(Ed note- Instant spoiler: this is a two-parter. Because I have too much to say and you probably would get bored and not read it all...)

That post about Huey Lewis, the one currently lingering in Blogger purgatory, is pretty much rubbish. There's...there's some decent pieces, some scrap with value. Leftovers sitting in a digital Pull-A-Part salvage yard. But for the most part it's little more than the rusty pieces of incomplete thoughts and bad grammar. Shit that even the Homeless doesn't want.

The short story is that I fucked myself up watching Do You Believe In Love on the Youtube, over and over and over and over. And over. My mind short-circuited by an Eighty's spiritual precursor to Grum's Through the Night, I spent most of Friday giggling, hungover, and at work. Then I ate Thai food and destroyed myself under the mantra of Good Fun at Johnny's Little Bar.

See, last week was supposed to be my Down Time, quiet time to ease my way into the anal rapage that is to be the month of May (and April. And May.) Except I wasn't paying attention in third grade (or any of the other 24 subsequent years) and I still have no idea how to read a calendar, which is why I spent most of my Quiet Little Week smoking my tires, the RPMs bouncing off the rev limiter, hair metal blasting from the tape deck.

Quick Plug: Go eat at Banana Blossom (er, Hammock?) in Ohio City. It's the newest endeavor to open up in the terrible location that has seen Halite, Budapest Blue, and Jazz 28 come and go in the past few years. Dinner on Friday was stellar; I'd love to see a good place like it make a decent go at It in that spot. So do your part (you know, if you like Thai food...)

Which brings me to Now. Now I have to take a federally-mandated furlough. Now I have to throttle it back. It's like playing a game of Red Rover, Red Rover with Life. Sooner or later they're going to break through; try to keep your best player from watching from the sidelines.

And with Down Time comes the Down Swing. My mind works better at a sprint; my body is sucking wind way too early anymore. So between reestablishing Dominance over Little Bar to whiskey flights at Sullivan's (which was super fun with Bridget!) this past weekend, my body was like John Candy trying to run the hundred meter dash. Which is not a the kind of conditioning you want to see headed into the Spring Games. I've already committed to the St. Patrick's Day Triathlon, the Opening Day 4x100 Relay, and the WhiskeyFest Death March.

But I'm not one to let up on the gas. The best place for the accelerator is resting firmly against the floorboards, leaving little more than a pile rubber and burnt clutch material on the ground, the smell of race fuel hanging heavy in the air. But some times...some times... you have to because...