God, I hope this isn’t my super power.  Maybe it wasn’t a spider bite yesterday after all?  Maybe it was a Republican?

Anyway.

1.  Elton Brand is a Sixer.

Might read like code to some of my readers, but that one’s significant.  Elton Brand (Dukie, Power Forward/Center, consistently classy 20/10 guy) reached a verbal agreement with the 76ers that will apparently keep him in Philly for the next 5 years or so.  Great for the Sixers, par for the course if you’re a Clippers fan.

The Clippers get screwed.  They go out and sign Baron Davis, thinking they’re satisfying Brand and making themselves a contender in the West.  This after Brand tells them:

We’re opting out. It definitely doesn’t mean I’m leaving the Clippers. We’re trying to work it out. My intention is to stay.

That was a little over a week ago.

Can’t really blame Brand, though.  Classy or not, it’s gotta suck balls to play for that organization, one with a reputation for a tight wallet and that will always play second fiddle to that other shitty LA basketball team.  I’d go all KG and jump ship for a young, talented team in a weaker conference, too.  This totally makes the Sixers a threat in the East, at least during the 20-30 games Brand will manage to stay injury-free next season.

2.  Free museum admission

Just noticed on the Bank of America site a little while back that they offer free admission to various museums during the first weekend of the month.  Their list of museums is fairly small right now (nothing in my local area), but they add new ones regularly.  For instance, if you happen to live in NYC, you can get in free to:

• The Metropolitan Museum of Art
• The Jewish Museum
• New York Hall of Science
• International Center of Photography
• Bronx Zoo
• The New York Aquarium

All you have to do is show up on the first weekend of the month and flash your BoA card (check, ATM, or credit).

3.  Another book list

This one came across my RSS reader from Literary Rejections on Display last month, but I’m just getting around to sharing it because it reminds me of how I’ve dropped the ball on posting the rest of The Amazing Justin-o-Tron Book List 3000.  But since I need a third thing for this post…

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2138827/To-Kill-a-Mockingbird-voted-Greatest-Novel-Of-All-Time.html

Couple things to note…  First, their list is “The Greatest Novels of All Time” whereas mine is limited to 20th Century English fiction.  As such, they get to add Hosseini and Tolstoy to their chart.  I get hosed on that one.

Second, their list, like one of the three I used as a source for my own, makes the mistake of assuming that you can trust teh interwebs.  The Da Vinci Code is the 5th greatest novel of all time?  Really?  And One Hundred Years of Solitude doesn’t even make the list?  Yeah.

Still, though, it’s worth checking out.

And while we’re on the topic of lists, here’s another chunk from mine.  And since we’re talking about the shitty books that somehow make the cut, I think I’ll throw out the ones at the bottom of my list.  Enjoy.

Seriously, the whole thing will be posted by the end of the month.  For realsies.

So, I’m home. I’m not entirely deTexasified yet, thought, so we all get to put up with one last post of random thoughts inspired during a week in the Lone Star State. Sorry.

I feel bad for people living in the Central Time Zone. I mean, it’s bad enough that you don’t get the pleasure of living anywhere near one of the coasts, but you also have to deal with the fact that the networks don’t consider you important enough to change the TV broadcasts for you.
See, when I see a commercial for the next episode of Battlestar Galactica, I know that “ten o’clock” really is the starting time. Those poor bastards have to do math and shit, otherwise they end up watching some lame ass Sci Fi original movie when they really just want to know where the Hell Roslin, Baltar, and that Basestar ended up.

Of course, there’s a plus side: they don’t have to stay up as late to see new episodes of Cathouse 3 and Taxi Cab Confessions.

The choices were somewhat limited. Sounded pretty much like this as you scanned across the spectrum:

• Country
• Country
• Jesus
• Jesus
• Old Country
• Jesus
• Pop Country
• Jesus
• Jesus
• 80s Rock
• Jesus
• Country
• Jesus
• New Country

And God fucking help you if missed the 80s Rock station on your way through. JBJ might have given love a bad name, but he saved my sanity.

I ran to the local Wal-Mart during my trip to pick up a couple of the essentials I’d left behind… some soap, a comb, and a six-pack of Negra Modelo (closest thing to Real Beer you can find in an east Texan Wal-Mart).

Now imagine how I felt when, after peeling off the foil on that first bottle, I realized I didn’t have an opener.

And that the front desk didn’t have one.

And that I’d have to put my pants back on and go to Wal-Mart… again… if I wanted to purchase one.

I tried the hit-the-bottle-with-the-cap-against-the-counter trick, but failed miserably (still hoping I don’t get charged for that chunk that’s missing now…).

I tried the rolled-dollar-bill trick. Not only did I fail to get to the bottled frothy goodness, but I shredded the cash in the effort.

I beat the bottle against every hard object in the room. Nothing.

Then it hit me. I used to be a pro at using a Bic to open beer bottles, but since I quit smoking years ago I don’t carry a cigarette lighter these days. Surely, though, I must have packed something that could fit the bill.

I looked up and there it was, glowing like the fucking Holy Grail in the shabby Best Western potty: my razor. I popped off the blade, turned the bastard around, and jammed the end of the handle under the corrugated cap. A little pressure and some lever-action later and voila! God bless you, Gillette!

And eat it, Bear Grylls. You might know which parts of a rotten camel make the most comfortable bedding, but will that little skill get you drunk, alone in a Texas hotel? I think not.

————-

Couple days ago, Anikka started yelling “Barnacles!” whenever something annoyed her.  So either she was a marine biologist in a former life or she’s watching a wee bit too much Spongebob lately.  And since there’s absolutely no fucking way a person could possibly watch too much Spongebob, I’m going with Option A.

See how that works?  Bringing the logic and deductive reasoning up in this bitch, yo.

One can never watch too much Spongebob.  Best cartoon ever.  Bonus points from Tom Kenny’s Mr. Show connection.

————-

They booked my flight to Texas late in the process, so my original seating assignment was about as shitty as they come:  middle seat, with my back against the toilets/heads/crappers.  After obsessively checking the Continental website every three seconds for the past week, I finally managed to sneak into a vacated window seat far away from potential disaster.

————-

Now that every team I like is out of the running in the NBA Playoffs, and Silja and I have boycotted all political coverage until the the Dems settle on a nominee, sports talk radio and NPR just aren’t cutting it any more.  And while flipping around, looking for songs that don’t make me want to veer off the nearest bridge (and, being Portland, there are plenty of opportunities), I constantly find myself stopping on K-HiTS 106.7 for a heapin’ helpin’ of Portland’s Super Hits of the 60s and 70s.

It’s like driving around in a Quentin Tarantino movie, but without the edgy dialog.

And with less blood shed.

Usually.

I still can’t hear that Stealers Wheel song without reaching for my razor and gas can.

————-

JUMP!!!!

You end last week’s BSG with THAT and then make me wait two weeks for the next episode?  You bastards!

‘Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is for pussies,’ I’d think to myself. “Real men get shell shock.’

Or ‘Developmentally disabled, my ass. Dubya will always be a retard to me!’

Now, though, I’ve changed my mind.

See, if I still thought all euphemisms were tools of the Devil, I wouldn’t be able to talk about my daughter’s surgery tomorrow as ’serial excision’ Instead, I’d have to say something like ‘tomorrow, we get to wake our four-year-old daughter up before dawn and drive three hours to the hospital in Seattle. Once there, we’ll pay masked strangers to inject her full of drugs until she loses consciousness, then wait for them to cut out pieces of her face and, eventually, sew her cheek back together. She’ll then get to repeat the process 2-5 more times over the next couple of years.’

I like ’serial excision’ better.

As for Ani, well, she’s excited about the whole thing. She wants to go up there tomorrow, wants to see the doctors, wants to have the nevus removed. Of course, I don’t think she really understands exactly what’s going to happen, or that she’ll have to go through this experience several times before she’s in the clear. How do you explain ’serial excision’ to a four-year-old if she’s never gone through it before?

And we’re pretty sure she wants it removed for her, not for us. For the first few years of her life, we went the try-not-to-make-a-big-deal-about-the-nevus-around-the-girl route, acknowledging that it’s there but not going crazy over it. Frankly, with or without the bloody thing, she’s still the most beautiful little girl in the world.

But she’s not stupid. She hears the comments from other kids and their ass-hat parents, and she can see for herself that her cheek doesn’t look the same as others.

The first time we mentioned the idea of having a doctor remove it, she was excited. And she broke our hearts. Conversation went something like this:

Us: Bunny, pretty soon, we’re going to go see a doctor and he’s going to take that part off your cheek, ok?
Ani (smiling): Hurray! Then I won’t be sad any more!

Fucking Christ on a stick, how fucking ignorant were we? There we were, thinking Ani didn’t even really pay attention to the birthmark and suddenly she tells that not only does she know about it but that it makes her sad? My Princess was sad and I didn’t know it?! I’m a fucking idiot (no euphemism needed here).

One thing about the little Princess, though: girl’s tough as tails. When she has to get shots, she doesn’t even flinch. Just gives the doctor/nurse the Evil Eye afterward. Pretty sure they lose body parts as a result. She’s 1/32 gypsy, you know. Point is that if anybody can handle this mess and come out swinging, it’s Anikka.

We, however, will be a mess.

The surgery itself should be relatively quick, thankfully. We should only be in Seattle for a couple hours total, with Ani starting the recovery from her own bed. Still, though, it’s going to be a very long day.

So there won’t be a post tomorrow, at least not a new one. Will sort of have other things on my mind. I’ll probably recycle something from my old blog and schedule it to automagically arrive in the morning.

While we’re driving to Seattle.

For the operation.

Thing is, when I started this blog, I made a pact with myself that, come Hell, high water, or Katherine Heigl, I was going to post something every day. But bloody fucking Hell…

I’m tired (still). And I can’t remember how old I am. Which probably means I’m too old. Like time-to-put-me-out-to-pasture old.* Or too-old-to-be-expected-to-blog-every-day old.

But I’m a man of my word. I’m not going to let myself down, regardless of how painful it might be (especially for you). Or how tarded I sound. Or if I’d be better off spending the time taking up smoking again than continuing to let this crap flow out of my head.

Is that enough of a post yet? Judges? Fuck.

How about we just settle for a wacky picture of some kind?

I’ll just head on over to Google Images… search for the phrase “wacky picture…”

Oh, and we’re sooooo not disappointed. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you “Wacky Japanese:” (borderline NSFW, 100% wacky)

Oh, Google. I heart you soooo much. Thank you.

*I just looked at my ID. Turns out I’m still thirty-three. Who knew?

Unfortunately, I still have a few last minute preparations I need to take care of today, plus meetings and an appointment to sign all the closing papers. Again… All of which means that I won’t have time to put together the usual character-driven, intricately-detailed masterpieces I normally write.

Or, rather, that I would write. If I cared. Which I don’t. Just so we’re clear.

No, folks, today you just get a potpourri (which, thanks to years of Jeopardy!, I know means ‘random shit we’re using as filler but that isn’t good enough to have a category of its own’) of random thoughts and observations that probably don’t amount to anything.

Or that could very well lead you to the Holy Grail. So pay attention.

1. Beer at kids’ shows
They served beer at the Dan Zanes show last week at the Aladdin, something that caught me a little off guard. I know I said that DZ isn’t like most other kids crap and that parents could actually enjoy his stuff, too, but I didn’t think that included having a pint at the gig. Just kinda threw me off.

Don’t get me wrong, being surrounded by other people’s kids makes me want to drink, too, but this dangerous ground. After all, how many of those kids were conceived by drunk parents to begin with? 95, 96 percent? So now they’re drinking more because they’re surrounded by other kids, which will lead to them making a stupid mistake and having MORE children… Which means more kids around to drive other parents to drink…

It’s a vicious cycle that needs to be stopped.

2. His was the most… human.
If I can’t convince Silja and the kids to snort my ashes with Keith Richards after my impending death, I want to spend eternity in the casket on the bottom of this page. I’d hate for future civilizations to confuse me with someone who wasn’t a big fucking dork when they eventually unearth my body from deep within the tomb my followers will undoubtedly construct for me in the near future. Get to work, minions. I ain’t gettin’ any younger here.

3. One Hundred Years of Kite Running With a Thousand Splendid Lives of Pi
I’m always so damn shocked to find out that ‘good’ books are exactly that. I started reading One Hundred Years of Solitude this week and fell in love with it* after just a couple of pages.

Same thing happened to me with Kite Runner and Life of Pi. I heard all about how wonderful they were from various pretentious assholian sources, so I naturally thought they’d be crap. Then I ended up picking them up and finding out that even pretentious assholes are right sometimes. Rarely.

Side note: Khaled Hosseini is fantastic. I heart him now. His books are the only reason I’ll continue to give new fiction a chance, especially when there are so many older books I haven’t read yet, even if that means potentially missing out on another Lolita**.

4. Hazard Light Lady
When she did it yesterday, I was annoyed but sympathetic. After all, most people don’t drive on the freeway at 5 mph while chatting on their cell phones and with their hazard lights on if they aren’t having a problem.

But when I saw her doing the same thing today, I was pissed.

Quick geography lesson for those of you outside the Portland area. Portland is right on the northern border between Oregon and Washington, a border that, in this area, is marked by the mighty Columbia River.

Vancouver, Washington is just on the other side of the border and, while it’s in a different state, is practically a suburb of the larger metropolitan city. As such, many people live in one place and work in the other (including Our Hero).

Obviously, with a big fucking river separating the two places, the only way to drive from one to the other is by crossing a bridge (there are two that span the Columbia in the vicinity). I’m sure you can imagine the kinds of traffic bottlenecks those two crossings represent during rush hour.

Now imagine some dumb skank who insists on driving her car across said bridge, even though it isn’t equipped for the task. Her car is practically stalled on the freeway every morning, single-handedly cutting the capacity of the bridge by 33% because she’s blocking one of the three available lanes. And she’s apparently doing it every morning.

Right now, the two states are gearing up for a new big river crossing project to relieve this congestion problem. Might eventually lead to the construction of another bridge and the extension of light-rail into Vancouver, but will take decades and cost many millions (if not billions). I have a cheaper, faster plan: shoot this chick and feed her to the homeless.

5. New BSG Tonight
And papa got a brand new DVR from Comcast a few days ago, so guess who won’t have to stay up past his bedtime any more? Here’s hoping something actually happens this time around.

And the Boy’s education will continue this weekend, with Terminator 2 scheduled for Saturday. I’d make him watch it sooner, but he’s had rehearsals for his school’s production of The Sound of Music pretty much every day until 9 or 10ish lately. If you just can’t get enough of that Von Trapp wackiness, the show opens on May 8th.

When I’m in Texas…

*The damn-this-is-a-great-book kind of love, not the I-want-to-make-sweet-sweet-love-to-it-paper-cuts-be-damned kind. Perv.

**The book, not actual nymphettes. Seriously, you have a problem.

And why am I drinking a Diet Coke this morning? Because I don’t have any booze in the office. Like you even need to ask.

Well, that, and the fact that it’s the first pleasant, sunny day we’ve had here in the Rose City in weeks, and while I’m stuck here:

everyone else is out there:

(view from my desk)

(view from our conference room)

Those pictures don’t do it any justice. It’s beautiful outside today. Supposed to reach the high 60s, which, for a cold-blooded Northerner like me, is pretty much perfect.

I love throwing Portland and Portlanders under the bus some times, but there are several things I really love about this city. One of them just happens to be how it looks and feels on sunny days. There’s a certain energy that just radiates from the city when the sun finally comes out. People are friendly, the city is bright, the homeless seem to stink a little less… It’s just very pleasant.

But instead of being outside enjoying it, I’m in the office. On a Saturday. And I have to do real work. (After I finish this, of course. A man’s gotta have priorities.)

And I’m in a foul mood. Battlestar Galactica sucked last night (the Number Six turning into Tigh’s wife over and over is still creeping me out this morning, and the whole Cult of Baltar subplot is annoying the piss out of me). And I had one of those horribly realistic nightmares around 3am, the kind where you wake up and lay there for 20 minutes trying to figure out whether or not the shitty things that happened were just a dream or if you actually should be running into your kid’s room to see if she’s still there.

And I can’t seem to stop starting sentences with “and.”

Very glad, though, that nobody reads blogs on weekends.

Went to the first one and found someone already standing in front of the display, gathering dozens for her own clan. Being passive-aggressive to the core, I had no choice but to stand idly by, fuming, while she stocked her cart with all the best cuts of donut. She proved completely immune to the various biting comments I made under my breath as she filled box after box with sweet, donuty goodness. By the time she finished, there was nothing left but the bony carcass of day-old apple fritters and those plain ass cake things.

Not satisfied with the idea of bringing home the few scraps left behind, I decided to head over to another store to stalk my prey. I mounted my gas-guzzling SUV and headed back across the river.

I saw her as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. She was wearing old, dirty sweats and, every few steps, would turn around to look behind her. Between her unsteady gait, filthy clothing, wonderful complexion, and paranoid twitchiness, I knew right away I was dealing with the invasive Southwest Washington Tweaker.

And, somehow, I also knew we were searching for the same prey.

I parked quickly, jumped out of Ricky, and headed for the automatic doors. I was about 25 feet behind her when she walked into the Safeway. I tried to close the gap, but her meth-enhanced trot gave her a slight edge.

As I feared, she immediately started heading toward the bakery. I tried sneaking around, but a herd of American Fat Asses blocked my stealthy path through the deli.

By the time I doubled back and found the trail, it was too late. There she was, plastic tissue thingie in hand, eyeing the maple bars.

At first, I thought I got lucky. Unlike the competition at the previous feeding place, the Tweaker was only filling a single small bag. There’d be plenty of fresh donut kill left over for me to bring back to the family.

Then I nearly wet myself.

Like I mentioned, she grabbed the little plastic tissue thingie like a good donut hunter, so I assumed she at least had some sort of relationship with Good Manners and Hygienic Donut Selection Practices. Stupid assumption.

When she reached in to grab her maple bar, she didn’t snatch the one in the front. Or the one behind it. Or the one behind that. No, instead, she stretched her arm all the way to the back of the tray to steal the one from the back row. And as she reached, I watch helplessly as her nasty, filthy, stained-with-God-only-knows-what sleeve rubbed up against every poor little maple bar settled between her and her chosen one.

Then she did the same thing with the apple fritters, tainting all but the one of her dreams.

I think the Gods that I was there to watch it. Granted, it/she was nasty, but at least I knew which ones to avoid. Shudder to think that, had I arrived five minutes later, I might have brought my family Tweaker-tainted bismarcks.

Of course, even that wouldn’t have ruined my weekend. I mean, it started with Cally getting sucked out the airlock and ended with Silja and I watching Juno in bed. Pretty kick ass.

I’m tired. Can’t think straight. Every night this week, I’ve put in a few extra hours in the evenings working on real-job crap. But, since no anonymous donor has offered to pay me to maintain this dive and eat nachos all day, don’t really have a choice. Now you all suffer. Circle of life.

Random Thought 1: Texas

I have to fly to Texas again in a couple of weeks for work. These are decidedly Not Fun trips. Unless, of course, your idea of fun is spending a week or two in Diboll, Texas, population 5,470 and proud operators of one traffic signal. They also have a Sonic. There. Now you know everything there is to know about Diboll.

Being Big City Folk, I stay in near by Lufkin (population: 32,709), famous not only for not being Diboll, but also as home to Angelina College, alma mater of The Undertaker. Pretty sure they have a Sonic, too.

So, guess how much fun I’ll have when I’m down there? Yeah. None. Not only is there very little to do, but the people I know down there don’t drink, which means that I’ll be working all day and spending all night alone in the hotel, definitely not watching late night soft-core on HBO (hi, honey!).

Which brings us to…

Random Thought 2: Dry Counties

Last time I was in Texas, I had to spend some time in Jasper. You know, the place made famous a few years back when some local good ol’ boys killed a black man by dragging him along the street from the back of their pickup? Yeah. There.

Oh, it’s also a place that was hit pretty hard by Katrina a few years back, and where FEMA still has some people living in those wonderful trailers.

Worst thing about it, though? Jasper is a… God, I can’t type the words. It’s too horrible.

Jasper is a… dry county.

I… I still have a hard time with this concept. I mean, I’m from the Northwest. We drink beer. Lots of beer. And we make beer. Which we also drink.

My momma tried to tell me that dry counties don’t really exist. But they do.

Can you think of two other words that don’t belong together more than “dry” and “county?” The only two words that can defeat this awful foe? “Happy” and “hour.”

Random Thought 3: Dan Zanes

One last total change of pace thought. Next Friday, we’re taking Anikka to see Dan Zanes and Friends over at the Aladdin Theater. And, if last year’s show was any indication, it should be a hoot.

If you don’t know Dan Zanes, especially if you have youngish children, you’re absolutely missing out. Pop on over to his website and take a look around. Go on. I’ll wait.

DZ doesn’t make that Barney-type music that makes you want to shoot yourself in the face. None of that repetitive “kids” stuff, sung by kids, etc. Instead, he goes in a radical direction and (gasp) assumes your kid isn’t retarded. And that maybe, as a parent, you might want to actually have a snowball’s chance in Texas of enjoying the same music as your spawn.

Silja calls Zanes “Bob Dylan for Kids,” and I can’t think of a better description. Very folksy. Hell, a lot of the tracks are updated versions of Woody Guthrie tunes, or early traditional folk songs from various cultures (their new CD is all en español). And his original stuff maintains that same spirit. They’re songs you can sing along to, that encourage you to get up and dance around and around and around and around.

Oh, and the other folks in the band? Nicest people ever.

Last year, they played two shows here in PDX, and we had tickets to the early one. After the show finished, they had about an hour before the next one started. Oh, and they’d just come into town after playing a show in Seattle the previous day. They were tired, and hungry, with food waiting for them upstairs.

They could (should) have all ran off and taken care of themselves, but no. No, they all stuck around after the show, signing autographs for the kids, taking pictures, etc. And every last one of them was friendly and approachable. They all made the kids (and parents) feel like they were part of the party.

Quick little story… When they announced the tour dates last year, they didn’t initially schedule anything for Portland. We were willing to make the drive up to Seattle, though, so we bought tickets for that gig instead.

Several of the musicians touring with DZ had MySpace (yes, I agree, it’s the Devil) pages, and Silja made a comment on one of them that only said something like “Love your stuff, looking forward to seeing you in Seattle!” That was like 4-5 months before the show.

Couple of weeks later, they announced the Portland dates. We sold our Seattle tickets on craigslist and bought four for the PDX show.

After the show was over, we stuck around to wait for autographs and tell them all how fantastic they were (seriously, I’ve been to my share of adult concerts and this was one of the funnest shows I’ve ever seen). When we got to John Foti, he looked up, saw Anikka, and his eyes instantly lit up with recognition. “Hey! It’s my MySpace friend!” He then grabbed Charlie Faye and pulled her over.

Not only did they both remember Anikka, but they expected to see her after the Seattle show and noticed that she wasn’t there. They actually seemed concerned about missing her. Think Barney would give a kid that kind of attention?

Bottom line. If you have kids, buy them lots of DZ stuff. Get tickets for the shows. If you have friends with kids, buy them DZ stuff. Great for baby showers, etc. If you don’t, it’s totally your fault if they start listening to that other wheels-on-the-bus-go-round-and-round crap.

Or do drugs.

Or become prostitutes.

Or vote Republican.

Totally your fault.

Random Thought 4: Battlestar Galactica tonight

Like you’d forget. I think tonight they’ll finally reveal that the 12th Cylon killed Laura Palmer. Here’s hoping my old ass can stay up that late.

So, here you go. Another rambling post that goes nowhere.

First, I’m really starting to hate my commute again. And thanks to the magic of Google Talk and my BlackBerry, I can share this morning’s events with you by lazily copy-and-pasting a transcript instead of actually putting any thought or creativity into the presentation.

7:09 AM me: God, I fucking hate the people on the fucking max.

Herbert P. Wanglefonker: he he… what today?

7:11 AM me: Some fucking gray haired man, a little wider than I am, practically sitting on my lap. Open seats everywhere next to people smaller than me, and he’s all up in my bubble. Not even edging out into the aisle or anything like a normal person would.

And he smells.

7:12 AM And I wish him AIDS.

Herbert P. Wanglefonker: he he

I pretty much never sit. Avoids a lot of that.

me: Probably already has it. Does AIDS make people smell? I didn’t think so, but I’ll have to look it up.

7:13 AM I like to try to read, so standing fucks that all up. Plus I’m tired from the three-soon-to-be-four late work nights.

7:14 AM Dude’s lucky I don’t have anything to make a shiv out of…

Note: “Herbert P. Wanglefonker” is a pseudonym. I thought Aaron H., er, A. Hockley… um… my acquaintance might not want to want to be associated publicly with me or my blog, so I offered to change his name to protect his identity. Mission accomplished!

So while I was sitting there, pulling a Riggs and dislocating my shoulders so I could fit into my new, smaller seat while not reading my book, I had the pleasure of watching the lady in front of me enjoying hers.

A lot.

Like an unhealthy enjoyment, at least for a public place.

Like every few minutes, I’d see her pump her fist with excitement, or bounce up and down, all giddy about something that happened in her book. I thought maybe she had Tourette’s at first, then I happened to catch a glimpse of the title of the tome she clutched with quivering excitement.

Which brings us to the until-now-undiscovered sixth recipient of the coveted People Who Make Me Want to Puke on Kittens honor: Middle-Aged Women Who Looooooooooooooooove Harry Potter.

Sweet zombie Jesus, people. Women with graying hair should absolutely not ever be so excited about the goings on at Hogwarts that they’re pumping their fists and shaking their booties on the train. Especially if said fist-pumping, booty-shaking action scares big old men away from the empty seats next to them and into my personal bubble.

Act your age, people. Put down the Harry Potter, buy yourself some Tom Jones, and get your freak on. At home. Away from me.

Tomorrow, I swear, it’s all about Carlos and the Chocolate Salami.