Geisha is essentially my “platonic girlfriend”, and if you’ve ever wondered what a “platonic girlfriend” is, here’s my definition: I’m her bitch and at her beck and call, but every now and then, she’ll clean my apartment. And there’s no sex, have I mentioned the complete and utter lack of anything resembling sex in my life for the last two years lately? Anyway, so she drove down to see her current boy-toy on the Virginia/Tennessee border and called me while I was at work demanding I google a park she passes every time she drives to visit him: Hungry Mother State Park. Anyoo, my ringer was off, so when I eventually got the message, I was already home.

Yes, yes, I know: Hungry Mother State Park? Where the eff did that name come from? Thank goodness for the internets:

Legend has it that when the Native Americans destroyed several settlements on the New River south of the park, Molly Marley and her small child were among the survivors taken to the raiders’ base north of the park. They eventually escaped, wandering through the wilderness eating berries. Molly finally collapsed, and her child wandered down a creek until the child found help. The only words the child could utter were “Hungry Mother.” The search party arrived at the foot of the mountain where Molly collapsed to find the child’s mother dead. Today that mountain is Molly’s Knob, and the stream is Hungry Mother Creek.

Too bad the child didn’t mutter “Maryland drivers suck!” because, for my money, a state park in Virginia named “Maryland Drivers Suck State Park” would be hilarious.

There are few names that symbolize “medical excellence” to me like Walter Reed hospital. The news that the hospital’s outpatient facilities failed an inspection is troubling for a lot of reasons, not least because, as the center of care for our injured troops fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan, it’s bothering to see that this country doesn’t seem to understand that “supporting the troops” doesn’t just mean body amour and tanks and rifles and grenade launchers.

Thankfully, the Army seems atop of the situation. By firing Major General George Weightman, the former hospital commander, the Army has, hopefully, sent a pretty clear message: “Troops. Deserve. Better.” And of course, by firing the top-honcho, every employee in the hospital is going to be looking to keep their backside out of harm’s way.

Firing the top guy is also the way it should be. Lead from the top. I’m pretty sure I’ve read somewhere that a military commander is responsible for the conduct of the people under his command (I got that from Star Trek). Good to remind people of that every once in a while.

Monday, when I was at the Franchise, Silent Bob neglected to put gas into his car and, indeed, ran out of gasoline. As a result, the Indy was, essentially, fucked. I didn’t hear about this until Wednesday, and found it very ironic when, in Gary’s Jeep to deliver forty-plus pizzas and two salad platters, his gas indicator flashed on. Oh, how fucking ironic, I thought, should it happen that I be unable to deliver this food for the same reason Gary was cussing out Silent Bob earlier today. Indeed, hah.

Anyway, so when I finished work late Wednesday night, my gas tank was kind of low. I figured, “No big” and decided to let it go until after class last night. I’m sure you’re figuring where this is going, and depending on how well you know me, you might even be correct.

So, I’ve run out of gas before. The last time was several years ago. I had my Jeep, with the broken dash gauges. I had to count miles to know when I was running low, and I miscounted, so I ran out of gas. Thirty feet from a gas station. Which, when you consider it, really wasn’t that awful of an experience. I did have to buy a little gas container, then, because I didn’t want to keep it around my apartment (I lived at The Colony at the time), threw it into the dumpster.

Anyway, so I didn’t run out of gas last night, but I came close. My Celica has a digital dash, and I was about two dits away from sputtering to a stop. So I drive home on York Road from Towson, and stopped at the BP just north of Margate. Pulled up, did the whole sex thing with the gas pump and the gas tank, and was standing around contemplating how horny I am*, when I noticed a sign on the pump directing how to pump gas. Needing to kill time, I read the sign, and noticed in particular a diagram instructing the pumper to wait three seconds after the pump had cut off before removing the pumpee, to keep gas from spilling.

Right, so, here’s where my mind went: something I’ve noticed as I get older is that I’ve gotta be real careful to make sure I’ve gotten all of the excess, um, “gas” out of my “pumpee” when I’ve been urinating. Mind you, I’m not talking about a flow of excess urine, I’m talking about, like, literally a drop or two. But, still, getting older sucks, especially when you’re worried about slacking at the urinal and trying to hide a small dark stain on your hopefully dark jeans.

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