Man's Amazing Progression

I found this on MSN.com in their Space photo section. It's a photo of the ash plume from the Cleveland Volcano in Alaska, as taken by astronaut Jeff Williams.

Three thousand years ago, Indians would have thought that this eruption was a sign that the Gods were angry with them; in 2006, a man photographed the eruption from space before anyone on the ground even knew about it.

This all makes me think that it's not The DaVinci Code that the Church should be worried about...science is far more dangerous to their existence than any novel. Anyone should be able to see by now that the progress men have made in the short time we've been around is monumental, and human history is, as a whole, amazing. It makes me believe in God and doubt him all at the same time...

Memorial Day Weekend

It was a good weekend full of drinking and barbecues. There's nothing better than drinking outside when it's beautiful out and it's some kind of holiday that revolves around drinking and eating.

I spent tonight, the actual holiday, over by a friend's house in Haledon. I walked up towards his two-family house, of which he lives on the second floor, and I hear him yell, "Hey, this is for you"; I looked up only to see his bare ass in the window.

He had to come downstairs to let me in to the house, and he apparently decided to put some pants on finally (thank fucking God). As we walked up the stairs, I could feel the temperature rising faster than I've ever felt, and when he opened the door, I was hit with a wall of heat that almost knocked me on my ass. I work all day outside, so I'm no stranger to the heat rising from a big open parking lot; when you walk into someone's house, of course, you don't expect to feel that same heat.

As it turns out, the air conditioner had broke, and it was probably about a hundred degrees in the apartment. Normally I might not have lasted as long, but being as it was Memorial Day, I had that feeling that I should just be out somewhere doing something, and I shouldn't just be sitting at home. My buddy and his roommate were there, along with a couple others from assorted places. The sauna like humidity of the day combined with this overwhelming heat in his apartment had left two of them shirtless, just sitting on the couch, and another panting like a mutt whose been running from Animal Control. It was initially funny when I walked in, but it lost its charm really quickly, and soon I was sweating my balls off, not too mention sitting on the couch shirtless.

We planned to go to a nearby bar, being as we figured that it would not only have food but be air conditioned, and we'd be able to fucking breath in there. After a short walk down the road, the bar came into view. Of course...there was a big piece of plywood in the damn doorway, and some fat guy yelled from the inside that it was "Close for renovations". Fucker. Time to walk all the way back.

After biting the bullet and stopping at a nearby Italian restaurant, we headed back to the apartment. An argument commenced between me and one of my buddies about who would be able to kick whose ass, a weightlifter or a swimmer. For some reason he kept ranting about how swimming is the "best workout ever", and kept talking about "stabilizer muscles"; I told'em that Ronnie Coleman would rip the shit out of some pussy swimmer. Even though I think he was just delirious from being in that superheated apartment all day, ironically enough, it was me who was winded from walking back up that hill to his house...I can't seem to walk and talk at the same time anymore, especially up hill. Fucking cigarettes.

The rest of the night was a strange blur. It was so hot in the apartment that I took my own shirt off, and so there we four sat. It was one of the nights that you'd think happens only in old movies about drifters, where the ceiling fan cuts the light every couple of seconds to give a creepy feel, and the lean, haggard main character sits on the bed smoking cigarettes. Phil Collins' "In the Air Tonight" would play in the background.

One of my buddies breaks out a pipe and starts smoking a strange mixture of weed and opium, something that looks gross and smells even worse. As they smoke it, my girlfriend covers her face with my discarded shirt, and I go outside to have a smoke. That stuff smells like shit. It was kind of surreal in a way, between the heat, the beer I was drinking, and knowing that drugs like that were in the room with me. I don't smoke the shit, so I didn't care, but there's just something about being around opium that intrigues me and disgusts me at the same time...I think it's because the first thing I think of are the Opium Wars in China, and how addictive that shit is. I would never again go near anything that's so addictive, as I seem to like such things just a little too much.

Eventually, I took off, and drove back into the air conditioned world. What an odd night. I'm not even drunk now, although I feel that I should be.

Define irony. Somewhere, soldiers are digging trenches to fight for America, and I'm sitting here drinking. Isn't Memorial Day for them?

Steve's Inspiring Quote of the Day

"All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. We must never, ever be boring. "

- Chuck Palahniuk

The face of disillusionment?




What a fucking quote, eh?

My Wrist and Michael Jordan

There's only one thing that I hate about weightlifting, and that is getting injured and being out of the game for a while. My wrist is still killing me, yet I'm going insane with a kind of stir-craziness that I can't explain. I want to lift so badly, but every time I get under the bar, or even down to do pushups, it feels like the fucking thing is a twig trying to support the rest of the tree- and it's cracking. Even now, though, there is some kind of drive that I have where I have to find a way to fix myself so I can keep lifting, even though at the moment I'm competing with nothing more than my own pride.


Copyright Phill Stevens

I hear people all the time asking why someone would risk their career to come back early from an injury, such as Terrell Owens rushing back from a broken leg to be in the Super Bowl, or Willis Reed giving that spark to the Knicks in the 1970 NBA Finals.

"Why would you risk everything, your whole future, just for that one game?"

Sometimes, that one game is all that life is going to give you. If you don't make it there, you might not get another chance. I think that most people can at least understand this, and that's what drives them to try as hard as they can to get back. Yet, the people I'm talking about are different.

When I was a little kid, I was a huge fan of the NBA. My favorite team was the Orlando Magic, and I was a faithful follower of the blue and black, a Shaquille O'Neal worshipper, and a Penny Hardaway wannabe in gym class. I thought Nick Anderson was great, even though he missed all those foul shots at the end of end of Game 1 in the '95 Finals, and I still thought Scott Skiles sucked.

The Bulls were the team that everyone loved to hate back then, and as they rolled up championship after championship every year, I began to join the ranks of the Bulls haters. You couldn't hate Jordan; the guy was a legend. But you could certainly hate the rest of them, (including Scottie Pippen, which is still the gayest name in sport's history) in the same way you'd hate the Yankees- too dominant for too long, and they had more rings than they did fingers to carry them on. I got sick not only of the team, but of their taunting fans, praising the Bulls while wearing their stupid "33" jerseys, acting like tough guys at lunch on the basketball court as if they actually had something to do with this team winning championships.

There is one thing, though, that I'll always remember- no matter how much you hated them, Jordan was untouchable. You couldn't despise someone like Jordan; a figurative giant in a land full of men, always head and shoulders and sometimes knees above the rest of guys he played with. When he retired to play baseball in '93,I was thankful. The Bulls reign of darkness was finally over.

Unfortunately, it was short lived, as the bastard came out of retirement in '94. Fucker. Everyone knows what followed after that: 55 points in his fifth game back (against the Knicks no less), the 70 win season, the championship the next year..

However, it was something different that put him into my pantheon of "Tough Bastards I Admire". In Game 5 of the '97 NBA Finals, he showed me why he was the man, and it's something that I will never forget...when I'm old and drunk and babbling, I will remember Jordan's performance. Some guys will blame 'the breaks' when they fail- "That's the just the breaks man". Well, fuck that. Jordan made his own breaks, and he didn't give a shit whether you were with him or not. What made this night special, though, was the fact that this guy was decimated by the flu, and felt like he was going to die during the entire game.

"I almost played myself into passing out," Jordan said. "I came in and I was almost dehydrated and it was all just to win a basketball game. I couldn't breathe. My energy level was really low. My mouth was really dry. They started giving me Gatorade and I thought about IV."



Now don't get me wrong- I don't remember the particulars. The only thing that I truly remember thinking was that there was no way in hell that this guy had the flu, and that the papers must have been lying just to give the hapless Jazz a hope. The guy scored 38 points while he was on death's doorstep, and that image I'll always remember is of Jordan throwing his arms in celebration after hitting that last three pointer that broke the tie with 25 seconds left; it was almost as if he himself couldn't believe that he was pulling this whole thing off.

The Bulls won the championship that night, on the back of a man with the flu who thought he might drop at any time.

There are other examples that I could come up with, of course; Curt Schilling's balls to the wall performance in the ALCS for the Red Sox in 2004 (one of my favorites, of course), or Emmit Smith playing with two dislocated shoulders, or Arturo Gatti winning a bout after breaking his hand early on, just fighting through the pain. And yet, this moment with Jordan really sticks out for me, possibly because I hated his team so much, and yet even I had to respect the effort. I knew in those moments that I was watching history, and that one day I would write about the day that Jordan risked everything to play in that game, and took his team on his shoulders, and won. When game time came, and everything depended on him, he made his breaks, and did his thing. If he hadn't risen to the occasion...well, ask Bill Buckner how that feels.

Either way, it kind of makes my wrist hurt just a little bit less.

Moving on

It's funny. I take three weeks off from lifting, and my wrist feels a million times better. Too bad my fucking shoulder like it's hanging on by the toughest tendon I've got, and even that's giving out. I'm enraged now at this weakness that my body is showing, so I'm just going to say fuck it. I started lifting again tonight, hitting the bench press, rows, and squats. If something breaks, I'm going to tape it up and push on. I've had it. No breaks until it starts snowing....

This guy laughs at pussies like me:

The Days of Rocky

When I came home early on Saturday night, I was searching for something interesting to watch. Normally, I'm drunk by 11 and hammered by 2, so I don't have to worry about such things; of course, having blown my proverbially load in the past two days, I was shot. I had drank too much and had worked too much in the past couple days, so in I was, browsing my 543,255 channels that DirectTV offers in an attempt to fins something other than MASH reruns or A&E specials on the Illuminati and the Bible Code.

I turned on HBO, and finally found something cool: WBC Super Featherweight Championships. These are the 130 pound fighters who beat the living hell out of each other and are as tough as coffin nails. The champion, a Mexican guy named Barrera, was taking on a guy who was going to fall off the map if he lost this fight; this was one of his only chances to prove himself. Being as he was not only the challenger, but also shorter, I had to root for Barrera's foe, a man named Rocky Juarez.

Juarez has had no easy life; this made me like him even more. If there's anything that I like in a fighter, it's when they grow up fighting in the streets. In the spirit of the Dempsey's and Graziano's of the world, Juarez was a street tough who just got noticed.



"We used to box in the streets in my neighborhood. We'd have rivalries: street vs. street, neighborhood against neighborhood. I had an advantage because my grandfather, Pedro, taught me the basics of boxing when I was very young."

He's climbed from a kid in the streets fighting for pride to the man challenging the champion in WBC championships. This 5'5 Mexican- American has literally fought his way to the top, leaving sweat and blood in every ring he's been in. I didn't know this guy from a hole in the wall before last night; I'll remember him after watching this fight. After watching the brutality round after round, it seemed clear that Barrera was trying to stay out of the way of the younger Rocky's left hook, as it'd almost floored him a couple times. Being the veteran, Barrera held on, and was never knocked down; he knows better than to walk into a punch like that. When it came down to it, though, the judges called the fight a draw. Barrera held onto his championship belt, but Juarez earned more respect than I thought was possible for a guy to get from one fight...and with the balls he showed, I'll root for this guy from now on.

It's funny how sports do that. Even I'm not immune to being at least a little anti-Mexican once in a while, especially when I hear the stories from Texas of the illegals robbing shit off the homes of people who live near the border, or about how they want social security but never pay towards its. Still, 20 minutes into this fight, I was rooting for this guy Juarez like he was a guinea from Jersey. He showed heart, and that's a trait that all men from all countries can admire.

In a time where there is so much anti-Mexican sentiment, one fighter (who is a Mexican American) will still wear the colors of America and Mexico on the same trunks, and will still inspire pride in both countries. There were no questions if Rocky was the son of illegals, of people who swam the Rio Grande... no, he is just a great fighter, and he was born in America, so he is one of us. Sports can unite, they can make us look past origins and nationalities, and just enjoy the fact that these two athletes who are in peak physical condition can go through a war like that fight was, and still respect each other. Sometimes, like the Gatti/Ward fights, they can even make brothers of you (even though one was a Irishman from Boston and the other an Italian immigrant).

How quickly we all forget that we are a nation of immigrants, and that at one time, all of us were on the bottom of the social ladder. Don't give me the bullshit of, "Well, we all did it legally"- you didn't. WOP means, "With Out Papers". Hence, illegal. Irishman came over like locusts in the 1840s- my great, great, great grandfather was among them. If they were all legal, I'll slam my dick in a door.

Is it really better to just build a big fucking wall at the Mexican border? Will we look back at this time of "Anti-Mexicanism", and really be proud of what we're doing? Or will we look back in humiliation and disgust, as we do when we realize that Congress, at one time, put quotas on southern Europeans because they were Catholic? We're all people. We deserve a shot at life, and a good one at that. We are the sons of immigrants- do not forget that. Boxing won't let us.

Marciano, the son of Italian immigrants:


Dempsey, the son of Jewish and Irish immigrants:


Juarez, the son of Mexican immigrants:

Work

Working is killing my writing time...four seperate pieces that I don't have time to fucking finish. My shoulder is killing me, and I can't figure out if it's from all the pushups I've been doing or moving heavy shit at the job; it's probably a combination of both. I hate this shit.

Saturday

11:05 on a Saturday night and I'm inside. Even though I've drank to drown in the last three days, I still feel like a pussy for being inside tonight. I'm exhausted though, so even I can't be down on myself. Working all day moving cement and stone (all the while hung over and banged out from the night before) can do that to a guy, even to a man who exhibits superhuman endurance like myself.

I'm glad that I'm working full time again. My forearms are getting thicker from moving all the stone all day, and my paycheck will be following suit on Thursday. I'm fucking shot, and don't have the energy to finish this.

Goodnight sweet prince...may flights of angels sing thee to rest

Through Bloodshot Eyes

This morning, my girlfriend brought me to pick my truck up outside the bar I was at last night. I wasn't tremendously drunk, but drunk enough that I knew that if I got pulled over I'd be fucked with number 2, and I really didn't feel like making friends with the Wayne cops again.

Unfortunately, the "beer shits" came right after I started the car, and with a brutal vengeance. I probably could have made it home, but once again, I figured I'd better not risk it. I stopped over at the first strip mall on the way and walked straight into the bathroom of the Dunkin Donuts.

When I walked out, I was struck with images only the morning can produce. Don't get me wrong- as an avid drinker, the time between 6- 10 AM are the worst hours in the world for me, and I hate them with a passion. Yet even I had to admit that if you watch close enough, there's some interesting things in there for the drunken observer.

Walking out of Dunkin Donuts as I was walking in was a stunning dark haired broad, too tall for me but beautiful nonetheless. She looked like she worked in an office, or somewhere where you have to dress fancy in order to get paid; what a looker this one was. I only saw her from afar, but I was impressed anyway. She fit in well with the swarms of beautiful girls that are always going into the World Gym at the end of the mall, once again dressed far too nicely to go workout. That gym is expensive as hell, and gyms like that are gyms that nobody actually works at, but places where people go to check each other out and talk on cell phones between their 'sets'. It's more like a bar with some weight benches than an actual place to lift.

I went into this smoke shop to get a pack of cigarettes after Dunkin Donuts (where I didn't order anything...fuck them. Their coffee sucks). The place is run by a couple of Indians who I assume are husband and wife. When we were younger, we used to steal porn out of the "Adult Section" of the magazine rack that lies in the back of the store; they eventually changed the store around so they could watch it better, and I like to think it was because of our young souls. Normally I wouldn't buy smokes from these assholes, being as I don't like to support their business. These fuckers are the stereotype of what you would think Indian immigrants are, and I don't like that they perpetuate it with their "I'll sell you anything to make a buck attitude". I guess you could call them perfect capitalists, but these two that own the place are really models of classless people. Maybe I'm biased, being as they charged me $20 for a fake Zippo a couple years ago and swore up and down that it was real, only to have the wick literally burn away a couple weeks later.

I swallowed my pride though and bought smokes from them, and the women charged me $6.35 for the pack (I fucking hate Jersey sometimes). She wasn't even acknowledging that I was there, as she was concentrating on running lottery tickets through some machine the whole time, and talking to some old guy who looks like he's there every morning because he's got nothing better to do. Bitch.

I walked out of the store and into an overcast, damp New Jersey day. I lit my cigarette and began walking. Looking over towards the gym, I saw the guineas walking in from the parking lot, their designer gym bags in hand, hair all gelled up to...go workout. Their muscular fellas, but not what I would call "big", and certainly not relative to all the time they spend hitting the weights. I'm half their size and probably push bigger numbers, but hey, whatever. I figure if I gelled my hair like that to go workout, maybe I'd be cool like them. I'll consider it next time.

There's a huge green dump truck in the lot that says, "Gaeta" on the side in yellow letters, and three gigantic black dudes are leaning on it having a cigarette and eating breakfast, drinking their coffee. I can't remember whether the guy who owns the trucks is a cop or in the mob, although in New Jersey it's not like it matters. They kind of nod to me as I walk by...I'm sure I look like the guy that just picked his truck up at the bar, so I look worse than they do.

Women are all over, some with their kids, some without. Most look like "Moms" somehow. Moms irritate the fuck out of me, no matter whose mom they are, so I get the hell out of there. I remember quickly why I like the night so much- these old guys who talk for hours, these women and their rugrats, they're all inside their houses, and there's only people like me left out in the world. The people of the night are far more interesting...God I hate mornings.

My Words Go Beyond Me

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The NSA

Recently I was told by a person of the Conservative nature that I should move to Canada, being as I said that I question everything that the government does.

My immediate reaction was to be my condescending self and tell this guy that people who don't question everything are wasting my air, and that he should promptly fuck off (I did this, of course). Honestly though, it irritated me a lot more than I thought it would and not because this guy told me to move out of the country. What truly bothered me is this cult of apathy that is going on now in regards to politics in general.

Is this still America? Aren't we supposed to question everything? Isn't that whole "Freedom of speech" thing what this country was built on in the first place? If not, then maybe I should move to Canada, because I obviously don't know American history that well.

The freedom to question our leaders and to demand that they be accountable for their actions is what is at the very heart of "being American". The right to burn the American flag is the reason that I love that very same flag- we are allowed to protest. Hell, we shouldn't even be allowed to protest, we should be encouraged to protest.

Don't get me wrong, of course- if you believe nothing else, believe that the last thing the government (or any government for that matter) wants is an aware, active public. They don't want angry masses determining what laws they think are just; they want the public watching American Idol and rooting for that dude that sings Queen songs real good.

This is being proved more and more currently, with the disgusting mess that is the NSA spying program. The folks who defend this use the classic line, "If you're not doing anything wrong, than you shouldn't be worried". The stupidity of that statement is the fact that they don't realize who gets to define right and wrong, and that is where the true danger lies.

To me, Al-Qaeda is fucking dangerous. If there is anyone to track, it's them. It is safe to say that I hate these people, these zealous purveyors of a form of an organized religion that is meant for killing (although honestly, which one isn't?). If you want to listen in on them...I can deal with that.

However, who's deciding who else they should listen to? Why are the calls of average Americans being logged? Simple: so the government can know what its citizens are doing. Freedom of speech has always been a myth - the government has killed or jailed many people who have said things that are potentially dangerous to its existence. There were points in the 1800s when Union members were jailed because the bosses thought it to be a "Communist rising". In the 1950s, many Hollywood types were "blacklisted" for allegedly being part of the Communist Party. Every black movement in history has been under the watch of the government; some, like the Black Panthers, were murdered in their sleep for thinking how they did.

There are a million other historical events where the United States Government has abused its power; why would anyone think that this administration would be any different? If anything, they have proved themselves especially untrustworthy, with their ridiculous war, their tax cuts only for the rich and powerful, and their consistent lies about what is going on in the world. That being said...why the fuck would you give them your phone records?

It is very disappointing to me that people have all this trust in the government and its agencies, although I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I think it was the white trash piece of shit Britney Spears that remarked, "I think we should just trust our government and our President" a while back (thank God she's got tits, because she's certainly got nothing else going for her). I don't think most regular people pay much attention to history, but if they did, they'd realize that power corrupts. Every government that has gotten too powerful, or had its people trust it too much, has ended up in rubble at the end of an uprising. Rich and powerful people are dangerous for the simple fact that you can't trust them to care about the working masses, but you can always count on them to care about themselves. Don't get me wrong- I'm not sure what the solution is here. I don't know whether we need a revolution every hundred years to keep people in line, or if we can solve this simply by tightening laws on lobbyists and campaign contributions.

What I can say is that the American government has proven time and again that it is not to be trusted. Saccho and Vanzetti, the blacklisting of Communists, McCarthyism, the Pentagon Papers, the Gulf of Tonkin, Watergate, Iran-Contra, and now Iraq, have all proven that the government of this country will take power when we let it and abuse it immediately after. We cannot trust the NSA to be fair in its eavesdropping, and we cannot trust the government when it sneaks into our private lives. This kind of thing crosses party lines, and should concern everyone who calls themselves Americans - get off your asses, and start making some noise.

Unless, of course, you hear that clicking in the background on your phone. Then, you might just want to shut up for a while.

Holes

I tried all week to sit down and write something worthwhile, but it wasn't happening. I've got a piece about some conservative piece of shit who told me that I should leave the country because I'm as liberal as I am, but I don't know when that's going to be up. My story of St. Patrick's Day is mired in sloppy drunken memories that I can't piece together in a way that makes it seem any less foggy then it does in my head. Fucking drinking...

The parents get back today, which should be interesting. I dig when they go away; it's like my little vacation from everything when they're not here, and I don't mind. Four days of drunken debauchery is enough for me though, and I'm ready to calm myself down and start working out again. Trying get my shit straight from being blitzed for a week is like climbing out of a big hole in the sand....you think you're almost out, then the shit slides right back in on you, and you're back where you started.

Although I do have a story on the subject of holes that I thought was pretty humorous. The other day, I had to dig holes in the back yard for the coming addition to the house, and they were about 12'' wide by 3' deep. Of course, this quickly reminded me of why I want to graduate college and get a decent job: I fucking hate digging holes. Anyway, of course, I they're about 2 feet apart from each other, and they effectively close off one side of my yard, being as I didn't want to take the chance of falling into them when I wasn't paying attention (which can be quite frequent). This works fine when I'm sober. When I'm drunk, it fails miserably.

I don't know why I was over on that side of the yard, but then I don't know why an open beer was in my center console of my truck on the morning either, so I guess it was just that kind of night. But, sure enough, I'm drunk, bullshitting around the yard because we started a chiminea fire, and I looked away from my steps at the wrong time. *WHAM* Right into one of those fucking holes. When I hit the ground, the bottle in my hand shattered, I slammed my elbow onto a rock, and I just lay there for a second, incredulous not only at my shit luck but also by own incredible stupidity.

In my mind, I just kept saying to myself, "You asshole. You dug these holes. You knew where they were. And yet, no one falls into them but you." I'm sure that's saying some kind of metaphorical bullshit about my own life in general, but I'm going to ignore that idea because I just thought of it.

My elbow is still sore, but the cuts are healing on it. My jeans got fucked up pretty bad, my shoulder was bruised, and I was sore in my ribs for a bit. It was worth it either way; this weekend was fun, and I've got yet another drunk story to tell. It'll be good to have people in the house again though, because I don't like when things are so quiet all the time.

But when the contractors start that addition, I'm going to shake my head and smile when they fill those holes up with concrete for the footings. Ohhh, the drinking life. What a trip.

Heroes

Jack Kerouac


Thomas Paine


MLK Jr.


Tommie Smith and John Carlos

Bush Hits New Low

When you combine this with the fact that George II has received the lowest poll numbers in his history, it makes for a good week. It seems that all the regular folks everywhere are realizing the bullshit that's gone on in the past six years, and they aren't happy. 31% of America still thinks he's good at what he's doing, and the rest are pissed.

It's kind of funny, of course, because I've been screaming about this shit for the entire time. They called me insane when I said Iraq was no threat to us, and that they didn't have any weapons. They called me a communist when I said it was all about oil, and that this war has far more to do with a long range strategic advantage in the area where oil was prevalent.

I find it funny that four years later, after the "Mission Accomplished" banner that that fucknut put up on the carrier, everyone is thinking like me, and wondering why the hell we went there.

What perturbs me the most was the way it came up. I never understood where Iraq came from, and no one can explain it to me. One day, the news was full of talk about Afghanistan (the war that we should have fought instead of the Northern Alliance) , and the next it was about how we should be invading Iraq. I don't know when Bush believed that he could invade another sovereign state without a serious reason, but he's learning now.

Just remember, all you folks, that there were people out there like me who called George II a fascist from the first second, and said that his views and policies would be the death knell of America. Thank God he's out, and that old pendulum seems to be swinging again, yet this time, far, far left.

We are coming...

Shindig

Finally, I have this whole damn house to myself. The parents are gone for a full week, and this makes me a happy guy. I'm never here too much anymore anyway, between working and school and what not, but it certainly feels good regardless. The air is just a little fresher today, my mood a little higher, and soon enough, I'll be a lot drunker.

This should be the start of a damn out of control week for me; I don't have to worry about catching shit about anything. I may not be sober all that much this week...and I'm down for that. Hell, I might even go experience the strip club for the first time ever this week. Right on.