
I found a cab, avoiding the last T song and dance, and hauled butt to Boylston. I got out at Dalton/Boylston and called the one man who comes through more often than double quilted toilet paper, Zach Mangan, Minister of Fun. He was at the Pour House, praise Jeebus. I had my backpack and cross trainers dangling from said backpack and entered the beautiful house of booze.
I ranted (really? ) and downed beer faster than I ever had. I don't know how alcohol can't fix everything, because it kept me from a monumental meltdown. Many thanks to Scotty, Erica, Jim, and Zach for hanging with yours truly and putting up with my frayed ass. Tonight was a little more sane. I gave the Minister of Fun another call and we decided to head over to Big Hank's BBQ in Cambridge. Mr. Coughlin came along and it was very nice to hang with Mikey. He's such a nice friend. Well, he's a total ass and that's really why we hang. We had some under-cooked meet and Pabst Blue Ribbon, truly a fine and blessed meal. Lately I've been called many a name.
Among other things, I was called a cad tonight. Time was actually taken to dial my number up and let me know of this new nomenclature; from left field no less. So it goes. Then I stroked my long, handlebar mustache calculating my next nefarious move. Mwah-hahahahahaha... anyway. I'm hoping to go to the beach tomorrow and continue my ever-expanding campaign to ruin lives in various and sordid ways. Jimbo, you're an ass for not calling me before you left for Japan. Ass. Shootaround is almost over, finish up. Now if you'll excuse me, I have golden retrievers to boot for personal amusement. (A.P.T. 1:57 a.m.) 
