This, which occurred to me yesterday while pondering my upcoming drive through (among other places) Nebraska, is the only business-related thought I've had in weeks.

We must capture Warren Buffet and force him to appear on CNBC in the back half of a horse suit, with Alan Greenspan as the front.

Ask me if I miss biz journalism. Now guess the answer.

***

I worked at a bat mitzvah on Saturday, pouring Shirley Temples for an endless stream of attitudinal 7th graders. The traditional games, particularly Coke & Pepsi, have gotten really complicated since I last went to a bar mitzvah in 1994. (No, that's not the year I was 13. Hush). Coke & Pepsi now has all sorts of extra commands like "Shakespeare" (drop to your knees and say "to be or not to be") and "Homer Simpson" (traditional "d'oh!" exclamation and gesture). Sure, Homer Simpson didn't exist when I was 13, but Shakespeare did. My theory is that today's youth need more complicated diversions. In addition, they dress better and are more attractive, or maybe those are just the ones that get invited to rich, popular girls' bat mitzvahs. Still, I could swear that when I was 13, even the Beautiful People had zits.

You also haven't lived until you've seen a bunch of adolescents dancing and singing along to Sean Paul in the presence of adults, to wit, "Let's get it on til the early morn, girl it's all good just turn me on." Omigod.

I feel old.

If you missed why exactly there's a hubbub over Senator Santorum, here's the transcript.

A "highlight:"
Santorum: I have no problem with homosexuality. I have a problem with homosexual acts.
So, no sex for you, gay people!
and
Because society is based on one thing: that society is based on the future of the society. And that's what? Children.
So, no sex for you, straight people who don't want kids!

A real highlight:
AP reporter: I'm sorry, I didn't think I was going to talk about "man on dog" with a United States senator, it's sort of freaking me out.

You can't make this stuff up.

I used to have this recurring dream where I was moving, and I had a very limited amount of time (say, 10 minutes) to get everything together that I needed, and in this dream I was severely panicked and just throwing most things away.

In 2000, this essentially happened while my ride to the airport waited patiently in the hallway and I dealt with all the stuff in our apartment we hadn't yet shipped, stored, or donated. What we didn't throw out, we put in his trunk, and it could still be there for all I know. I don't have that dream anymore.

Another recurring dream is that I miss something terribly important because of delays and lateness that are not my fault.

Tuesday, I missed a funeral because I was sitting in traffic. Maybe I won't have *that* dream anymore, either.

Do you have recurring nightmares? Email groundhogday@englishmajor.com

***

While in my hometown, I happened to drive past the Baptist church where the cop was shot on the lawn earlier this week. The funeral was today. I wanted to get out of town by 10am because that's when they were going to start closing streets. Apparently when a police officer is killed, cops come from all over the country. They were expecting 5000 people.

Lots of dying in my first and second degree this year. (Not the cop, though she was probably no further than third). At least one per month, many relatively young. Or maybe I'll live to be 113. Who's to know?

***

Somewhere in Connecticut, we decided, on a whim, to go to Newport, Rhode Island. I'd never been there and we were still wrecks after the whole funeral/traffic ordeal (and several other smaller ordeals) of the day before, so blowing off the afternoon seemed a sound mental health choice.

We stopped in a visitors center for travel information, and were greeted by a man-sized potato with big, bulging eyes, a "Rhode Island" t-shirt, and bermuda shorts. "Surfer Spud" is apparently part of a whole line of potato-oriented Rhode Island whimsy. I didn't know Rhode Island was big on surfing. I also have no idea why they call it "Rhode Island," as it is not an island. There must be some colorful story there, possibly involving potatoes.

So Newport and the surrounding area is "quaint with a capital quaint," as Rick put it. We'd shout out "Quaint!" at random intervals like antiquers with Tourettes. Another excerpt:

Jen: Oh, look at the cute little library that looks like a castle!
[15 minutes of driving]
Jen: Oh, look at the cute little library that looks like a *smaller* castle!

Weird. But what do you want from a region that even has a "Thrift Shoppe?" Only the classiest of used goods there, we assume.

Anyway, Newport is best known for rich people's houses. Tours exist, but cost money, so we were content to drive around. This is good, because everything in the area seemed to be "closed for the winter." On April 23. Don't laugh; it was chilly today. I cannot leave New England a minute too soon.

Being beer nerds, we also took the opportunity to visit Coatal Extreme Brewing Company in the town next door to Newport. It's located in what looks at first like a single-car garage, in a commercial park littered with boat parts and industrial-looking enterprises that look much less fun than brewing. But once inside, it's a perfectly good brewery space, and the head brewer was friendly and cheerful to these random people who'd just showed up at his door, even before he knew I worked for a beer newspaper. We even left with a gift six-pack. Too bad beer journalism doesn't pay the bills, but it certainly does stock the fridge. :)

This side trip, full of whims, wrong turns, minor bickering, and more fun than you can shake a quaint potato at, was excellent preparation for Jumbo Road Trip '03, which starts in less than a month. And yes, I'm feeling much saner now than I was this morning. Back to reality tomorrow, but now I'm ready.

Worked yesterday, serving brunch to well-heeled country club members and their pastel-clad children. Serving children for the first time wasn't as bad as I'd anticipated; it helps that they don't drink coffee (or decaf, or tea). Also, I had older kids, not the babies who squalled and cried and threw buffet food all over the dining room. Teenage boys at buffets, however, require a lot of bussing because they're hungry and go up to the food table, like, 14 times.

I still had a better job than whoever was in the Easter Bunny suit. Small children alternately hugged him/her with glee and posed cutely for parental pictures, or ran away screaming. There was also a bunny ice sculpture by the buffet tables. Lordy.

You've got to wonder about anyone for whom being a waiter/ess is too large a committment, so they must *temp* as a waiter/ess. Before this job, I'd never known people who lived in boarding houses. "Running from something," Rick suggested. I replied, "Or can't get their shit together." I wonder which I am. Maybe a bit of both.

Two phone calls yesterday after work. First, the husband of one of my old friends called to say her mother had died. Then, my friend who'd been overdue pregnant called to say the eagle had landed. I know when one door closes another opens, but the symbolism isn't usually so blatant.

The guy accused of killing a cop in my hometown, on a street corner about halfway between the houses of two of my high school friends, has been shot to death himself. The dead cop was Fair Lawn's first female police officer and, according to my parents, was reputed to be a nice person on and off duty. I presume the town is now suffering from Things Like This Don't Happen Here syndrome. But of course, they do.

Spam subject of the day: "My mom goes anal." I am so nostalgic for my early days on the Internet when I wanted every piece of mail that came into my box.

Lots of work to do before I leave for the funeral. Back later in the week.

No Catholic school for me, but this resonates.

The Oracle of Starbucks (via Glenn) says:

Hello, ass-clown. Nice try. Starbucks doesn't serve "regular fucking coffee " (though if they did you'd probably drink it). Try again, this time input something that Starbucks actually serves.

Yeah, like I know anything Starbucks actually serves.

It's Wednesday, so it's probably about time to make good on my teasers of Sunday.

I was at a gathering over the weekend with a lot of beer and many fewer people than expected. This, we decided, was an atmosphere ripe for drinking games. I was particularly keen on this since I'd never played one except I Never. The host produced two decks of cards and we decided on Asshole.

It's worth noting, at this point, that the majority of the group was native Japanese, Japanese-American, or the big white guy who'd lived in Japan and spoke the language. This was irrelevant to my evening until I learned that Asshole is a popular card game in Japan. No drinking, and kids play it. My fellow party-goers had been *raised* on this game. I was going to wind up drinking a lot. And I did. But I hang with nice people, so anyone who'd clearly reached their safe and sane limit was permitted (nay, ordered) to take future drinks with water.

On the way back to the T, Rick and I visited with the Harvard Divinity School Rhinos, cousins to the rhino that graces our former neighborhood in the Fenway. The inside joke is alive and well, and we rubbed their toes for luck and made wishes. I said something to the effect of, "O Rhino, I appreciate what you've given me in the form of good health, a cool-ass husband, amusing friends, and many other things, but could you also please send some money and possibly some career direction?"

You're only young once. After that, you need a new excuse.

Moral: Never play Asshole with a room full of Asians :)

The wino and the coffee are coming soon.

My IRS rant was premature. The accountants missed a line on our tax return and rather than owing $2000 for no good reason I could see, we're now getting $100 back. Much better.

Stay tuned for the friendliest wino in Boston, 10 gallons of coffee, and a drinking game.

I could write therapeutic fuck-you letters to many more agencies and individuals than the IRS, but let's move onto cheerier topics.

Back in November, I noticed a dollar bill in my wallet with a big red stamp on it directing me to WheresGeorge.com, a site that tracks the movement of dollar bills. I entered the bill's serial number and saw that a year earlier, it had been recieved as change from a lunch bill at an inn in New Jersey. About six weeks before that, it was in Hebron, Kentucky. Sure, what the hell -- I registered and said the bill came from the A Street Deli in Boston.

I recently got email saying "my" bill had been found at a Dunkin Donuts in Southington, CT. Endlessly amusing, for no good reason. Go George go!

Dear IRS,

As you can see from the tax return, I'm poor. Please stop taxing me like a business just because I get paid for writing with 1099s instead of W2s. It was irritating back when I made real money, but it's really pissing me off now. Actual businesses do not moonlight as kitchen staff.

Love and kisses,
Jennifer Muehlbauer, sole-proprietor of my broke ass
dba "The one in the bow-tie carrying a tray of salmon dinners"

I'm still boring lately, so more words of wisdom from Rick on The Man Who Fell To Earth.

Rick: What's the premise?
Me: David Bowie is an alien.
Rick. So it's a documentary.

*cymbal crash*

Journalist dies of a "pulmonary embolism" in Iraq.

Rick's comment: "If by that, they mean 'big hole in chest,' then sure."

Are we too cynical here at Not Too Late To Change The Name HQ? Or is it safe to disbelieve anything the media tells us that sounds remotely comforting?

I'm leaving Boston in less than 50 days, so really, how many more times can I bitch about the weather? I dunno...how much longer is winter going to last?

Periods of rain in the city and points south, the rain may mix with sleet at times Friday morning. Sleet, freezing rain, and rain west and north of the city. Highs near 32 degrees. Sleet and rain in the city and points south. Freezing rain, sleet and snow west and north of the city with accumulations of 1-to-4 inches possible. Lows 25 to 30.

Pardon me while I shake my fist at the sky for a while.

My breaks from work continue to be significantly longer than my periods of work. Send focus.