Epilogue

Well Kiddos, seeing as I'm mere hours away from riding a bullet train into the blue nightlife of San Diego for the rest of this spirited and fulfilling year, I thought I'd take this opportunity to wish you all a pleasant remainder of 2009 and a thoroughly sweet 2010.

What with Christmas (AJ got four--FOUR!--occasions to open presents), planning for the close of escrow (Jan. 18th, bitches!) and the San Diego trip (and golf, don't forget golf), I've not had time to finish the WPBT trip report (though some of it sits there, lonely, forlorn, ignored, in the editing queue), but I will, I suppose, finish off the tales of Final Tabling and the Brent Celek $200 Miracle.

Until then, feed candy to your children, make out with your significant other and keep me updated on Twitter.

Cheers.

Friday: Cocktails? Cocktails.

I woke up feeling 38% better than I thought I would, although not well enough, or early enough, to take a shower, a fact I withheld from my playing partners. I put on three layers of clothing, including some freshly-purchased spandex tights that not only did the job of keeping me (relatively) warm, but are also quite sexy. I've taken to wearing them, and only them, around the house, much to Emet's delight.

I didn't think the weather was too bad as I waited for my car at the valet, though I was even happier when I got in and the attendant had turned on the seat warmers and heat, the latter perched at a balmy 85 degress.

"85 degrees!" drizz screeched when he grabbed shotgun at the IP. drizz was wearing a polo shirt. The 38-degree Vegas temperature was like Minnesota Spring. Then Schaubs jumped into the back seat and one-upped drizz. Schaubs was wearing shorts. They make 'em hardy in Canada.

We made it to Las Vegas National without getting lost, though I instantly regretted making drizz the co-pilot when I found out he hadn't slept all night and had made a prop bet with GRob and Otis that he could not sleep for another 18 hours, meaning his first 32 hours in Vegas would be REM free. Personally, I'd be dead if I tried such a thing, but drizz seemed pretty chipper at that point, as well as driven to pocket some of that GRob money. Later, I would implore him to sleep (while he was in one of his less-lucid states) and give up the $20, which I pointed out was a relatively piddling amount.

"I WILL NOT GIVE MONEY TO GROB!" he bellowed. So I dropped it.

LVN was ready for us when we arrived (if not "prepared," if you know what I mean), a marshal meeting us at the car and taking my clubs. We hustled to the range for some warm-up swings, then hustled to the snack bar for a bloody mary. I was paired with Schaubs and Astin's friend M. The group in front of us was Fuckin' Katkin, DrChako, Astin's other friend N and a Ringer. Right behind us was F-Train, Pebbles, Astin's other friend E (I feel like I should be calling them all "Larry") and AlCantHang.

Haha! Kidding. Jason rounded out that foursome. The final group was BamBam, drizz, jjok and ck, who we were all happy to see got to play after doing all the legwork to set up the outing. Thanks so much to her and BamBam for doing the cat herding.

Schabus is an ace, which was great, but also a little nerve-wracking, since, even though I suck, and I know I suck, I didn't want to suck for 18 holes and have him get frustrated at having to carry my sorry ass out and in and be tempted to take hard left turns in the cart so I would tumble out. Fortunately, I hit the ball pretty well most of the day. That didn't prevent me from almost falling out of the cart twice.

I got off to a good start, hitting fairways (or close enough) on four of the first five holes, preventing a mental meltdown. By the time we were through five, the beer cart arrived and...well...giddyup.

We played the front in even-par with two birdies and two bogeys, our main problem being unable to sink birdie putts (while Team Ringer in front of us was apparently draining 30-footers). We loaded up our coolers at the turn (hey! What's that water doing in there!) and shot a scrambling two-under on the back. We had some fun moments, like the hole where M and I both hit the same tree in successive shots, a tree that was only 10 feet in front of us, causing us all to duck quickly as our balls came ricocheting back. And the par three where one of us duffed it to the ladies tees and two of us hit into the water. Amazingly, we got up and down for par from the ladies tees.

Then there was the 18th, a par-5, where I yanked my drive into the adjacent neighborhood and both Schaubs and M found water. We dropped lakeside and had trees in our path to the green. I took out a 3-wood and decided I was going left, around the trees. Jokingly, I said, "I'm going with a power fade here," which is really what I was trying to do but the chances of actually performing it were around 8%. Yet, BAM! one power fade, coming up. The shot left us about 70 yards to the pin, with a good lie, so Schaubs could go ahead and swing for the fences.

Which he did. A beautiful arching draw over the other set of trees. The only problem was it headed right for Team Ringer still kibitzing greenside.

Dear Team Ringer, he did yell "Fore!" I swear. In addition, I was screaming for the ball to kick left off Katkin's cart.

Again, we got up and down for par for a round of 69. Two shots behind Team Ringer, but good enough for second place and my first ever round of golf under par.

Cocktails!

You probably heard that F-Train won the long-drive contest--big hitter, the F-Train--and Pebs and ck grabbed the closest to the pin honors, which sets up the obvious joke that nobody missed, but is still so funny that it bears repeating:

All the girls got a prize!

We slay us.

Again, thanks to Bammer and ck for all the organization and to my fellow hackers for making it an absolutely great time. Even bigger shout-outs to Astin and CaApril for braving the elements. I know, from pretty much everyone I talked to who wasn't playing that the idea seemed absurd, what with the cold and the early wake-up call, but it was enormously fun and you'd not regret it if you drag your ass out of bed and play next year. Which is not to say I didn't relish coming back into the clubhouse for warmth.

*

From the course, drizz and I went to Nine Fine Irishmen for some pints and sausages, a payoff for a bet earlier this season on Niners-Vikings ("Enjoy your Sausage Fest!" chuckled Schaubs). It was at this point that drizz, who finished his round in a spiffy new jacket he had to buy at the turn to cover his bare, blue arms, was at his most faded. We sat there mumbling into our Harp like we were on an awkward first date, both of us tired (honestly, I couldn't imagine how badly he felt, considering I was operating with a needle poised just above E). And while we were both famished (I'd eaten only a microwave breakfast burrito the size of my thumb; well..and the bloody mary), we barely consumed half the pail of delicious sausages.

Sausage Fest consummated, we made our way across the bridge to the MGM where I ran smack dab into Table 16.

I've never seen its like before and perhaps never will again.

*

I was contemplating a nap (I'm old), but couldn't resist watching. I hadn't seen The Mark yet, and he was his typical garrulous self (I mean that in the best possible way). He had a mound of chips in front of him. Yes, mounds, not stacks, and when he bet, he'd just shove a pile, or most of what he could bulldoze in two hands, into the pot. After relentless prompting from the floor, he did finally stack his chips. In stacks of two, a rainbow which covered one end of the table.

Cocktails?

In the meantime, I couldn't resist playing. Alan racked up and I took the seat to The Mark's right (oh joy). So this is what a G-Vegas game is like. Pretty much how it's been described. Tilt of equal importance as dragging the pot. I'm not one with the skills (or sack) to play that type of game, so I stuck with the cards, winning a little (for a while), doing my part in tipping Tip and others, donating to stb, standing for the National Anthem ("What are you, Canadian?!?!") and throwing away the idea of a nap before Emet arrived.

It's not really possible to recount the shenanigans. It was all cutting remarks and degen vibe and, oh yeah, some poker. I do know I was lucky to get out with just losing my initial buy-in (when diamonds didn't get there against BadBlood's Kings), but also wishing I had the energy and bankroll to sit there for much, much longer or until, you know, the whole table got cut off.

But Emet did arrive, instantly falling under The Mark's charms. He ferried her to the bar straightaway, queried her why, on God's Green Earth, she'd stoop to be with me. She sat behind me for a bit, and then I went broke (cooler), so we headed upstairs to...um...nap.

*

Up and showered at 10:30 (two nights in a row, I make my comeback at 10:30; these sorts of things don't happen in real life), Emet and I went back to the scene of the crime, but Table 16 had already been sent to the penalty box. drizz was standing right there, like a big tree ready to be felled. He was in worse shape than I'd left him, counting on that fourth wind to kick up any time now, but I didn't have time to give him a cursory physical exam, because we were late meeting the crew for Steel Panther.

Now, this kind of thing is right up my alley. I love the metal. Hair bands are pure nostalgia. Live music rules. But I was non-committal to the hordes of folks demanding my attendance because I knew it was over-the-top and vulgar and concerned that Emet might not dig the scene. I needed to get a better overview of the show, so I asked BadBlood.

"How vulgar is it?"
"Very."
"Do they use the c-word?"

He paused, combing his memory banks. "No," he said finally. "But anything and everything right up to that."

Oh.

Regardless, I convinced her to go (helped by the fact she was delighted by Table 16 and they were all going) and we cabbed out to Green Valley Ranch after missing the group by scant minutes, which had me on a little tilt since I hadn't RSVP'd to Nickerson, but my tilt was nothing compared to that of The Rooster, who missed Emet and I by mere minutes (hey dude, when you're gonna get thrown out of a poker room, do it earlier!) meaning he had to foot the cab fare all the way out to BFE by himself.

That's foreshadowing.

Nickerson had snagged us a couple booths (thanks partner) and we killed time before the show started talking to everyone. Emet met a lot of new people whose names she won't remember, but talked long enough to most that she'll at least be able to recall the face/conversation. Talked to DrChako about the real estate market, to Peaker about how Skid Row is underrated and to a late-arriving drizz about the symptoms of renal failure (let's just say I was happy Dr. Jeff was close by).

As for the show...eh. I liked it. I really did, as my sore ribs would attest the next morning. At times, I laughed in spite of myself--Cocktails!--but ultimately, my preference would have been for them to play more songs, rather than repeating endless variations of the "lady parts" jokes.

Regardless, a great time (complete with a couple episodes of drama that need not be repeated here but to say that if you ever get into a shoving match at a Steel Panther show, Emet's got your back) and worth every penny.

*

Afterwards, Emet and I watched a table-full of donks was playing 2/4 as drizz approached the Witching Hour with seven racks of singles stacked up in front of him. He'd finally found his closing speed at some point during the show and was cruising toward the finish line.

Nice hand, sir. Buy yourself something pretty.

We then went to get assaulted by a Pai Gow dealer, followed by what was at least misdemeanor battery at a craps table. Green Valley Ranch is a cooler. I'm not sure I won a single hand or collected on a single point. In fact, at this point of the trip, I'd taken exactly $90 profit off the combined table games I'd played against about $600 worth of buy-ins. So sleep seemed like the good play.

It had to turn around. That's more foreshadowing.

Up Next, Saturday: WPBT Winter Classic

Thursday: It's a Marathon, Not a Sprint

I bolted into the start of the Winter Gathering Aught-Nine like a speed horse trying to steal the race at a mile-and-a-quarter. This can be a sometimes effective strategy, if one can earn a lonely lead and manage the pace, leaving something left for the stretch run. If, however, you are pressured on that lead, the legs go tired, quickly and suddenly, and you can find yourself stumbling about the MGM six hours later with the single-minded purpose of eating chili cheese dogs.

Driving in, I was caught between easing into The Gathering, like my brain insisted I do for the betterment of the rest of my internal organs, and putting the pedal down just because I was so damn excited. Wanna guess which one won out?

I sprinted right out of my car, onto the monorail, into the IP and ran smack into AlCantStopBuyingShots, though the SoCo he soon put in front of me could oniy be called a "shot" in an ironic way, like calling a fat guy "Tiny." It took me three or four healthy swallows to toss it back, all the while sharing beers with Derek, Pauly, Gnome and stb (and others, which means this is where I put the disclaimer that all omissions of you, person reading this, and going, "Hey Jipperbrains! I was there, too!" are purely unintentional, owing to my poor memory and the slight bleeding in my brain and not at all indicative of race, religion, creed, you sucking out on me or your poor taste in domestic beer), which is starting the weekend off drinking above my weight class.

This became abundantly clear in short order as I stared down Alice Cooper at a blackjack table.

I actually took some profit off Alice (School's out for the summer, bitch!) and ratholed with it, in the process resisting the charms of Reba, who was brought in as a twanging cooler. This was necessary as I'd already dropped a chunk at craps and I knew I was in that dangerous place where you might wake up and wonder where all your money went. I was also surprised to look down at my watch and see I'd been there six hours.

Uh oh.

I slipped out the back door of the IP and made my way back to the MGM. I still hadn't checked into my room, which I did first, before I went in search of food for the first time...er...all day. I ended up with two chili cheese dogs, which I ate hurriedly because I needed a nap before starting Round Two.

Round Two came much later than anticipated as I a) set my alarm for 9 a.m. instead of p.m. and b) was unable to put the phone back in the cradle to receive the wake-up call anyway and that's how you wake up at 10:30 wondering where the hell you are and why do I smell like a tour bus?

I rallied up to get back to the IP to see everyone (see?!?! There, I just mentioned you!) and was drunk again after one beer, the good drunk, I thought, the easy, straight-line buzz one hopes to curate over a long period of time. I was under this mistaken impression until about 4 a.m. when I realized I couldn't hardly stand and that I had to be up soon for the golf outing, which I was damned if I was going to miss, even as I opined that signing up for something that began north of noon...outside in the frigid temperatures...requiring motor skills...was not the brightest idea I've ever had.

I got to talk to lots of folks that night, however (Falstaff, Michalski), took some grief about my hair (The Wife, maigs), had someone stand up for my hair (Maudie!), watched drizz pull quads on Let It Ride and go into an impromptu celebration that woulda drew a flag for being excessive anywhere but the IP where it merely frightened people and even got in some mildly profitable Pai Gow action (despite replacing Derek in what appeared to be the Eff You Seat) with Pauly, Otis (riding high on a straight flush and throwing stacks of green willy-nilly into the circle...and winning), Marty and...um...you.

On the cab ride home, I'm feeling less than stellar, trying to do the math on how many hours of sleep I'm going to get and calculating how much Gatorade I should pound (enough to offer some re-hydration, not so much that it makes you have to get up in the middle of the night to pee) and I start to get woozy. The bad kind of woozy.

Yes, it got a little pukey in Room 4-526, though I was proud to point out to others later that I made it all the way to the room before evacuating the remaining chili cheese dogs in my stomach, which is respectful to cabs and Pai Gow tables and casino floors, if you think about it. I instantly felt a whole lot better and when the (successful!) alarm went off at an ungodly hour, I rolled out of bed in better shape than I could have hoped for.

Then I went out in the cold to hit that stupid little ball.

Up Next, Friday: Booze, Bloggers and Golf Balls, Table 16 and Steel Panther.

Crash Landing

I'm gonna write up the whole darn weekend. But first, I'm going to sleep.

I did things I'd never done before in Vegas. I did the same things I do every year with the most amazing group of goofballs on the planet. And I feel the same as I do when I always get home afterwards, a mixture of relief at walking in the door still (somewhat ) intact and disappointment that the gathering has ended again. I can't thank everyone enough for their generosity, good will and great company.

As I walked through the MGM about 1:30 this morning on my way to bed, I was stopped first by Falstaff, banging away on a penny slot (and he lost all $9 of profit in the five minutes I stood there cooling him) and then April, taking a break in front of a video poker machine (where we were soon joined by a VERY drunk girl with a bit of a conundrum, which we proceeded to solve in a sympathetic and clever manner). I delight in those moments, though I was completely knackered and desired nothing but sleep. But I think those brief snippets encapsulate what I feel when I leave, because we all live apart, and I don't have the luxury in my every day life of hoping to run into a dear friend at random, to be able to spend five minutes catching up.

So we cram a year's worth into four days, which makes for an awesome four days (my internal organs might quibble), but leaves me wanting. As I said several times this weekend about others, "Seeing (them) just makes me happy!"

I suppose knowing I will see y'all again will have to suffice until the next time. In the interim, take care, hug your families, get some rest and be prepared for me to totally embarrass you in the trip report.

Vegas A-Z

A -- Aqua. Restaurant at Bellagio. This was my first ever, official, fine dining experience. It had been, previously, unthinkable for me to drop $300 on dinner (for two), but I did it here and am proud to call it the site of my first foodgasm.

B -- Bobby Blackjack. Our bankroll-spewing hero will not be making it this year, but having (barely) survived a few trips--even non-WPBT ones--with him, I will say everyone should lose $400 in and hour with Bobby at a blackjack table. There is something about the experience that is life-affirming and vital. And one never forgets the feeling of walking to a casino ATM.

C -- Circus Circus. Though I only stayed here once (more on that in a bit), this gaudy property was the casino focal point of my first few trips to Vegas. Of course, I was aged 9-12 when that happened. We played an annual soccer tournament there (in January, forcing us to play one year in the snow) and once the games were over, we all wanted to go win stuffed animals at Circus Circus. It was like gambling training wheels.

The one time I did stay there--as an adult--was because it was the closest casino to the auto repair shop where my car was towed after breaking down outside of Baker. The cost for said tow was nearly $500, an obscene sum for me at the time, especially on top of the fact my car never did return from the desert due to the cost of replacing the blown head gasket being roughly equal to what the vehicle was worth. In the Happy Endings Dept., I won a shitload of money playing craps at Circus Circus, enough to pay for the tow and a flight home, but not quite enough for a new car.

D -- Dealertainers. Normally, I avoid celebrity impersonators like AJ avoids brussels sprouts, but there's something about the IP's unironic worship (and lackadaisical attitude toward actually looking like the celebrity) that I find appealing, much like how I used to chew the skin off my fingers and eat it when I was a child. The comfort can't be explained, only enjoyed.

E -- Excalibur. Site of my first-ever casino experience as an adult, my first-ever casino poker experience (7-card stud) and my first-ever Hold 'Em casino poker experience (where I thrashed the $2-$6 game for $200). However, my biggest win ever here (speaking spiritually, not monetarily) was all those singles shipped by G-Rob on the wheel spin prop bets.

F -- Frontier This perpetually downtrodden property was marked by its friendly dealers and the constant striking union workers at both ends of its circular driveway. It was also my favored gambling spot in the early- to mid-90s because of its low-stakes blackjack and craps (bankroll management!). As with most casinos that become "favorites," I won there with better-than-average frequency. My tipping skills when winning are quite solid, which occassioned one of my greatest Vegas moments. I walked into the casino with two skeptical buddies (their first time there) and as we approached the craps table, one of the dealers shouted, "Kenny!" (which is my actual name, sorta), having remembered me--and my tipping--from a previous trip.

G -- Guy's Getaway. That was the name of a package offered one year by Bally's. A bunch of my baseball friends and I purchased the weekend (free booze in the suite, free dinners, VIP club admission) in order to watch the A's in the playoffs from decadent Vegas. Except the A's folded down the stretch, so we just drank and made fun of Hawk leaving the club with the ugly girl, who used the line, "Do you want to go see the most beautiful girl in the world?" who did, in her defense, turn out to be a smoking Brazilian stripper, albeit one totally disinterested in Hawk.

H -- Hockey. This has nothing to do with Vegas (though the Los Angeles Kings have an annual pre-season weekend in Sin City), but I saw something last night in the Kings-Flames game that just illustrates why I love hockey so much. Two players got into it, light shoving, kit-grabbing, and were jawing back and forth, presenting their opposing points of view. Unable to come to a suitable agreement, one of them kind of shrugged his shoulders and said (expert lip-reader that I am), "Let's just go then," at which point they dropped the gloves and traded delicious and viewer-satisfying blows.

Contrast that with, say, football. How many cheap fucking shots do you think Flozell Adams would get away with on the ice before someone cleaned his fat fucking clock?

I -- Imperial Palace. Gosh. What else can be said about the IP. Yellow police tape at the entrance, moldy-smelling rooms, dealertainers, Pimps and 'hos and "Top Slut" tattoos, Dealertainers and the Geisha Bar. I once found myself at the IP on a list to sing Karaoke. But the list proved too long and I left before I could regale the crowd with Slayer's "War Ensemble."

J -- Jorginho. Had a very memorable Vegas trip one time with peerless Scribes defenders Jorginho and Big Head. It was a last-minute jaunt, arranged over post-game beers. Big Head had met the acquaintance of four young girls from the sticks of Wisconsin (Vegas was the first time they'd seen a taxi), all cute, all with requisite Fargo-esque accents, which provided much hilarity. Jorginho and I stayed up all night gambling, while Big Head tried his luck with the girls. We did well, but as we were heading to bed after breakfast, I fell down a short flight of stairs at the restaurant, nearly toppling into a family seated nearby. "If I wasn't so tired, I'd be laughing at you right now," Jorginho deadpanned.

K -- Katkin. Murderer's Row regular and, at the time, a Full Tilt employee, felt the full weighted wrath of The Hammer, when wielded by a drunken idiot who was already stuck four buy-ins. Yes, me. Late in a 1/2 NL blogger session where I was throwing money away like it was on fire (mostly to Nickerson), I live-straddled. bdiddie raised (with 99) and Katkin re-raised. Naturally, I looked at my cards and pushed (though almost lost them when the dealer tried to pull them into the muck). bdiddie folded and Katkin called with KK.

Flop? 654

At which point a roar went up from the assembled masses and a crowd formed, frothing like spectators at the Roman Coliseum. There was never any doubt at this point.

Turn: 8

And the roar went up. I am not a nice man.

Next day, I stopped by the Full Tilt suite at the WSOP and Katkin, seeing me across the room, pointed and shouted, "That's the guy!"

L -- Las Vegas National Golf Course. Ah, the WPBT Shootout at this legendary layout. Let's see, drink most of (all) night and then venture out into 30-ish-degree temperatures to hit a stupid little ball around for five hours or so. And pay for the privilege! What a great idea, especially for someone of my skill level, the aspects of my game ranging from decent to disgraceful. Regardless, I'm very much looking forward to this, especially to see if I can make a backswing with eight layers of clothes and break the record of most times puking in 18 holes, currently held by BG.

M -- Morgan, Seth. Author of the Greatest Book Ever, "Homeboy," a copy of which was the first bounty I ever gave to a wpbt-er and which features the protagonist, Joe Speaker.

N -- Nugget, Golden. (Yeah, yeah, you try doing one of these lists sometime without cheating a little.) Site of a blogger mixed game in June 2005 that put me on tilt. Just like you never want to get in a land war in Asia, you never want to get between a raising war in Razz vs. The Brothers Nardi.

O -- O. I'm told this is/was a Cirque de Soliel show in Vegas. I wouldn't know. I've never been to a show. Cuts into drinking time.

P -- Peppermint Lotion. The bounty of the non-discerning masturbator.

Q -- Quantitative Analysis. You will be tempted to call the clock on me in the tournament, because I will be doing so much math in my head, which I'm not very good at, that time will stop. Or I might just be thinking of boobies. Either way, I will call and you will suckout.

R -- Rio. The first place I ever made a $100 wager on a single hand of blackjack. I was dealt two face cards. the dealer had 21. I haven't gambled there since (poker not being gambling, you know).

Also, Roshambo. I'd like to think I made that $100 back when Mrs. Head easily and summarily dispatched Phil Gordon in that epic match in 2005.

S -- Spearmint Rhino. Good gracious I nearly killed myself with scotch (at $12 a pop) here one night/morning, but it was totally worth it on multiple levels. Ask Div.

T -- Too Drunk to Call. What happens when you have a Mandalay Bay sportsbook filled with hungover poker degens and a horse running with that name? You all bet on it, despite its previous inability to hold leads as tiring speed. And when the sonofagun comes in at 14-1, you have a mini-riot on your hands.

We'll not mention the performance of one Mr. Otis.

U -- Underwear. At some point in Dec. of 2006, a poor unsuspecting janitor at the MGM walked into the bathroom and was confronted by the sight of my ripped and urine soaked underwear, an accident caused by my devotion to a craps table.

V -- Venetian. My favorite poker room and the site of perhaps my favorite meal ever, not because it was the best food, but because I was sick and went with Falstaff to the Noodle House where I got CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP WITH A FUCKING PORK CHOP IN IT.

Try to top that, Volt brothers.

W -- WPBT. You're all sick and depraved and I love you.

X -- Xanthos. Meaning yellow, or yellowish, like my jaundiced skin on Monday morning after my liver stops working.

Y -- Yugoslavia. Prior to the breakup of this Baltic state, the US played the Yugos in World Cup '98, a forgetable tournament for the Yanks as they went into their final group game 0-2 after losses to Germany (reasonable) and Iran (completely, totally unacceptable). They lost this game, as well, which I watched from mostly the fetal position in my Flamingo hotel room with a handful of others suffering similar hungover fates.

Z -- Zicam. There is something about a looming trip to Vegas that makes my immune system take a dive. I've been sick for at least the last two December WPBT events, spending the week leading up to arrival jamming Zicam swabs up my nose and mainlining Naked Juice. Somehow, I always seem to come through it, despite showing up ill. Greyhounds, a clutch beanie purchase and the greatest head massage ever have contributed in the past. By the time the weekend is over, however, the adrenaline is gone and I'm still sick.

This year (knock on effing wood), I'm in fine fettle. Ive been taking liberties with the anti-bacterial dispensers in the office and on the train. I've refused to touch ANYTHING on my morning commute. And every time AJ sneezed, I locked him in the closet.

So, about 24-hours 'til I begin the giddy slog through the desert. Another day to dodge germs. I will not be Typhoid Mary this year.

See y'all soon.