… on this blog, tomorrow at nine am.

After six months …

… well, tune in tomorrow.

What’s up with blogger & blog-spot blogs?

I keep getting redirected to some strange website.

Probation before judgement, no points, fine reduced by half plus court costs. $65.50 later, here I am. Also, I totally went to the wrong courthouse in Towson twice before I got my retarded ass to the right one. Also, why the fuck did I dress up again? People in fucking sweats. Shit.

I was getting nervous when they weren’t doing the trooper’s tickets in alphabetical order. “Shit! They forgot mine! I’m supposed to be in another courtroom! I’m going to spend the night in jail!” but then they got to me. Huzzah! (I didn’t actually say “huzzah.”)

It wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be, but I’d be happy never to go to traffic court again. The first guy up lied about his driving record. “I don’t know, sir.” “You can’t remember back a year, you’re 22! I can remember back a year and I’m old. Try again.” “Clean, sir.” “Hmmm … driving with a suspended license, citation for…[ad naseum]” The judge had warned us that if we lied about our driving records — he was only checking back a year — we’d be issued the maximum $500 fine.

A teenage girl showed up with her parents. She was cracking jokes with her dad when her mom smacked her with some papers and snarled, “We’re only here because of you!” softly enough so she couldn’t be overheard but loud enough that everyone did. The judge hadn’t arrived yet.

One guy went up, “How do you plead?” “Yeah.” Boy the judge was cracking jokes about that kid, but let him go also with a PBJ. The judge read a little statement about stuff, mentioning that the things he were concerned with were prior moving violations, respect shown to the officer during the traffic stop, and something else that I can’t remember. The baliff had also mentioned that anyone slamming the doors on their way out of the courtroom would spent the night in custody. Eeep!

Anyway, I got PBJ, paid, was happy, left, went to get my car, ran errands, came home, no work tonight, time to clean? I think yes. Also: finish Hogwarts.

So I have a gimmick when I get to someone’s door. “Hi, your total is $400.”

No one ever falls for it. Actually, one lady did but she was high as a kite and the room full of potheads behind her all panicked and everyone was searching through their wallets. I told them I was joking, they all looked at me blankely for a minute, then exploded into laughter and gave me a $10 tip. I think I could’ve made out with a couple hundred there, and the next morning they’d'a been like “Where’s our money?” and I would’ve been like “In my bank account, bitches!”

Last night I finally got the clue that I’ve been using that gimmick too much. Run up to a house, knock on the door, lady answers, I give my line, she snorts, “Yeah, I know what price you’re getting!” Not in a, y’know, “TWO EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!!!” way but a “nice try” way. She invited me in and while her husband was tracked down (he had the $$$) she joked about how they were careful to make certain of the total before hanging up the phone so as not to be tricked by me when I arrived. Not in a “you deliberately try to confuse people and get extra money!” tone of voice, but a “you fuck with me? I fuck with you!” joking tone.

Her husband, who had not been in ear-shot when I first gave the fictitious total arrived, saw me, “Oh, four-hundred bucks, then?” and sent me on my way with a nice tip.

I mean, they are regular customers, but if they’ve got it memorized, I really need a new gimmick. I’m sure some of the other regulars (particularly those who order several times a week) are getting kind of sick of it too.

Hmmm.

“Two large anchovy pizzas?”

I like it.

Wait, you’re supposed to mail the ticket back and check what you want to plea?

See, I just called the info thing and found out I need to be in traffic court tomorrow at 1:30. Traffic court, wait, did I skip right to a fucking trial?

My heart is about to explode.

Tomorrow I go to traffic court for the first time, ever.

I was stopped by a State Police speedtrap on I-83 just north of the city line for speeding. The ticket is for 74 in a 55.

This is my first traffic ticket. I have spoken to many of my coworkers about traffic court — two of them, Sketchy and James, are in traffic court at least once a week — and how best to get out of the ticket. Both advised pleading “guilty with an explanation” and then some trite lines about “oh, I’m sorry, blah-blah-blah.”

So really, when I say “I need help” what I mean is “I need advice.”

So, advice please. And since I don’t have big boobs to wave in the judge’s face to get a PBJ (I know, right, I love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!), I’m going to have to rely on my charm, my stunning good looks, and my almost spotless driving record.

(In addition to the ticket, I have a citation from fall ’04 for failing to display my registration to an officer.)

The Freak Ice Storm (complete with rain and thunder & lightning) began as soon as I got onto I-83 heading north into the county.

I’d just dropped a very very very drunk BJB off at her place (“Those are the crack dealers … don’t stop … well, unless you want crack …”) and was tired after a very good and enjoyable happy hour.

I was also happy to be in a car — and not walking home like Fool & Eric or Wombat & Sally.

Broadsheet was there, and when I quizzed her about JHACO (or whatever it is) she mimed throttling people.

Zenchick and Jennetic teased me about an unfortunate choice of words regarding the progress of Hogwarts since the last time they’d seen it. “Oh, don’t stop now,” Jenn teased. Geez.

Jessica came but was too good for any of us and left. She brought stalker Russell, but where oh where was Young? Or Jaime?

Cara told me all about the differences between the rollergirl thing that she does and the one on television. Apparently, no, you can’t use a tire-iron to smash in an opponent’s face. Well, what’s the fun then?

Tracy showed me a list of the top nine-hundred and seventy-four thousand reasons he hates one of his coworkers, then demonstrated some of the reasons. Yep, if that coworker co-worked with me, I think he’d be in the dumpster the end of the first night.

Double-Dogged’s Frank showed up fairly early on — did I mention I was the first person to the bar? Well, I was — and brought his daughter along. His daughter was also fairly tipsy by the time they left, not all that un-understable when you consider that BJB insisted on showing us all a “snotty e-mail” she’d recieved from a co-worker (that and his daughter was in a bar surrounded by – let’s face it – geeks). “Two exclamation points!!!! I got a [ridiculously high score] on my SATs! I got into Brown! I’m not a blonde! Why do they hate me so much?” Seriously, if I hadn’t been driving, I’d've been drinking too. (Love ya’, BJB).

ACW showed up, as did Timonium 21093′s Bryan and Cosmic Shambles’ Mike.

I think I covered all the bases.

Oh, yeah. I had a big cheeseburger and a lot of fries. Slippin’ off the diet never tasted so good.

(PS – Frank’s daughter is sizzlin’).

I’m leaving for Canton now. I’m estimating I’ll arrive at the bar about six, when you take into account how many times I’m going to get lost.

Gmail, why oh why do you keep giving me a “server error”?

Fucker.

Have I been doing this for four weeks now? Crazy!

One pound.

That’s what I lost last week. Truthfully, I’m surprised I lost any weight. I wasn’t “bad” about my eating (not too “bad”, anyway), but I was super awful bad on exercising.

So. I have now lost a total of — drumroll, please — fourteen pounds.

Next week will be better.

Oh, yeah: Happy Hour tonight. You’ll be seeing a lot less of me.

I could fit that in my basement …

… oh, right.

Hmm. Anyone want to help me excavate under my living room?

Every few months I actually watch part of a Saturday Night Live episode, and when I finally walk away, I ask myself: “Was it all an illusion? Or wasn’t, at one point, this actually a funny show?”

Actually, The Ballad of Young Chuck Norris was hilarious.

All the other sketches fell on their faces, and wasn’t Peter S. constantly looking off-screen, at cue cards, or did I imagine that?

Arrrrr!

Neckbone and I finally meshed our schedules and went down to Continental Arms late this afternoon to break in the forty-five I bought last year. Apparently we chose to go at the same time a group of Otakon members did — which was amusing, because I thought Otakon was held in the summer? Never-the-less, a group of about forty geeks freaked out the employees behind the counter and — holy shit, a hot chick working in a gun shop! — the hot girl rounded ‘em all up into the “classroom” and was taking them onto the range in groups.

We actually didn’t have to wait too long before a shooting aisle opened up. They’ve got fifteen or sixteen, and all were in use. The dudes to our left were raining on us with ejected shells from their Glock, and some dude way at the end was going fully-auto with something that made a “braaaa-haaaa-haaaa” noise and turned his target into, uh, well, not much of a target.

Until today, a .357 was the most powerful handgun I’d fired. I was nervous about the kick of the .45, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d been expecting, and if I’d been able to see better (more on this later) my accuracy probably would have been at least slightly better. I fired with a two-handedgrip — one hand is on of the handle and operates the trigger, while the other hand comes up underneath, with the palm against the bottom of the magazine and the fingers against the back of the hand operating the trigger. Although I thought I had the proper grip on the weapon, apparently I didn’t as there’s a nice little cut where the beavertail was on my right hand (which was holding the weapon). I switched posture so that I was holding the gun with my left hand, and while the same area on that hand was red, the skin didn’t break (hoorah!).

I could barely see anything out of the scratched and shitty range-glasses. Neckbone had to shout into my ear (over the din of the shooting and the heavy ear protectors) “MISS!” or “HIT!” or “No, no, you’re not even coming close.” Meanwhile, when it was his turn (we alternated firing in groups of five), he would be specific (“See where it says, ‘instructor sign here’ on the target…?”)

I don’t have a lot of experience with shooting, and what I do have is with my revolver, which doesn’t spit spent shells all over the place. At least a dozen times, a spent .45 casing bounced off my glasses, my face, my forehead, and both shoulders. At one point, we were getting hit with shells from the Glock in the next aisle which kept spitting shells over the half-wall and onto us. One hit my shoulder and I turned around thinking Neckbone was tapping on my shoulder. Stupid Glock.

One hundred and fifty rounds later, the gun warm to the touch — the barrel hot! — we packed up and hurried out of the Shooting Range cum Postal Office before all of the geeks flooded the actual shooting range.

Well, okay, just “Epiphanies”, but … I couldn’t resist.

I have one thing to say: BAH HUMBUG FOR MIRACLE CURES.

It had to completely cure the cancer? It couldn’t just delay the inevitable by a year? This plotline reeked of Star Trek III: The Search for Spock.

I like Roslin. I like the character. And one thing about the character was that she was supposed to die. I hate when tv shows build this great, tragic flaw into a character onto to pull back at the last moment and say “Sike! Just kidding!” Laura’s cancer storyline were just a big cock tease, and this episode just seemed … oh! It’s frustrating.

I don’t thing BSG would be better if Laura died, actually, I think it might get worse — one of the best things about the show is the incredible civillian/military dynamic between Roslin and Adama. But I just can’t get it out of mind that it could have been handled better. I hope that perhaps the cancer will reappear in a few seasons with a powerful vengeance and kill Roslin, perhaps we find Adama the elected President by that point and he gets to put down fascist uprisings by Admiral Tigh. Heh.

***

Mention of the Pegasus, but hoorah for not seeing her or any of her crew. I’m sure we’ll see the ship from time to time but, really, it’s not Battlestar Galactica & Pegasus.

***

Wow. Sharon II is pissed about them Marines trying to abort her kid against her will. And good for Helo for standing up to Adama, even if he did almost get turned into “swiss lieutenant” for it. Here’s a wild bet: this will still end badly.

***

“I am not the man you think I am.”

A line delivered by Baltar, directed not just at “Gina”, but at the audience. Gaius Baltar is the man whose actions most directly provided for the downfall of the Colonies, as his relationship with the Cylon-agent “Gina/Number Six” gave the Cylons access to top-secret information at the Ministry of Defense and the opportunity to sabotauge the Colonies’ defenses.

Ever since he realized his accidental role in the near genocide of mankind, Baltar has been on the uber-defensive, every action on behalf of the Cylons taken to cover-up his own guilt. Yet here Baltar seemed to look at his actions, to look at the path he’d chosen for himself, and to make a conscious decision to damn the consequences and make sure he acted in the best way to ensure the survival of the human race — namely, by discovering the “miracle cure” and keeping Roslin alive (and as President).

Then he reads the letter Roslin had written him for him to read after her death. Yeah, Laura. Great choice of words. Baltar looked at the path he chose, a path of Cylon collusion, and he carefully stepped away from it. Then he got his feelings hurt in a letter, jumped on a bus, and signed boldly on the dotted line that read “Traitor.”

This kind of character development and treatment is why I LOVE THIS SHOW.

***

When Baltar freed “Gina” from the Pegasus in the last episode, she killed Admiral Cain, then started looking for ways to sabotauge the fleet she found herself with. So she found her way to join (or start) a radical-left-wing peacenik (but, y’know, with exceptions for trying to kill Viper pilots and succeeding at killing tanker-carrier crews) organization screaming “fascism!” at the military (frankly, however, not an entirely unjustified review of Adama’s command) and demanding peace with the Cylons.

As far as “peace with the Cylons” goes, of course, it takes two to tango, and I seem to recall that even offering an unconditional surrender wouldn’t stop the bloodlust of the Cylons. On the other hand, “Gina” doesn’t neccessarily want the organization to succeed — she just wants the fleet to tear itself apart so that the Cylons can pounce.

Roslin’s biggest strength — strong leadership — also seems to be a big downfall here. Releasing the spokesman for the organization to allow for negotiations (provided there are no other acts of violence), he is intercepted by Baltar who provides him with … the nuclear warhead, given to him by Adama for the “Cylon detector” last season.

Whooooooops.

Yeah, Roslin, great word choice with your letter.

(I would like to, in particular, object to #9. Particularly since I’ve been losing weight, I think a much more apt description would be “space shuttle” as opposed to “space station.”)