The Philadelphia Hipster

Philadelphia hipsters are everywhere. They are a plague upon my fair city. Their sustenance consists solely of PBR from Bob and Barbara's and irony. They spend hundreds of dollars on their frayed and worn messenger bag. The obligatory messenger bag complements their retro track bike, which gets them around NoLibs or SoSo (not Midtown though. Hipsters hate Midtown). They spend hours picking out an outfit that reflects just how much they don't care what they look like, while at the same time demonstrating their disenfranchisement with main stream culture. They don skinny jeans and skinny tees and get their hair cut from their friend Kristy who used to go to cosmetology school but had to drop out because the teachers and their rules were destroying her creativity. "It was soooo beat, man. I'm not a robot. I've got to experiment. It's my passion." They say things like, "What, you don't spin your own vinyl?" They believe that they are the only people on earth who truly understand and appreciate indie rock. Their favorite band at any given moment is a group of whiny guys in skinny jeans who they describe as "totally intense." Should you or I happen to know and/or like their favorite band, then that band is immediately dismissed as "so yesterday" and/or "sell outs."

Hipsters have great disdain for non-hipsters. This pisses me off. Listen mother fuckers - I've been wearing Chuck Taylor's since I was in second grade. I remember when they weren't cool and you could buy them for $20.00 a pair. Now I'm paying $50.00 for a pair of low-tops because you assholes decided that they are rad. That's the true difference between a hipster and a non-hipster. Non-hipster's do things because they like or want to do them. Hipsters do things because after conferring with their other hipster friends, a general consensus has been reached that it would be "deck."

And while we're at it, some of us can't live our lives looking like we just rolled out of bed in the morning. Some of us have jobs that don't entail being a barista at Starbucks. Some of us have to wear collared shirts and pants that need to be ironed. That doesn't make me a sell out. You, hipsters, are the ultimate sell outs. Your clothes and your hair and your beard and your stretched ear lobes do not make up for a total lack of personality or individuality. Contrary to popular hipster belief, really cool leggings do not compensate for the fact that you have no sense of humor.

The World's Gone Crazy

Newly Discovered Rodent or Baby R.O.U.S?
According to an AP article, "Researchers in a remote jungle in Indonesia have discovered a giant rat and a tiny possum that are apparently new to science, underscoring the stunning biodiversity of the Southeast Asian nation."

How is this news? Apparently scientist are totally unfamiliar with the book and film, "The Princess Bride." Everyone knows that the three dangers of the Fire Swamp are: 1) Flame Spurts; 2) Lightening Sand, and; 3) R.O.U.S.', otherwise known as Rodents of Unusual Size.

Above, you have the allegedly "new creature" which I think is best described as a baby R.O.U.S. Below, you have a fully grown R.O.U.S. which can be dispatched with swords, guns, or by holding the screaming creature over a flame spurt.

Jamie Lynn Spears is Pregnant

Jamie Lynn Spears, Britney's 16-year-old sister, is preggers. All along I thought it was KFed's boys that were freakishly strong swimmers, but now that JLS has a bun in the oven, I, if a guy, would refuse to share even a hot tub with these chicks out of fear of having to pay child support for the next eighteen years. Wouldn't this be awesome if this whole thing was a stunt to take some heat off of Britney and her mothering woes? This whole time I've been calling Britney the worst mother ever, but now I'm having second thoughts. Maybe JL's and Britney mom, Lynn, is truly the worst mother ever. How many more kids does Lynn have whose lives she hasn't destroyed? Isn't there a Spears brother running around out there somewhere? I'm suprised he hasn't managed to shoot up a day care center or a mall by now.

Embarassing iPod Material

I researched and wrote 32 pages of motions and accompanying memoranda of law today, so I'm going to be lazy and post one of the few interesting surveys floating out on the interweb. I totally stole this from Lora, which may or may not be payback for her theft of homage to my hobo camp post.

Doing this "survey" I realized that I have some pretty fucking embarrassing music on my iPod. What's the most embarrassing thing on your MP3 player machine?

If your life was a movie, what would the soundtrack be?

Step 1: Open your music library.
Step 2: Put it on shuffle.
Step 3: Press play.
Step 4: For every question, type the song that's playing.
Step 5: When you go to a new question, press the next button.

Opening Credits: "What I'm Fighting For" - Matisyahu
Waking Up: "Wicked Game" - Chris Isaak
First Day of School: "Admit It" - Say Anything
Falling in Love: "Let's Dance" - David Bowie
Fight Song: "Kiss" - Prince (Is he saying sign or size?)
Breaking Up: "Oh Timbaland" - Timbaland (slightly embarrassed I own this album)
Prom: "G-Thang" - Snoop Doggy Dog and Dr. Dre ('Twas a pimps and hoes theme)
Life: "Gonna Make You Sweat" - UB40 (totally embarrassed this song is on my iPod)
Mental Breakdown: "The Pioneers" - Bloc Party
Driving: "March Into the Sea" - Modest Mouse
Flashback: "Bust a Move" - Young MC
Getting Back Together: "Thank You Very Much" - The Kaiser Chiefs
Wedding: "Don't Stop Believing" - Journey
Birth of Child: "No Brakes" - The Bravery
Final Battle: "Neon Bible" - Arcade Fire
Death: "Think Twice Before You Go" - John Lee Hooker

And in case anyone is wondering, I'm currently obsessed with the following music items:

• The Bravery and their self-titled album
• B101 for playing non-stop Christmas music since the day after Thanksgiving
• Bloc Party - A Weekend in the City.
• Kaiser Chiefs for providing my dog with his own theme song
• The ringtone for my phone, "Last Christmas" by Wham, and how fucking excited people get when someone calls me
• Jessica Simpson's vagina for sucking the talent out of Tony Romo (keep up the great work!)

Denial is a Sportcoat, not a Blazer

Holiday office parties tend to unleash all of the pent up energy and frustration that work has built up over the last 12 months. Add the stress of the holidays, and being forced to make nice with work people after hours and throw in open bar and you have a recipe for disaster. I'm not even talking about my own office party which saw enough inappropriate, debaucherous and borderline illegal behavior to make me think twice about downing the next Makers Mark and Coke. (No Jack! I know, right?!) You see, yesterday, I got to do what very few have ever done before. I observed an office party while stone cold sober.

Now that it is cold as fuck and I've stopped running every day after work, my usual routine is to go to my local watering hole on the way home from work. Some nights it means a couple of beers and then heading home. Some nights (read: last Thursday) it goes from a couple of beers to buying 40s and staying up to beat Super Mario Galaxy on Wii.

Monday, I left work around 5:30 and headed to my de facto favorite watering hole. This bar and I have a very dysfunctional relationship. It's very love hate. It's like the cycle of abuse in a domestic relationship. Everything seems to be great and then *boom* I go for happy hour and it takes me 20 minutes to get a beer. I threaten to leave forever and they make it up to me and then all is well for awhile until they cancel Guitar Hero night to put on a division III football game. You get the picture. Despite its shortfalls, I love this bar because they have an awesome drink special and the bartenders know my drink, my name and what it means when I point at someone and tap my upper left arm.

As I arrived at the bar yesterday evening, it was absolutely packed with a group of late 20 / early 30 somethings. I elbow my way through girls in dresses and dudes in suits and plop myself down in an empty bar stool. One of the new bartenders, who is quickly becoming a favorite, comes over to confirm that I want a lager. "Dude," I say. "What the fuck is going on?" He shakes his head, "Office party. They've already run up a $2k bar tab. Open bar until 6." "Well," I reply. "You know what that means, right?" He laughs, "It means your drinks are on the house till six." And this is why I keep coming back to this bar despite the repeated abuse. (Not the face though, they know better).

So I begin to drink and observe the office party that is supplying me with my beer until six. After only a few minutes of observation, it is obvious that they've been here a while. For example:

1. One girl is walking around in bare feet. Which would be awesome. Except that we aren't on the beach in fucking Punta Cana. We are in a bar in Philadelphia in December.

2. The bartenders ran out of shot glasses.

3. A spontaneous dance circle formed when Akon's "Smack That" began to play.

4. "It's Not Over" by Chris Dautry caused one dude to start hugging and swaying while singing along at the top of his lungs.

5. Ties were being worn as head bands.

At this point, my friend and I are chatting with another lady bartender we know from a different bar. A guy in his early 30s wanders over from the office party. He looks Irish, medium build with dark hair. He's staring creepily at us and as he walks by he "brushes" up against our bartender friend. The brush wasn't an incidental brush, but more of a "I'm gonna brush by you and smell your hair and then go masturbate in the bathroom." The brush can be done subtly and often goes unnoticed in the cramped quarters of a bar. Except that we weren't in cramped quarters. So the first time he walks by and does "the brush" we laughed it off as "Dude, that guy is fucking wasted." However, after three more brushes and one full-on butt grab, I went to go get the manager. So the manager talks to the guy and sends him back to the office party on the other side of the bar. The manager apologizes and promises to keep his eye on the Creeper. Five minutes later, Creeper is back on our side of the bar touching some lady playing Megatouch.

There are few things in life that I hold as sacred as a game of Erotic Photo Hunt on Megatouch. Nobody should be distracted and/or interrupted while playing EPH. That's fucking bullshit. The Creeper cost this lady at least one magnifying glass. Total crap. The manager sees this whole thing play out and literally chases Creeper back to the other side of the bar. Sure enough, a couple minutes later, he is leaning into my friend. Now the manager literally drags him out of the bar and tells him not to come back inside.

A group of the girls from the office party start to follow him outside to find out why Johnny Grabass isn't allowed back in the bar. One of the women comes over to me and asks, "Do you know why they kicked that guy out?" I tell her, "Yeah. Because he's a total Creeper that's been groping my friend for the last hour." "That can't be!" she responds. "That's my husband. What was the guy who was groping your friend wearing?" I would have been happy to draw a sketch of the Creeper had I had some charcoals or colored pencils or say, talent. Nonetheless, I described him as follows: "He is about 5'9", dark brown hair, looks to be of Irish heritage. He was wearing khaki pants, drinking what looked like a Hoegarden, had a black mock turtleneck on and a light colored blazer." Her response?

"Well that couldn't be my husband! He's wearing a sportcoat, not a blazer." Yeah. I'm sure there's a doppelganger of your husband running around in a blazer instead of a sport coat groping strangers. My bad. Please send my apologies to your innocent, husband who isn't the guy acting like he's tripping on E for the first time. Boy is my face red.

Denial must be awesome.

I Love My Sister but....

Today I received a phone call from my 19 year-old sister who is currently a college sophomore in the middle of finals. She is preparing for one final which will consist of two essays. However, the professor was kind enough to provide the class with four essays ahead of time, two of which would be used on the final. Per her mathmatical calculations she figures she needs to prepare at least 3 essays in order to avoid any surprises.

During this preparation she comes across what she believes is an ambiguity in one of the questions, so she calls me for clarification. This is essentially a recap of that conversation:

Her: So the essay wants me to discuss the trend in Christianity that happened between 1000-1600 where a lot of people were getting messages from God to do stuff.
Me: Like Joan of Arc, right?
Her: Yeah.
Me: What's the problem? What part of that don't you understand?
Her: Well, I don't know if he means 1000-1600 A.D. or B.C.
Me: Ummm....seriously?
Her: Yeah. How do I know which years he wants me to discuss?
Me: Well, he wants you to talk about this trend in Christianity, right?
Her: Yeah.
Me: Well, do you know what B.C. stands for?
Her: Yeah. Before Christ.
Me: Think about it. Christianity didn't start until Christ, right?
Her: Yeah. So....?
Me: So if Christianity didn't exist until after Christ, then it would be impossible for you to write an essay on Christianity during 1000 BC.
Her: [Silence.] Are you sure?
Me: Trust me on this one.

G'day Gov'nah

Saturday afternoon I took the dogs over to the Locust run dog park down by the river. The park was fairly busy and as I herded my two dogs into the run, I heard a woman comment, "Oh Ed, look at the two labs coming in. Ginger is going to be excited!" So after I let the dogs loose my puppy immediately gravitates towards a young Golden. It's at this point that I realize that the owners of the golden are the governor and his wife. I introduce myself to the gov'nah and we chatted briefly about the dogs and the fact that we belong to the same golf club. After a few minutes of pleasentries, he asks me the names of my dogs. I tell him their names and ages. He turns to me and says something along the line of "Looks like [your dog] and Ginger are getting along." That's when I turn around to find my dog has mounted the governor's dog and is humping away at a furious and frenetic pace.

Awesome.

It's That Time of Year Again

Dear Homeless People of Philadelphia,

No. I don't have any change. Really. Do you have an ATM under that urine stained blanket? No? Well then looks like you are shit out of luck.

Is it me or have the number of homeless people in Center City sky rocketed since it got cold? I'm assuming that the number didn't necessarily rise, but rather they left their hangout at the park in front of the library on the Parkway. The city has been pushing the development of the Parkway for a while. It's a beautiful area that was designed as the Philadelphia version of the Champs Elysees, but one that doesn't seem to live up to its full potential. One of the reasons cited by city planners is the fact that it isn't very friendly to pedestrians who have to dodge crazy traffic patterns to walk from the Museum of Natural Sciences to the Art Museum. Know what else isn't friendly to pedestrians? Having to cut through a hobo camp. Because put a bunch of benches in a grove of trees near a giant fountain and *poof*. Hobo camp.

So now that the weather has chilled considerably, the homeless people that left the sidewalks for cooler ground have now returned to the warmth of the street grates and the protection offered by the city's nooks and crannies. Here is a run down on the usual players that I encounter during a typical week.


#1. Tall Lanky Guy on Crutches

You're good. You're really good. You are well dressed, so it's hard to tell if you are grifting me or really need my help. The first time you stopped me, we were outside Liberty Place and you asked me if I had any money because you needed to buy a soda because you were diabetic and your blood sugar was low and you had to raise it. I had reservations about your story, but you were so earnest that I figured it would be better to just give you the dollar than risk you slipping into a diabetic coma because I was a frigid bitch and wouldn't throw you a buck. Unfortunately (at the time) I had no cash on me.

A couple of weeks later, you were still gimping along on your crutches. This time you advised me that you were late for your doctor's appointment but that you had somehow dropped your SEPTA pass and needed change or a token.

The third time I saw you, you needed money to buy your medicine at Rite Aid. I must be out of the loop, because I hadn't realized that Rite Aid carries crack now.


#2. Dirty Guy that Sits On a Wawa Milk Crate Outside McDonald's

You've got some good things going for you and some room for improvement.

• You look like you need the money. (Cf. #4). However, you are so dirty that I wouldn't get close enough to drop spare change in your cup. Rule of thumb, I shouldn't smell you before I see you.
  
• You've got a good location. You are perched outside of the McDonald's on Walnut. This is a good spot because it catches a lot of people going into the McDonald's who wouldn't mind just buying you a burger rather than giving you money. And as you've shared with me on many occasions, you love Big Macs. On the other hand, people who go to McDonald's because of its diverse dollar menu offerings probably don't have too much change to spare.
  
• Sometimes you forget to put your penis back in your pants. And I throw up in my mouth a little bit and that makes me not want to give you money or buy you a Big Mac. [Editor's Note: I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt on this one and calling it "forgetfulness".
  

#3. One Legged Guy that Used to Beg Across from City Hall but Just Moved to Walnut

You've got one leg (technically one and a half) and have demonstrated that you are far more nimble and graceful than I will ever be. However, I'm on to you. I've learned a couple of things through my large network of people I know that know stuff.

• You are from South Philly and take the Broad Street Line to "work" everyday.
• You aren't really homeless. You live with your mom.
• You have a prosthetic leg. You take it off when you are at "work."

Also, while I appreciate the persistence, "no means no." For instance, take the young couple who were waiting for the light to change at the corner of 17th and Walnut. You asked if they had any change. They politely responded that they did not. You replied. "Awww. Come on...." They ignored you. You started hitting on the girl. "You're really good looking. You know that? You're hot." Is that your standard Plan B? If so, I'm going to start adjusting my route so that I can get a daily cat call from the one-legged homeless guy. Someone thinks I'm sexy!

#4. Lady in a Blazer with a Purse on 16th and Walnut

Rule #1 of begging for money: Never be dressed nicer than the people from whom you are trying to get money. Really though, you had a blazer on. And it looked freshly pressed. I don't even own a blazer. Or an iron. Also, you probably shouldn't be reading the paper....unless its the Daily News. Definitely not the Inquirer or the Times. Because when I see a lady dressed in a blazer, with a matching purse, reading a story on Chavez' recent political defeat and she asks me for a dollar, I start trying to remember what bet I lost. Because that would be the only reason I would give you a dollar. Like we made a bet to see if we could turn a young street thug into a Wall Street power player. But then I think about it for a minute and realize that we did not make a bet regarding Nature vs. Nurture. And then I return my wallet into my back pocket and wag my finger at you and say, "Oooooh. You almost got me! Almost!" And then I shake my head in anger and walk away.

The Greatest Temper Tantrum Ever Thrown

Earlier this week, I stopped by the mall on my way back from a meeting with a client. It was late morning and the mall was fairly empty. In fact, the majority of people present were stay-at-home-moms and their kids there to get a picture with Santa. I'm walking towards the food court to grab a bite to eat when I hear what is best described as a banshee like wail eminating from a five-year old girl. The child is throwing an absolute shit-fit. She's dressed to the nines in her Christmas dress, as is her younger sister who is being pushed in a stroller by their mom. It's obvious they just took their Christmas picture. I don't know what Santa told this kid, but judging by the total fucking nuclear melt down, I'd wager that somebody didn't make the "nice" list this year.

The mom is either totally oblivous to the tantrum or simply doing her best to ignore it. As they approach me, a middle-aged man wearing an extremely large hearing aid starts to walk by them. As he nears the wailing toddler, he stops suddenly in his tracks. He places his hands over his ears, he lets out a very long, very loud guttural noise. "Uuuuurrrrrhhhhhhhhh," he groans, shaking his head in discomfort and pointing at the wailing child.

Way to go kid. Way to make a deaf guy's ears hurt. I'm suprised he didn't take off his hearing aid and stomp on it in an attempt to silence your screams.

Gobble Gobble, Y'all

This year was a break from my typical Thanksgiving routine. My typical Thanksgiving is as follows:

1000 hours - Arrive at my parents home in order to prepare for the 2.5 hour car-ride to my dad's family's home. As usual, the mother is running late. The kitchen counter is covered with dishes wrapped in aluminum foil. The ridiculous amount of food is evidence that my mom thinks she is the only one that knows how to make mashed potatoes, carrots or stuffing. My 19 year-old sister is upstairs packing for the overnight. She is charging her laptop, iPod and cell phone - all critical buffers between her and conversation with my family. I load the car.

1015 hours - My mom has found more shit which apparently must make the trek with us to the in-laws house. My dad is starting to get thoroughly annoyed. I go sit in the car.

1025 hours - My dad is dragging everyone out of the house into the car. My sister is screaming at my mom because my mom told her she doesn't need to bring 3 purses to Thanksgiving dinner. Everyone piles into the car. Finally, we are on the road.

1026 hours - It dawns on me that I got my dad satellite radio for Christmas last year. I then realize that Sirius features a Broadway channel. My dad begins to belt out the theme song to Oklahoma. I offer my sister $20 if she lets me listen to her iPod. She declines.

1100 hours - "Getting to Know You" from the King and I is playing. My dad knows every word, every note. He even does the part where the group of little Asian kids giggle. I pray for traffic on the Schukyll that will slow the car down enough so that I may throw myself from the moving vehicle. Tuck and roll. Tuck and roll.

1145 hours - We have finally reached the Northeastern Extension of the PA Turnpike, a state of the art two-lane highway featuring "Falling Rock" signs and billboards touting the numerous ski resorts in the Poconos. Skiing in the Poconos is as enjoyable as doing laps in a kiddie pool or sky diving off of your dining room table. I've got a bigger rush falling down my ice covered front steps. Cheaper too.

1245 hours - We arrive at my aunts house. I unload the car, say my greetings and head for the TV room. My five male cousins are gathered around the TV watching football. They make fag jokes about each other, wrestle, fart and make their bar hopping plans for later that night. I try to blend into the couch as best as possible, covering myself with every available throw pillow. I watch the Detroit Lions get their asses-kicked by Fill-In-Whatever-Team-Is-Playing-Detroit-That-Year. I can hear my sister fighting with my mom. My mom is on her second vodka-gimlet. My sister is on her 59th text message to her boyfriend. My dad is on his first cigar. I decide to feign sleep.

1600 hours - Dinner is served. Someone says a prayer that usually involves a thinly veiled reference to my Grandmother's poor health condition. Everyone digs in, the sound of eating broken only by the finicky kids at the kids table who are bitching about their cranberry sauce touching their turkey. I volunteer to remedy the situation, but am forced to remain at the grown-up table where I am peppered with the obligatory questions about my job.

- What kind of law do you practice?

- Do you like it?

- Oh, that's nice.

The only thing I hate more than being a practicing attorney is being asked what kind of law do I practice. The answer, "Nothing cool or exciting or anything about which you would be interested in hearing." I wish people would stop expecting an awesome answer. I don't defend and/or prosecute serial killers. I haven't uncovered any sort of crazy pattern in 3d Circuit rulings that is evidence of an evil plot. I haven't found or decoded secret messages in any Scalia dissents. I practice civil litigation. Mostly defense. I deal with douche bag Plaintiff's attorneys day in and day out. Their clients are liars. They are frauds. And in the end, I have to give some idiot millions of dollars because he decided that he should hoist his truck in the air with chains and then climb underneath. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

In short, my life is not a Law and Order episode. I don't get called into judge's chambers for arguments. And for the record, this is not how legal arguments go down:

Defense: Your honor, this evidence should be excluded under the case of Jimmy John v. Sally Mae.

Judge: I agree.

Prosecution: Your honor, with all due respect, Marbury versus Madison clearly states that this evidence is admissible.

Judge: Interesting. Defense counsel, how do you respond?

Defense: Mapp v. Ohio.

Prosecution: Yes, but you'r forgetting Terry v. Ohio.

Judge: I'm not looking to get overturned on appeal here. The evidence is in/out.

Being a lawyer doesn't involve being able to throw out a lot of random case names to whomever will listen. That's called being a law student. The actual practice of the law is totally different. What usually happens is that I spend days crafting a brilliantly written and researched summary judgment motion. I submit it to Plaintiff's counsel and the judge. Then, Plaintiff's counsel will shit on a piece of paper, title it "Plaintiff's Response to Defendant's Motion for Summary Judgment". He will then send this incomprehensible piece of garbage to me and the judge. I will then craft a brilliant "Reply" eviscerating every point raised in the purported "Response." Then, if I'm in state court (which I usually am), the judge will use my motion for summary judgment as a coaster for her coffee mug for a couple of weeks, and after reading it glancing at my Motion, will take her rubber stamp marked "DENIED", BAM, and mumble something about a material issue of fact, forcing a no-money case that never should be sent to a jury to settle in order to avoid the costs of prepping and going to trial. And that is how law is really practiced. Seriously though, ask me what kind of law I practice. Please. I dare you.

1700 Hours - Dinner is Over

YAWN! Wooooooo. Must be that Tryptophan or something because I am fucking exhausted. Looks like its off to bed for me!

So that's a typical Thanksgiving. Not this year though. This year, I left my family up North and went down to our beach house in South Carolina with some friends for the entire week. Here was this year's Thanksgiving.

Day 1 - Sleep in. Wake up. Walk dogs on beach. Come home. Eat. Nap. Wake up. Go fishing. Come home. Eat. Do crossword puzzle. Nap in the sun. Wake up. Shower. Cook dinner. Drink beer. Eat. Sleep.

Day 2 - Repeat Day 1.

Day 3 - Repeat Day 2. Play round of golf. Teach friends' two-year-old son to say "FUPA".

Day 4 - Thanksgiving. Repeat Day 3. Instead of seafood, eat Thanksgiving food.

Day 5 - Repeat Day 2.

Day 6 - Repeat Day 1. Drive into quaint seaside town. Window-shop. Make fun of Southerners. Mullet hunt.

Day 7 - Go home. : (

So guess which tradition I'm going to be participating in from now on?

Me: 1, Nature: 0

So I "bagged" my first deer last night. And by "bagged" I mean "hit with my car". Even that isn't entirely accurate, as it was more like my car got hit by the deer.

It's approximately 2:30 a.m. and I am in the middle of nowhere, South Carolina. Which means that I've been driving for approximately 12 hours, without incident. I'm only 15 minutes away from my destination on a lonely stretch of desolate highway. In fact, I haven't passed a car for the last 40 miles. As I approach a construction zone, I take my foot of the gas in order to adjust for the drop in speed limit. That's when out of the corner of my eye, I see this giant fucking deer sprinting headfirst into the side of my car.

Clunk.

Let me just say that the whole "deer in headlights" analogy is slightly inaccurate. When I saw this deer, it didn't freeze. It didn't look scared or bewildered. Nope. It looked pretty fucking sure that it could beat me across the highway. Confident almost. I've got proof of his hubris all over the passenger side of my door.

I kid.

The deer was okay. After impact, I pulled over immediately in order to check the damage and to exchange insurance information. And you know what? That son-of-a-bitch had already fled the scene. If I ever accidently hit someone's car, I'd at least have the courtesy to leave a note. [Editor's note: Probably]. I bet the deer was drunk.

So the deer ran away and my car is fucked up. Front panel, passenger and rear door all dented. I drive a pretty big car, so judging by the damage, I'd have to say this deer was at least seven feet long.

Anyway, so I call my dad to tell him 1) I'm at my final destination and 2) I got hit by a deer. His response, "Thank god you are okay. That could have been a lot worse." The next day, I talk to my grandmother and her response, "Thank god you are okay. That could have been a lot worse." Then I talk to my mom. Her response, "At least it wasn't a person." Yes. Thank god a crazed hobo didn't charge head first into my vehicle as I careened down the highway. That would have done quite a number on my insurance rates.

So now the passenger side of my car is horribly disfigured while the rest remains in pristine condition. It's like Mel Gibson in the "Man Without a Face." Except without the whole anti-semitism and "sugar tits" thing.

Anyway, for my legion of fans the three of you who actually read my blog, don't forget to update your bookmark. I'm shutting down the old blog within the next 2 weeks.