It was raining when I left work today. But it tapered off as I got on the highway and eventually went away. The sun came out and I saw a double rainbow.

As I drove, the mist kicked up by the cars in front of me made the rainbow appear to continue down in front of me, like I could open my window and reach out and touch it.

And to top it all off, Devo was on the radio. What a way to start a weekend.

I drank three (3) quarts of iced tea yesterday. This may help explain the fact that I spent most of the afternoon in the bathroom.

And either I was not sleeping well last night, or else I was dreaming that I was not sleeping well. Either way, I don't think I'll drink that much iced tea in one day anymore.

I've decided that if I ever need to hit an intruder with something, it would be my driving iron. How did I decide this? Our story starts last week...

I was sleeping. I'm slightly awakened by a pounding, but it stops and I fall back asleep. The pounding comes again and I wake up, but I'm still in a daze. It's about now that I realize the pounding is not on my door or coming from one of the other apartments, it's someone pounding on the window in my office.

I realize how obnoxious that sounds, saying 'my office'. It's really just a converted storage space with a desk and tons of boxes off of my bedroom. But I like to sound high-falutin' and say office. So sue me.

Someone is pounding on my office window. I check the clock and it's 2:30 in the morning. Who the hell is pounding on my office window at 2:30 in the morning?

With the blinds in my bedroom closed, I can't see who is outside. But I can see that there are 4 or 5 people walking around out there, waving flashlights around. It's a very surreal sort of thing. I lay there, wondering if someone is trying to break in or if there are aliens outside. I still wasn't completely awake.

I decide someone may try to break in and that I should arm myself with some sort of weapon, just in case. But what? My mind completely skips the knives in my kitchen and zooms in on my golf clubs. Yes, those will work! But which one? Of course, my first choice is my 3 wood. But it is my only wood, and I'm kind of protective of it since I got it re-shafted. So the 3 wood is out.

That leaves the putter or my irons. Putter is out, just on principle. Plus it's the nicest club I own. So which iron? A wedge would be nice, because of the loft, but I'd prefer something with distance. The 3 iron comes to mind. Then I remember I have a driving iron in my bag. Someone I was golfing with in a golf outing 3 years ago let me borrow it for the day. I still have it. That seals it. The driving iron it is!

But now that I've decided which club to use, no one is outside anymore. I get up and tiptoe to the kitchen to get a look at the area where all the commotion was occurring. There is no one there. I notice something out of the corner of my eye and look out my living room window. There are four police cars outside with their lights going. As I watch, two leave.

It seems that I have missed everything, so I go back to bed. I never did grab the driving iron.

The next day I called the police station to find out what was going on. The lady who answered the phone said, and I quote, "I don't know where you would call to find that out." I was thinking, "This is the police station, right?" But I didn't say anything.

And I found out that my golf clubs were in my trunk anyway.

I was originally going to call this entry 'fuck nostalgia' and it was going to be this bitter, obscenity-filled screed against pretty much everything that has ever happened before today. I wrote it in my head while standing in front of a fire at that party I went to last Friday. Then I got some sleep and had some breakfast. I feel better now.

But I had to keep that title.

There was also going to be this totally passive thing about liking a girl and professing it here. I did come up with the phrase 'just north of nil' to describe the chances of her seeing this, and I do like that phrase. Feel free to use it if it fits a situation of yours.

I think I'll just tell her instead and see what happens.

The eighties party itself was a wash. I got there and got to talk to the one person I knew for about 5 minutes. The rest of the time I stood in front of the aforementioned fire and drank my beer.

It reminded me of this toga party I went to in college. It was the second party I went to as a college man. I had run into someone from high school who graduated on year ahead of me and he invited me. So of course I went. I mean, it was gonna be just like Animal House, right?

Wrong.

I arrived and paid my three bucks. This got me all the Busch Light I could drink. Of course, when that ran out, they brought out the Keystone Light. Your typical college party.

As I walked around, I realized I knew only one person at that party too. So I did the best I could to try and fit in. I thought something might come of the moment when some random girl walked in while I was using the bathroom and left shouting, "I saw penis!", but I was wrong. I ended up spending the night talking to the one guy no one else would talk too.

I just realized that might have been what he was doing. Weird.

I called a cab to take me back to my dorm and let two other people from the party ride along. The best part of that? I stuck them with the cab fare.

I skipped my first eighties party in 1993. Ten years later, I find myself heading to one.

Yes, 1993.

It was thrown by my then girlfriend Lija. And on top of that unwieldy first name (pronounced 'leah'), she was blessed with the last name Ozols. I don't know where she is anymore. We broke up and things moved on. But I still think I would have skipped that party.

I made my first mix tape of eighties music way back in 1992. I'm not counting all those tapes everyone seemed to make by taping songs off the radio when they were kids. I mean actually taking a few cds and putting together a tape full of eighties music. I'm still trying to figure out why there were compilations of eighties music available in 1992.

For that long ago party, I ended up showing up at Lija's apartment as it was winding down. There I was, surrounded by tons of neon clothes, ripped sweatshirts and jelly jewelry and watching people celebrate a decade that had ended 3 years earlier. I wasn't struck with the oddness of it then, but I am now. Nostalgic for 3 years ago? What the heck was that about?

Now I suppose you are all wondering how I couldn't be nostalgic for the eighties. That magical time time when you could turn on the tv and see The Smurfs and their underwater knockoffs The Snorks. When A-ha and Bananarama and Kajagoogoo filled the airwaves with their sweet sounds. How could I not miss those times?

It's because I spent most of the eighties looking like this:

I'm not that ashamed of that picture. I made a much bigger appearance-related mistake in the winter of 1991, my freshman year of college. I decided to grow a beard. And not trim it for 2 months. And because I had the kind of mustache that any 13 year old boy would love, but not an 18 year old one, I shaved it off. And kept it shaved off. So I looked like a particularly disreputable Amish person.

How much did everyone dislike this look? I had an audience when I shaved it off just before Christmas.

Back to the party in 2003. I have a feeling I may be one of the few people who will remember Saturday morning cartoons being interrupted to tell me that President Reagan had been shot. Or the theater where I saw 'Ghostbusters'. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm being a little melodramatic.

Nah.

In the email invite for this party that was sent around, there was a quote that made me a little sad.

I mean, a vintage store? Were the clothes that I wore back then that much different than the clothes I wear now? Then I thought about it and decided they weren't. I have a G.I. Joe shirt. I have Wranglers. I have a A Flock of Seagulls t-shirt. All of these clothes are less than 4 years old. Yes, even the A Flock of Seagulls shirt. I bought it when I saw them in 2000.

Yes, I saw A Flock of Seagulls in 2000.

So I still had clothes like I wore back then. Yes, I no longer had the black skinny tie, or the square wool one. I no longer tight rolled my jeans. The Wranglers no longer have the big plastic patch on the back that you could peel off and use as a reverse stamp. And best of all, I no longer wore the tinted monstrosities that passed for glasses back then. But I still wore jeans and t-shirts. And that's all I really wear. Kind of one of the good things about not being on top of fashion.

So when I head to that party, I'll have my hair spiked up because that's what I did way back then. I won't have the mullet, but is that really a bad thing? I'll put on my A Flock of Seagulls t-shirt and my Wrangler jeans with the fashionable rip. I'll tight roll those suckers and wish I had my old spiderweb Airwalks. And I'll party like it's 1999.

Hello nostalgia.

Just when I thought MC Serch wasn't paying attention to the world, he updates his list of people getting the Gas Face. I'm glad I was reading The Onion when I was, otherwise I never would have known. Thanks Onion!

Of course, this is copyright (©) The Onion. Please don't sue me.

I made a posting on lowbrow.com the other day.

And I did indeed steal it. It came from Lore over at The Brunching Shuttlecocks.

When I came home yesterday, I found a push lawnmower in my garage. It wasn't mine, so I put it on the side of the garage and pulled my truck in.

It helped me forget that I have a 14x10, 6 man tent set up in my living room. It's taking up a good chunk of the dining room too.

I went camping this weekend at Governor Dodge state park. It was a good time.

Of course, it was city folk camping. We had a site and the bathrooms were just down the road. None of this backpacking in and putting food in a tree and cooling stuff off in a stream that would happen if we were real campers. But it was still fun.

And I got to help rescue a little girl who was locked in the bathrooms.

We were playing frisbee golf down by one of the beaches. I had my usual frisbee, The Pink Lady. She's a pink thing from Central Michigan University's food services that I received from a friend back in school. And it wasn't an official course, but one of our special make-it-up-as-you-go-along courses. It was hole 6 and I had a lie right outside of the women's bathroom. The bathrooms were undergoing construction and a sign on the outside said to be sure to use the deadbolt because there was room for only one person at a time.

As I went to make my next shot, I hear, "Help! I'm stuck in the bathroom!" come from inside the women's bathroom. Of course I thought this was a joke. So I asked if she was really stuck. She was. So we wiggled the door and told her to keep trying the deadbolt until it opened. Which it did. And with that, we continued our game.

My team lost.

The moment I knew Friday was the kind of day where you just smash the alarm clock when it goes off, roll over and go back to sleep was about 15 minutes after I got to work. I had spent 30 extra seconds on my hair in the morning to give myself that fashionably messy look. I put on my new shirt, one I hadn't worn before and headed out the door.

When I got to work, I headed to the kitchenette. I was cleaning out my mug when I splashed dish soap on my shirt. No big deal, I was able to brush most of it off. I then filled the mug up with hot water, plopped a tea bag in and walked back to my cube. On the way I spilled on myself twice.

I settled in and tried to take my mind of it by listening The Pharcyde and Black Sheep. That helped.

After lunch, stuffed with fried fish and fries, I settled in to catch up on some internet-based humor websites. I payed a visit to one of my old favorites, The Brunching Shuttlecocks, only to find out that they are no longer doing new material. Sigh.

After work, I headed over to the grocery store where I found out that 3 pounds of honey costs $12. Rip. But I need it because I was going to be making some honey lemon wheat. So I got it. After getting home and assembling all my supplies, I started boiling 2 gallons of water. When it was boiling, I dropped in the first of two pounds of dry malt extract. It was then I realized that I had made the cardinal mistake of not having a glass of cold water on hand to help control boil overs.

The resulting foosh of hot water and malt put out both pilot lights on my stove and left cups of water in my stove and and on the floor. Boiling water. I spent time cleaning it up and then had to clean both pilot lights to get it them work. The rest of the beer making process went off without a hitch. It's now merrily fermenting, but if it turns out I'll be happy. And I'll drink lots of it to celebrate.