...I remembered how to play pool?

Ah, Rock Bottom Brewery -- where the beer has amusing names and is almost as good as the real thing. I haven't been to a RBB in ages. But duty called last night, in the form of two of LPB's buddies who, by virtue of having been there all afternoon, had free pool-table privileges. And I am not one to turn down any opportunity to make an ass of myself in public.

Now, a brief history lesson entitled 'Pool and Me: an Uneasy Past'. My life is not a dramatic one, and I am not as a general rule an overly competitive person. My pickup team loses? I call next and hit the bench. My little silver top hat lands on Marvin Gardens with two hotels? I hand over the cash politely, in neat little stacks.

But sometimes it gets personal. And sometimes -- sometimes -- it gets epic.

Epic. As in the stuff that heroic sagas are made of. The story of my youthful affair with the sport of pool could only have been directed by Sergio Leone: a lone man (well, a high school kid) against the cruel world (five or six other high school kids), with the sixteen-year-old equivalent of lives and souls on the line. You have to understand: we had a pool table in the student lounge at my high school. A pool table, some couches, and a really lousy TV. And that's it. So really, a man (high school kid) had a choice: he could just pull up a seat and watch fuzzy daytime television, or he could try for a place at the table. The safety of boredom or the exhilaration of self-humiliation. Guess which I picked.

(Cue Ennio Morricone music)

Now, when it comes to the student lounge pool table, there are different circles of in-ness. At the center are the True Shooters -- sultans of the slate, barons of the baize, who can play whenever they want because they are actually good. They are a breed apart, nonchalant table-clearers who make trick shots to win rather than to look cool. They partner only with each other, and play only against each other. When four of them are around and look interested in the table, whoever's using it finishes up quickly and hands over the cues.

Beneath the True Shooters you have a much larger and more turbulent subset: the Cool Competents. These guys can play, not fantastically but well enough, and moreover they have some measure of student-body status. Jocks, rich kids, and the one member of the school rock band who defied convention by actually coming to school occasionally.

Looking out another circle, you have the Tolerated Novelties. This grab-bag category included hot-girls-looking-for-an-excuse-to-bend-over, a foreign kid who everybody sort of liked but who hardly ever spoke, the school dealer, Lardy Miller (an astonishingly fat kid named Miller who could send balls squirting across the room with deadly accuracy by sitting on the table) and my fresh-out-of-college biology teacher who hated the rest of the staff and hung out with the students, looking peevish.

And that ... is about it, really. Outside the TNs you have only the Dregs, pathetic sub-human table watchers who never get to play but can't stay away. They're there as a warning: this is what becomes of those who try and fail.

Me? My career on the cloth was a brief but storied one. I went two years without so much as a smear of blue chalk on my sleeve, content to seek diversion elsewhere while the upperclassmen monopolized the table. My junior year, however, I found myself presented with a decision. Without meaning to I had maneuvered myself squarely into the Tolerated Novelty class: a varsity player in an unpopular sport, I certainly didn't rate either of the top two tiers. Nevertheless, I found myself occasionally tapped to partner with CCs or other TNs when table traffic allowed.

As the year progressed, I found the cue more and more often in my hand. Although I could never aspire to CC-ness, I was about the best player among the TNs, and hence a popular charity-pick. A few notable wins, one of which prompted a losing CC to hurl his cue javelin-like through the open student lounge window, and my stock was riding high. I couldn't ever be a Cool Competent -- class mobility was nearly unheard of. But maybe, just maybe, I had a shot for greatness. The inner circle. True Shooterdom.

My chance came one stormy afternoon. It was a half-hour until my next class, and the student lounge was nearly deserted. No CCs in sight. Just three True Shooters, leaning on their cues and idly practicing bunny hops. I walked in. I got the nod. The game began.

Now, although the universal public pool table protocol dictates that all games must be doubles, with the True Shooters that didn't always mean much. It wasn't unheard of for the breaker to clear the table, and since I was last in the rotation (the other side broke) it seemed entirely possible that the game might be over before it got to me. Indeed, the breaker sunk a stripe immediately, and proceeded to pot four additional balls before handing control to my partner. My partner, for his part, was having an off day; although he knocked down a few, a misjudged double gave the cue ball back to the other side with very little work left to do. Sure enough, every last stripe hit the bottom of a pocket. That left only the eight ball. I was going to lose my chance for glory without ever even blowing the chalk off my cue.

Then, fortune smiled. In a twist of fate, my partner's unusual ineptitude bought me a new lease on life: with five solids left on the table, the black was completely surrounded, and though the opposition did a nifty little jump to avoid the scratch the eight ball remained on the cloth. All eyes turned to me.

I looked at the table. This was it. Not only did I get my turn, I was sitting pretty; the table was so choked with solids that my first few shots practically made themselves.

Line up, stroke, in.

Line up, stroke, in.

Line up, stroke, in.

Three down, two to go. The next was trickier; I had to either double a ball on the far side of the table (and I can't double to save my life) or else try to dig my other option out from behind the eight. I chose the latter, whispered a prayer, and went for it.

Line up, stroke, in.

Well then. Four in a row -- three gimmes and a moderately challenging shot. And now the cue ball was much better positioned: my last ball was lined up prettily against the corner pocket, and I banged it home with alacrity. This was it: an empty table, just the white and the black. Not an easy shot, not easy at all; if I didn't want to have to try to double against the cushion, and I didn't, I'd just have to kiss the edge of the eight to spin it into the pocket.

Line up. "Eight in the corner."

And then Lardy Miller came in, dumped his backpack on the floor, and planted his mountainous rear on the table. The eight ball shot off the table, the slate cracked, and that was the end of the student lounge pool table.

That was the last time I played pool, until today.

Still got it.

...the NFL struck two blows for equality?

And I do mean 'blows'.

Okay, first: the Saints/Bears game. Not fantastic; like everybody else without a particular dog in that fight, I liked the idea of the post-Katrina Saints going to the Big Dance. They've been a feel-good story all year, and after some of the stinking that Grossman has done I really just felt that they deserved it more. But whatever; I like the Bears, I love hard-nosed defense, and there was some good ball being played out there. Good job, Lovie. Chi-town advances. Fair enough.

Second: Pats/Colts. This was one of those 'hang on ... huh?' games. It went against all history, all logic, and everything we know about both teams. Colts stifle the running game? Brady screws up in crunch-time? Manning craps the bed as usual, can barely stay on his feet, and yet totally fails to blow the game? Huh?

Well, whatever. It's a little disappointing -- like the NBA finals last year, none of the top three teams actually made it to the championship. But it's historical for two reasons, one of which you'll hear about a billion times in the next few weeks and one of which you won't:

1/ No African-American coach had ever made it to the Super Bowl before; this year, two did. And that's pretty cool. Expecially when you consider that this year also marked the beginning and end of Art Shell's resurgent coaching career. In a field where minorities are habitually overlooked, 2006 produced both the most and the least successful Black coaches in history. Which just goes to show ... something. I guess.

2/ The great Tom Lehrer, on finishing a brief and unintentional stint in uniform, once remarked that "the Army has carried the American ideal to its logical conclusion: not only do they prohibit discrimination on the grounds of race, creed and color, but also on ability." Which I mention as a segue to my particular Bowl-peeve for this year: that, with apologies to Ben Folds, the Bears/Colts QBs are going to be fighting the Battle of Who Could Suck Less.

I mean, isn't that going to be the deciding factor here? Either Manning will get pressured a few times, revert to form, and start throwing interceptions ... or else Grossman will be dropping the ball like it's the opposite of soap-in-prison. It's a battle of the choke artists: Manning, holder of the Golden Lawnchair award for lifetime achievement in the field of folding under pressure, versus Grossman, who doesn't receive awards because he'd drop them.

Seriously, how can you get excited about this game? Has there ever been a Super Bowl in which the defensive units were more likely to outscore their offensive brethren? Whatever. My prediction:

Colts - 27
Bears - 31

Then Grossman fumbles his ring; Manning recovers it and slips out in the resulting chaos to do a commercial for Summer's Eve. Intimate freshness, thy name is Peyton.

...I got sunburned indoors in January?

Okay, maybe it's fair to ask what I was doing napping at 3:00 PM. Further fair questions might address why, given the fact that construction workers make a habit of passing around the popcorn on the rooftop that looks directly into my apartment, I was sleeping buck-naked with the curtains open.

These, as I have said, are fair questions.

Of all the contingencies for which I didn't plan today, however, sunburn is one which I think I might be forgiven for neglecting. Granted, it hasn't exactly been freezing outside -- the only person who will ever mention the 'winter of ought-six' will be Al Gore when he's feeling insufferable -- but it would never have occurred to me to break out the sunblock before closing my eyes.

Big mistake. In my midafternoon dreams I found myself car shopping in old-fashioned basketball shorts (of which I do in fact own a pair), and it was not long before I realized that the vehicle on which I leaned was unpleasantly hot. Shifting positions provided only temporary relief, and eventually my dream-self had to acknowledge that not only did I not need a car, I was in substantial pain.

1/ Wake from burn-y dreams to burn-y reality

2/ Realize what the hell is going on

3/ Get up, unbearably pissed off at whoever the patron saint of nappers might be, and storm off to take a cold shower

But on the plus side, I now have the best-tanned left buttock in the District. I suppose that counts for something.

...I initiated LPB into one of the divine secrets?

There are many beautiful words that go into a relationship. These words are music, a handful of key phrases that evoke whole symphonies of passion and intimacy: "I want you." "I love you." "I do."

And then there's: "You know, I've never done this before, but do you want to try...?"

Twice tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Twice.

Yes, La Petite Boheme -- the ever-astonishing LPB -- has a new trick up her sleeve. A new weapon in her arsenal, if you will. And I have the same big, stupid grin on my face as the guy whose goose laid a golden egg and then, smiling coyly, said that it rather enjoyed it.

Hats off to my girl, ladies and gentlemen. She has officially raised the bar yet again. 'Best lay of my life' is a moving target, always something to be o'ertopped -- and if it can be done, I've no doubt she will. If anybody has any suggestions as to how she could do it, please let me know. I'm fresh out of ideas.

Oh, and there's a separate and (I swear) unrelated memory for today. Between first discussing the matter with LPB and learning that logistical difficulties would prevent any immediate action was only a matter of hours, but in that time we realized that, yes, we want to move in together. In fact, I can't wait, even though now I apparently have to. And I swear, my eagerness to keep this woman at my side at all times has nothing whatsoever to do with anything discussed earlier in this post.

Okay, maybe a little.

...I fell asleep on the floor?

Okay. A brief moment of sincerity.

At 2:30 this morning I woke up and realized that I was lying on the floor. Now, my floor's a good enough floor -- hardwood tiles, been swept at some point late last year -- but it's not what you'd call 'comfortable'. It doesn't beckon the weary traveller. "Come, recline on me, slumber long and deep," it doesn't seem to say.

Therefore, and for other reasons, I don't make a habit of falling asleep on my floor. And since I'm being sincere I won't go into detail regarding how I ended up there. But when I woke up at 2:30 this morning, cold and somewhat bruised, she was still sleeping on my arm.

That's my memory for today.

...I went back to school?

Work thing. My company rented a ballroom and an amphitheater in the GWU student union, on the theory that our shareholders would benefit if most of us died from the dubious catering. I spent ten straight hours feeling like a sophomore who could be fired for snoring.

A few highlights:

- Watching colleagues completely fail to hit on college girls in the food court
- Brokering an elaborate three-way deal over the catered-lunch-of-doom involving some original Ruffles, an upsettingly pale and gooey sugar cookie, and my Rold Gold pretzels
- Eating a third of an upsettingly pale and gooey sugar cookie, feeling ill, and wishing I had my pretzels back
- Stealing my pretzels back

Yeah, my triumphal return to the groves of Academe was not the stuff raunchy comedies are made of. Sadly. Will try harder next time.

...I gave some and then got some?

Give blood.

Seriously -- for whatever that word is worth in this context -- if you can, you should. It's free, for a start, and unlike most other things you can donate it's very unlikely that it'll end up hocked for cough syrup. Blood is like money: you don't really appreciate it until you need some and can't get it.

Actually, that's a bad analogy. Blood isn't like money. Nobody ever won the love of strangers and the hatred of friends by amassing enormous quantities of blood. Opening a vein on a first date doesn't impress anybody. No ... a better comparison would involve something that you want to always have plenty of, but which you'd never devote your life to acquiring. And except for that last part, it seems to me that blood is a lot like sex.

So yes, two key parts to today's memory. The first involved watching my own disturbingly dark life-juice being sucked out through my elbow. The second involved La Petite Boheme, who -- after asking if I wanted to watch 'National Treasure' (which I did, because Sean Bean rocks my world) -- made it very clear that if I wanted to actually see any of the movie I'd have to do it over, under, or around her very much alive body.

Anyway, while Nic Cage and some anonymous blonde science-woman were dashing around setting fire to things I was busy discovering a new twist on an old idea. Now, the Arcimedian Principle states that an old Greek guy and his rubber duck will displace an amount of bathwater equal to their own cubic volume. Conversely, the band-aid-and-condom principle states that you have only so much blood in your body, and if you want to displace some of it to a particular location you're going to find yourself lacking somewhere else.

Now, all credit to the ever-astonishing LPB. But 'lightheaded' is a sex-symptom that's only supposed to go so far, and suffice it to say that if I (sulking at not being allowed to watch the movie) hadn't insisted on being on the bottom, the evening might have ended very disappointingly. Blinking back stars, I was reminded of my high school biology classes: blood carries oxygen. And I was fresh out. Hence the fuzzy blackness at the corners of my vision.

And then I noticed something else. And this may all have been imagination, or possibly just more credit to the ever-astonishing LPB, but ... it was really good. I mean ... really, in a field where greatness is the norm. And that put me in mind of the high school biology lessons you hear outside the classrooms, or that Chuck Palahniuk story that I can't even think about anymore. Now, I'm not the adventurous sort -- my adventures in oxygen deprivation begin and end with the little 'I Gave' sticker. But still.

Give blood.

Trust me.

...I woke up next to an Asian roofer?

I did. And it came as quite a shock to me, I can tell you. After a long and largely sleepless night -- more of which anon -- I was quite startled to open my eyes and find myself looking into the wise, inscrutable face of the guy operating a jackhammer right outside my window. We may have exchanged nods. Not, however, before I had ascertained that the third member of our unexpected menage was fully and securely covered.

I'll take this opportunity to introduce La Petite Boheme. She'll be popping up frequently in these posts -- in all probability, she'll make it her business to be the subject of more than a few of them. LPB falls into the 'nobody tell God he screwed up and gave me all the luck' category, and although last night came in over the wires too late to make the front page ... let's just say that my friend the roofer seemed quietly amused at the decadent carelessness with which we'd distributed wine bottles, pizza boxes and undergarments around my humble flat. It's my hope that these nights will be too frequent to qualify for individual mention in this space (although particularly exceptional exploits will certainly receive mention). It won't break my heart, however, if I'm occasionally allowed to greet the dawn without finding mysterious jackhammerists peering into my den of iniquity.

...I was inappropriately aroused by Cate Blanchett screwing a fifteen-year-old?

Saw 'Notes on a Scandal'. If you haven't, do. If you want a review, check out here, here, and here.

The film raises a number of challenging questions, such as 'are they just going to let Judi Dench pick up her Oscar at the door this year?', and 'is the idea of Cate Blanchett having sex with Bill Nighy more or less upsetting than the idea of Cate Blanchett having sex with Billy Bob Thornton (circa 'Bandits')?' Coming in a close third, however, is 'okay ... that was a slide-my-hand-up-my-date's-thigh sex scene ... between Cate ... and a fifteen year old kid. Should I seek help, or jump straight to a lifetime of silent self-loathing?'

It's a fair question. And the movie isn't going to help you out; I won't spoil the plot (it involves notes and a scandal) but nobody ever steers too near to the basic eew-factor of the hot Blanchett-on-child loving. In fact, this isn't really the point of the movie -- Cate's cradle-robbery is relevant primarily as a weapon in the arsenal of the twistedly pathetic Dench's obsession. But a random sample of the conversations leaving the theater would reveal that the most stickily troubling on-screen moments were also the most riveting ones: specifically, those that involved Blanchett's tongue in the mouth of or otherwise involved with one of her young pupils.

And see, here's the funny thing. Nowhere, from start to finish, is there any suggestion that Cate was in any way a predator, a molestor, or even in the driver's seat of this May-December (well ... March-July) relationship. I don't even hesitate to call it a 'relationship' -- and I'm immediately skeptical of any attempt to legitimize sexual affairs in which one party holds all the power. The fact is, the situation was not merely unshocking, it hardly even rose to the level of surprising: a horny and obviously experienced (in the Hendrix sense) teenage boy saw and took the opportunity to romance and use his rather callow and sheltered teacher. Bad for business, no doubt, and not the sort of thing we encourage. But is it really shocking?

How far can we take this line of reasoning? If the titular scandal had involved a thirtysomething man and a fifteen-year-old girl, would we be more or less inclined to condemn? More interestingly, would I have been more or less likely to blog about the hotness of the sex scenes?

Push it further. What if Dench, rather than Blanchett, had been the female party? Cate would be ethereally winsome if she went on a three-state killing spree; what if the participants had been as unattractive as the situation? At what point does the objection cease to be ethical and become mere squeamishness? Surely the phrase 'consenting adults' must have practical rather than a merely legal relevance. If we can acknowledge that age is no guarantee of sexual maturity or innocence, aren't we compelled to accept that such visceral reactions are simply that, and no more? Could there be a mutually-harmless sexual relationship so unappealing as to reach actual moral unacceptability? Maybe between Bill Nighy and Billy Bob Thornton. But even that's a maybe.

...I started a blog?

It's night in Dupont Circle, Washington D.C., and I'm a man on a mission. Thirteen days into January, my life has become something I wouldn't have recognized last Thanksgiving. If nothing else I have learned this: time moves quickly, has sharp edges, and drags you through some strange and unexpected puddles. I've never had much luck steering the runaway carnival float that is my life, nor at handling the inevitable collisions - I think the best that I can do is try to understand the wreckage I leave in my wake and resolve to duck sooner next time. We learn from our mistakes, and if history's any guide I plan on learning a lot in 2007. Specifically, I plan on having (engineering, if necessary) at least one genuinely memorable experience every day. To accomplish this goal I will very probably have to resort at times to painful acts of self-humiliation. This is different from how I used to live my life. Now I have a reason.

BONUS:

...I was in grave fake danger?

True! This afternoon a battalion of D.C. police descended on my neighborhood and strung up yellow crime scene tape all around the block. The Circle itself was cordoned off - prompting one heavily earringed and lip-studded cynic to surmise that they'd finally decided to start rounding up and shooting gays - until it turned out that the suspicious suitcase that had brought the K-9 units slavering like Pavlov's dinner bell was in fact no danger to anybody. Still. Something could in theory have happened. And if it had, it would have happened to me.