Rob Palmer kicks ass.

SuperDave's leaving do last night -- he's leaving the Trib to go to a Drum Corp competition site. It's perfect for him.

We started out in the Goat, where most Trib leaving parties start. However, this is the first time I've seen the waiters join in. SuperDave was apparently quite the regular. Who know? The waiters were all hugging him when we left, and one of them, Tito, came along to our next destination.

I hung out with the gang for a while, then jumped in a cab to go home. My cab driver was African, and speaking a language I didn't recognize. However, I kept catching words: "France." "Engeland." "No problem." "Are you talking about the World Cup?" I ask. He looks surprised, then grins. Senegal pulled a surprise win over France, the last Cup's winners. This is actually a sporting event I like to watch, but the original games are all at 2:30 a.m. and such. Oy.

However, Reuters' has a cool micro-site that I've been checking out. they even animate the goal of the match, which is pretty kick-ass. Check it out.

Have you seen this? Very cool. Someone should do that for Chicago. Somebody with graphic design skills. I.e., not me. Eric, perhaps?

As I expected, my reference to Evita goaded JP, the Original Divaphile, into writing:

Okay, so, your little game of inserting place names into Don't Cry for Me, Argentina is WAY cute--seriously!--but two complaints:

1) Please get the lyrics correct. It's not "Don't cry for MY Argentina"--there's nothing at all "yours" about it; you don't OWN it. Remember, it's all about ME! ME ME ME. Sorry, JP, that was a typo. Duly noted (in the Ulan Bator example) and changed.

2) Evita was written back when Sir ALW still had talent and is usually considered the pinnacle of his career. It's okay to like Evita, as long as you make fun of the rest of his work afterwards. (Usually starting with that dreck known as Cats.) Of course, if you're a loser like me, you'll mock him but still own every version of everything he's done. And lurve it. My problem with Andrew Lloyd Weber (and I'm too much an American to traffic in that "Sir" business) isn't that he's tacky -- it's that he wrote a song so fiendishly catchy that I am compelled to make up lyrics to it even though I don't know if I've ever heard it in full. But you're still a big geek.

Okay, three complaints.

3) You should rent the friggin' movie already! Madonna does a wonderful job--yes, even though she's Madonna--and the show works quite well when it's taken off stage and actually put on location. I'll take that into account. And, um, no. At least, not anytime soon, I'm not giving any of my dwindling hard-earned dollars to a Madonna movie. Feh.

Hey, JP -- you're in New York. Start blogging and put yourself on the map! You too, Jenn! And Steph and Ed! And, and, and.. everyone else I ever knew in New York! Yeah!

Here endeth the blogging evangelism.

I worked from home today to see that my cable got fixed and that the Polish Subcontractors fixed the bits they missed. They did. All is well. My over-the-sink elephant is still broken, though. Wah. (They were very contrite, especially when they found out where I got it.) I think I'm still going to hang him back up -- he'll just be the differently abled member of the over-the-sink-elephant clan.

Harumph. I am feeling less rapturous about my Polish subcontractors -- They were supposed to be finished today, but the medicine cabinet is still too high, the refrigerator is still at a wonky angle, and they broke one of my over-the-sink elephants from Hong Kong. I'd glue him back together, but I have no idea what they did with the trunk. Sigh.

News flash: People don't respect journalists. At least politicians and real estate agents were more abhorrent to the general populace.

Jane sent me an article about advertising via the homeless. Apparently they do it in San Francisco, too. I still find it disturbing.

Other evidence that I need to get out more:

I am listening to Lotti's Sci Fi mix, which is currently playing William Shatner's Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. It's diabolical, and yet, I'm still listening. Jesus, did anyone give him money to do this? It's awful.

For some reason I cannot at all fathom, I've had "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" stuck in my head. I have amused myself by inserting other place names:

Don't cry for me Ulan Bator
The truth is, I never liked you
With all your horse dung
And camels spitting.....

Don't cry for me, Kampuchea
The truth is, I'll only kill you
With the Khmer Rouge
And mountains of skulls....

Don't cry for me, Pennsylvania
The truth is, I'll always love you
With Philadelphia,
And all those cheese steaks....

Don't cry for me, California... West Virginia... North Dakota.... Upper Volta....

You get the idea. The trick is to get a good place four-syllable place name with the stress on the third syllable. Why am I doing this? I have no idea.

This can't be a good sign.

I've never even seen Evita. Damn you, Andrew Lloyd Weber! Damn yoooooooooooooooooooou!

I have no idea how anyone could think this would be a good idea.

Back from Galena. All my stuff is still here. Huzzah! So are the Polish contractors. Less of a huzzah -- I hoped that all this would be done by the time I got back, but I'll live. There's only a few more things that need to be done -- molding and cable repaired around the heating vent, new vent covers and outlet covers in the bathroom, a new shower curtain rig in the bathroom. They'll be back Wednesday to finish it up. And I can use my bathroom now! Huzzah!

And they just hauled the abandoned fridge on my back porch away! Can I get a huzzah? Huzzah!

Everything looks great. And dusty. But great. I've been taking pictures of the process, and just freaked out the subcontractors by taking their picture. I have no idea how you say "psycho" in Polish, but I have a feeling that will be the general feeling expressed on the way home.

But enough about them: Let's talk about me! And the long weekend.

Galena: Way fun. Eleven of us -- Angie, Jordan, Brian, Diane, Wayne, Laura, Lotti, John, Julie, Brad and me -- rented a five-bedroom house together at this resorty place, Eagle Ridge. The house had the requisite grill and decks and porches and pool table and hot tub. Eagle Ridge had the requisite Midwestern resorty things: golf courses, pool, rolling hills, trees, birds signing, gorgeous views, deer, etc. We also had the requisite cold, crappy-ass weather for the first couple of days, but Sunday and monday were gorgeous. The golfers golfed (and you pay real money for that -- why?) while the non-golfers went into Galena, a "quaint" "historical" town that was actually pretty cool. Recessions meant the cool old houses were never torn down, so it's still got a great old-town feeling. It's also apparently a haven for artsy types, according the guide on the trolley tour, who said he was a retired-ish musician. By Historic, of course, we mean from the mid-1800s, but hey, that's old for out here.

Digression -- As an East-Coaster, who went to a school that recently celebrated its 250-year anniversary, 1850s doesn't seem that old. And, yeah, yeah, I know, Newton, your house is older than my country. It's still cool out there. End digression.

Most of the time was spent lounging around the house, steeping in the hot tub, making (and drinking) copious amounts of margaritas and such, and eating food that just can't be good for you, including a snack mix that Angie's mom brought up that we dubbed crack. Yes, it was that addictive. We talked trash and mocked each other viscously and had a good time all around.

Now, this may come as a shock to you, but it has been brought to my attention that I may be, yes, a wee bit over-competitive/self -righteous.

Exhibit A: We drove to Galena in Lotti's Barbiemobile, an SUV. Someone was pulling out of a parking space ahead of us. The sign next to the curb said "Small car only." The following conversation ensued:

Lotti: Ooh, a space!
Me: Wait, it says small car only.
Lotti. But I can totally fit in there.
Me: This is NOT a SMALL CAR. I HATE it when SUVs park in small car spots!
Lotti: But look at the other SUVs parked here!
Me: (Foaming at the mouth) NOT A SMALL CAR! THEY ARE ALL ASSHOLES! THAT DOES NOT MEAN WE NEED TO BE ASSHOLES! WE ARE NOT A SMALL CAR!
Lotti: Yipe.
Angie: Why don't we give the parking space to Laura [who was behind us, driving a small Saturn]?
Lotti: Whatever.
Me: [Steam ceasing coming out of ears, eyes going back into sockets, veins stopping throbbing.] Ok.
Laura and everyone in her car: Wow, they're giving up their space! That was nice! Um, why?
Angie: Don't ask.

Exhibit B: Playing Trivial Pursuit late at night. Lotti and John are winning. Everyone is tired and willing to let the game come to a merciful end, but my sense of TP superiority is offended. Lotti starts giving people hints, just to move the game along. I lodge a protest. The judging on correct answers gets way too lax. I complain vociferously. Angie woke up enough to roll her eyes at me. I believe that Julie is openly laughing at me, and probably thinking "I can't believe I used to live with this freak." Finally, Lotti and John get to the middle space to win the game. Most people say give them a question in a category they can ace: Entertainment. I (and Julie, thank you very much) insist on their worst category, Sports and Leisure.

Angie: We're EXHAUSTED. Can't you just let them win?
Me: No, dammit. Sports and Leisure. My honor is on the line.
Angie: *Whimper*

Yes, I made the game go on another hour, when most of the room was well-nigh comatose. On the upside, Lotti only gloated a little, and I didn't kill her in her sleep. I feel we're making progress.

Further evidence of progress: We did not, despite evil cackling plans early in the night, crank call Dean to sing the "Lotti's Vasectomy Clinic" song. Ditto Zeke. We let Heather, Carrie, Marnie, Katie (and young Will) and others sleep undisturbed. We refrained from placing a collect call to Tif in London, under the names "Death and Destruction." (Hey, it's worked before.) We cleaned up after ourselves. I only lost control of my neck once.

My god, I may be turning into an adult.