The Madness Begins

Right now, I am watching this year's best picture, The Departed. It may be 1 in the morning, and I may be getting up in three hours to watching the opening round of the NCAAs, but guess what? It's Madness!!! Sheer madness.

Alright, I've got a bone to pick with the land of the plunging neckliners. This whole friendliness, good will towards men, and benevolence directed at strangers is great and everything, but it absolutely needs an armistace while in the gym. Just yesterday, I am minding my own business, when my new "friend" Sean comes up to have an in depth chat, no, not chat, let's call it a discourse on weightlifting. For 10 minutes I was treated to Sean's theories on nutrition, how he can add muscle to his legs, his arms, why he smokes, etc. etc. Christ. I mean, granted, I completely understand why he would choose to tap my wealth of knowledge for some gracious physiological tidbits....so I told him he needs to purchase and drink dolphin milk.
Curious as to how a real conversation in the weightroom should go. Check out the following conversation, basically a verbatim transcript of the one I had yesterday with a former housemate, Steve.
Steve: Sup man
Me: Nothin
S: How's your new place?
Me: Eh, it's much better
S: That's cool, mine is...
Me: I don't give a fuck
S: Oh, alright - later man
Me: Peace.

That was simple, right? Well, unless it's a cute girl, then the conversation is as follows:
CG: Hi there, can you show me how to use this complicated piece of equipment?
Me: Umm, I don't think so. But those are some really short shorts.
CG: Ya, I got them at...
Me (turning away): I don't give a fuck

Sometimes I can't stand people. Wait, no, that's all the time.
I'm just kidding, guys; you're all cool, and most of the cats here are cool, but I think I lack the utterly-useless-interaction gene.

On an unrelated note, I've fallen back into the disgusting habit of Solitaire addiction. I don't mean Jane Seymour's [pretty fine] early days of James Bond (in Live or Let Die), but the Microsoft monstrosity that collars children and removes their freedom of choice, replacing it insead with a dopaminergic high and a sense of fulfillment. Christina's not going to like this one bit, but I can't give it up, I wish they made a patch for it. The problem is not the playing, it's the fact that I'll make the distinct choice to play until I win; this should take, what, 2 or 3 games? Four max? However, it never works out this way; Solitaire knows all the telltale signs of a junkie jonesing for his (my) fix of victory. Re-dealing too often, playing for aces, clicking F2 at the first sign of a blown game; all are symptoms the programe assesses to turn the competition into a sick, twisted game of keep the bouncing cards away from Ian. This clairvoyancy by a computer should be put to better use, Mr. Gates. Buy Cassini or something and look for life on Titan, have it tell fortunes, but for god's sake, please make it stop tormenting me.

Tomorrow I go in for my contribution to the Leukemia Foundation of Australia. Oh, and March Madness!!!