Good times, bad times, you know I've had my share.

Yesterday, the best friend and I dragged our girlfriends (best friends in their own right) out to see Frank Caliendo at a comedy club here in town. Good time, all around, lots of laughs, no tension, no arguments before or after. A stark contrast, really, to the last time the Remix and I went down this road.

You see, when I was a kid, from the second half of high school through my first four years of college, I had friends. Good friends, the kind who would step in front of a truck to save you, without a second thought. Bad friends, the kind who complain about your girlfriend when she dares to keep you from them, no matter how infrequently. Unfortunately for me, and for the relationship I once had with the girl I still (again?) love, I didn't really get the second part, at least not when it was important.

"The Guys," as we collectively called ourselves, were a tight group. I don't regret the friendships, the laughs, the good times. Like any past relationship, I prefer to think of the times we were good together, and not dwell on the way I grew up, out, and away from their influence.

We're still friends, sort of. The best friend was one of the gang, and he's like a second brother. I still see the others, off and on, at weddings and superbowl parties, and it's still fun. For a while. For your benefit, and my nostalgia, let's profile the gang...

Yo was a good guy, with a heart of gold and a liver of asbestos. We were good friends, roommates in our college dorm, our girlfriends similarly situated in a dorm across campus. He's still a good guy--when he's sober, and therefore rarely. By the time he drank himself out of college, there wasn't much to say to each other, really. When Yo and I are together now, it's still too tense, something too big has changed between us, mostly my own fault. It's not just my mistake, though. I judge, without meaning to. I can't drink until sunrise anymore--and my unwillingness is a sharp enough contrast to shame him, even when I don't mean to. I'll always remember him, though, talking softly and without the self-righteousness I was always too guilty of, while I lay crying in my bed, depressed and lost after the Remix and I cashed it in the first time. A lot of friends, a lot of places, would have still been good people without being so kind, but he was anyway, and with no selfishness.

The J-Dog is the one I talk to the most, the most grown-up, married to his high school sweetheart, the girl we used to tease endlessly for anything and everything she could say or do. When he married her, I think it caught up to us all. We mocked him because he had what we didn't, what we couldn't--someone who loved him anyway, even when he was trying to light pop cans on fire, or saving gay hardcore porn as someone's desktop when they had the poor judgment to go to a class. She still loves him, more than we did, and rightfully so. We used to think that each other would be all we'd ever need. The J-Dog proved us wrong, so much so that he doesn't need us anymore. And still, when the mood is right and enough empty beers are on the table, we can still laugh, still remember what it was like watching American Ninja with tears rolling down our faces because we were laughing so hard.

The Dragon is still the baby of the group, the youngest both in years and maturity. When we were chasing girls, he was doing jigsaw puzzles in his bedroom. When we were getting married, he was flirting via emoticon with freshmen on AIM. He still doesn't have a real job, a girlfriend. We've joked for years that he might be gay, but I hope for his sake that he isn't. Not because I don't approve, but because if he is, the last 25 years must have been torture, stifling himself to save some face. He was a sidekick, though, the best kind. Never had a bad word for anyone, never one to ask you the tough questions, The Dragon is the one who would never ask you to act like a grown-up. Want to do a J at nine in the morning? He's in. Want to get drunk two hours before your Spanish final? You know who's buying the first round. My good memories of the Dragon are too numerous to count, but they're all about the same. Sitting back on a couch, with a good buzz, laughing and planning. The Dragon used to talk about hitting the lotto and buying us all houses in the same cul-de-sac, with a bar in the middle. We laughed and agreed, and then slowly everyone moved on to their own idea of the perfect house, none of which involved spending the rest of our lives together.

Zorba the Greek was the sweet, dumb one. Smart as a bag of hammers, but always prosperous, making the kind of money at 18 that I didn't see until three years of post-college work. Now he's the rich one, the club kid, sleeping with 20 year olds every night until he settles down to marry a sweet and silent virgin with Greek parents. Racist and misogynistic, homophobic and cruel, somehow we all overlooked it, all the time, and he was one of us. We used to play poker at Zorba's house, with his dad and uncles, and I believe that's where I really learned the game. Staying up all night, when we'd wake his mom up at 3 she'd wander bleary-eyed into the kitchen to whip up a snack....usually four or five courses, with dessert. We had fun, then, but like everyone else, we have little to talk about anymore. He's my realtor, for what that's worth, but he's not much more, not these days.

I don't miss these guys, exactly. They're still largely the same, and if I wanted to spend a weekend drunk off my rocker, reminsicing about high school football and arguing about movies, they're all still there. Back then, I blew it with the Remix because I couldn't give that up, I didn't want to, and I certainly wouldn't let her take it from me. Now, I'm happier sitting at home with the Remix, talking about whatever strikes our mood, cuddling on the couch and reveling in each other's company. I used to feel like I didn't know who I was, separate from my friends. Now, I don't know who I am when I'm with them. I can see the ghosts, lurking in the shadows of my brain, occasionally leaping forward for a belly laugh or a round of shots, but the rest of the time I'm on the outside looking in, remembering how good it used to be but painfully aware of how bad it always was.

The way to a man's heart...

So right now, there's a lemon-garlic chicken, four miniature apple pies, two pans of gratin potatoes, and a pan of rolls baking in the oven at casa de Remix. Could I be any happier?

On the agenda for next weekend, the best friend, the BFGF, the Remix and I will be taking in the 7pm Sunday show of Frank Caliendo's recent comedy tour. (Yes, we know it's the senior citizen special, but we saved four dollars a ticket. Fuck, that's a watered-down beer for each couple to share.) I'm really looking forward to it, to be honest. For all the cool things to do around my apartment, I very rarely do any of them. Here's hoping it's a good time, and a good show.

Is there something in the water?

Everyone is getting engaged. By everyone, I mean my brother, and the best friend. By engaged, I mean promising to someday (not too soon, of course) get married, have babies, and spend the rest of their lives sharing living quarters and laundry duties.

I have been engaged twice. Once, too young and too quickly, and with no idea what to do next. Once, still too quickly, and to the wrong person entirely. I intend to do it again at some point in the future, with I'll possibly even have a chance to rectify the disaster I made of the first one. Anyway, I'd have to consider myself an engagement expert at this point, seeing as how I've done it more than anyone else I know.

My brother has been dating the same girl since high school. The laugh at the same jokes, they have the same friends, they even look startlingly alike. From the get go, it's had all the makings of a storybook romance. The best friend took the BFGF to prom, back when she was just the Remix's best friend. It's been up and down, but they seem to love each other, and he has to know by now that no other girl is going to put up as gamely with his various eccentricities. They all seem happy together, faux nervousness and commitment-phobic posturing aside.

I have two bits of advice for these fairy tale couples. One, remember that the wedding is your day. If you want tuxes with hawaiian shirts, or chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, tell Modern Bride to go fuck itself and do it up right. It's a party, it's a celebration of your particular relationship, and if your relationship parties like Guns 'n' Roses on a three day bender, rock on.

The more serious bit of advice--storybook romance or no, "happily ever after" rarely means just that; and "The End" isn't anywhere near the page with the wedding picture. Nothing gets easier just because you got married. It's the real deal, all the way. You'll fight about things you never even thought about before. Money, sex, TV volume, air conditioning habits. You'll wonder some days how this raving lunatic you married ever conned you into saying "I do." Regardless of how happy, or how perfect, you seem, there's bound to be hiccups. Granted, with a young divorce already under my belt, I'm hardly the person to chide you to hang in there. I didn't. There's a difference, though. You guys have the right partners. There' s been no mistake, no greener grass to be found. I made the wrong choice to get married--I didn't start making the right ones until it was too late.

My next one will be the right one. My last one. I hope it's this one, obviously. (Somewhere, right now, the Remix is reading this and possibly fainting.) All told, though, the people I know who seem to have caught the marriage virus have got the pieces in place for a long happy life. They've got the right one, right now. That's worth hanging on to, and I'm ecstatic for everyone.

KFC always smells good.

Of course, yet again, the title of this bit has nothing to do with what I'm writing about, just thought it was an important thought to share with the world.

It's hard, sometimes, to be the butt of the joke. I've always been self-deprecating, for a couple reasons. One, it's funny. I love to be funny, and I'm not so conceited as to hold myself above mockery. Two, it doesn't hurt anyone. I can, and have been, cruel. I always find a way to overstep that invisible line with others, the line that separates what's ok to laugh at and what really hurts. Three, it sets people at ease with me. I have a tendency to be a little gruff, and a little self-taunting smooths out the edges a bit.

All that said, and what I always forget until it's too late, is that once you open yourself up, you've erased your own line in the sand, and you can't go back. It would be horribly confusing to everyone around if suddenly, I was easily offended. Problem is, sometimes you just don't feel like being the punching bag. More frequently, someone you don't think ought to be punching throws a shot in just where you don't want it.

I can take the punishment, that's not really the problem. What I have trouble with is the soft spots. I can't tell people what things are acceptable and what things piss me off, I've opened the floodgates already, and I don't intend to change the way I am just because it's occasionally uncomfortable. There's a list, though....

Remix? Mock away, even we think it's a little bit funny most of the time. You can't start dating your ex and expect your friends to let you go unscathed.

Divorce? Yeah, I brought this one on myself, but maybe we could let it die already? Believe it or not, even with all the jokes, it wasn't all that pleasant. I can joke, it makes me feel better. When other people joke, it makes me feel like putting a knife in someone's eye.

Weight? No problem, baby. I got enough going for me to ignore the fat jokes. I'll lose the weight, on my own terms, and probably slowly, but this one never bothers me. If it did, I'd probably have pulled a Jared from Subway by now.

Work Ethic? Fuck you. The best friend is the main perpetrator here, mostly because his own obvious insecurities are a little much for him to handle; the combination of my being the boss and my being the best is enough to set him completely off his rocker. I work my ass off, and until someone else can match my numbers, my hours, and my dedication, anyone who wants to give me shit for letting the phone ring can bite my left nut.

Haircut? Yeah, it's bad. What can I expect for $12.99?

The bigger thing is always the who, not so much the what. Do I want the nasty bitch across the way or the brainless pair of breasts who sits in the far corner to feel comfortable taking shots at me in any circumstance? Fuck no. Do I think the best friend could afford to shut his mouth and show a little loyalty now and again? Hell yes. Can my brother say things to me that my new employee can't? Of course.

Why this has come up today, totally beyond me. Oh well.

Setting yourself up for failure.

Ok. Lame title. I don't have the time, the energy, or the dedication to excellence to care. The Remix and I were talking about set-ups and blind dates yesterday, and I decided it was worth writing about. I've got mixed feelings on set-ups, really. The not-yet-cleverly-named ex and I set up her cousin with a co-worker of mine, and damn near ended up with a date rape case. That was a bad one. On the other hand, the Remix and I set up the best friend and BFGF to go to prom a million years ago, and now they share an apartment and a relatively similar worldview. Apparently, it's a toss up. Regardless, the story I want to tell is about an awful set-up, and hopefully a cautionary tale for all you aspiring cupids out there.

The BFGF worries about me. I'm sure the best friend doesn't help, what with his constant defensive posturing and tendency for belittlement, but she's not totally off the mark, either. Anyone who lives with two cats and an X-Box 360 for company at 26 years old and isn't at least partially open to the idea of a set up has problems I don't even want to think about. Her intentions were good, anyway, and I don't blame her for the abortion that unfolded, we all should have known better.

So BFGF picks out a girl from her bevy of friends, one she believes to be smart, funny, pretty, all the sort of things she believes I'd like. Since she believes me to be smart, funny, and good-looking, she believed that we'd get along. This is how it came to be that I'd be introduced to Lawnchair. (Do I need to point out that this is not her real name? Occasionally I wonder about the general intellgence level out there, so if you find this sentence insulting and pointless, please skip to the next paragraph.)

There are several things wrong with this plan, right from the start. First of all, Lawnchair does not know there is a set-up afoot, and I do. This leads us to rule number one in the set-up Bible: Thou shalt not introduce your friends with matchmaking intentions unless the terms of the arrangement have been described in equal terms to both parties involved. Second problem--the best friend and BFGF have decided for no apparent reason that I would be more comfortable in this situation with a homecourt advantage, so they decide this melding of the hearts should take place in the bar next to my apartment. This would be good if Lawnchair was into lonely drunks belting out karaoke from 9-2, like I am, but not exactly conducive to conversation. So rule number two: Thou shalt not bring your friends together in any environment where drunk girls might be incoherently howling along with "I Touch Myself."

So the best friend and I get there first, post up at the bar, and immediately begin drinking heavily. (This is so obvious, it doesn't even get a rule.) When BFGF and Lawnchair arrive, our eyes met, and sparks immediately flew. Most of the sparks were the angry kind, directed at BFGF from Lawnchair, but that's beside the point. So far, this is going swimmingly. Now, something you should know about the best friend: he's unable to keep his mouth shut. Period. He talks, regardless of who's listening, and the more uncomfortable he gets, the more he talks. So, put the best friend in the middle of a group that consists of one uncomfortable male, one angry female, and one slightly bewildered girlfriend, and imagine how charming this could potentially get. Within two minutes, any one of us would have gladly shot him.

I'm going to take the high road here, because I'm the author and no one can stop me, and place all of the blame for this catastrophe on Lawnchair. Rule number three: Thou shalt not introduce your boyfriend's beer swilling, sarcastic, overweight, and occasionally a wee bit obnoxious best friend to your overexercised, humorless, bitchy, and frightfully thickskulled acquaintances with any romantic intentions whatsoever. (Alright, that's sort of case-specific, but I think you get the idea.) Anyway, Lawnchair is immediately horrified and seeking an escape route, and I'm unsure on the next step. For BFGF's sake, and the knowledge that one can't masturbate forever, I decide to step up to the plate and give it my best shot, in spite of the fact I'm already batting with one hand tied behind my back. Let's turn it over to the play by play guy.....

Two out, no one on, and the batter steps in. First pitch...So, what's your favorite lunchmeat? *Author's note--no, this is not my idea of small talk, all thanks to the best friend for this conversational gem. I don't know, corned beef? .... God, that's so disgusting, I don't even eat lunchmeat! STRIKE ONE! SHE BLOWS THE FASTBALL BY HIM, NEVER EVEN SAW IT COMING!!! He taps the dust off his cleats, adjusts his hat, and steps back in. Here's the pitch... So what do you do for fun? *Ok, this one is me...I'm no Shakespeare either. I ride my bike, for, like, 50 miles a day. He's going to swing, here comes a joke! Gee, that's exciting, don't you do anything that's actually, you know, fun?.... HE MISSES THE CURVE BY A MILE AND A HALF! WHAT'S THIS KID DOING UP THERE? The pitcher stares him down as she shakes off the sign...she's bringing the heat, folks, and the batter is in trouble! *At this point, BFGF and the best friend decide they should come up with pathetic excuses to leave us alone together, so they sneak off to the bathroom or some such thing while I try to drink an entire Jack and Coke in one swallow....Here comes the pitch...holy cow! I've never seen such a changeup in my life, the batter starts to swing, opens his mouth to speak, and yes, yes, she did it! She pulls out the cell phone and starts text-messaging someone midsentence! She's unbeatable! STRIKE THREE, and the batter's out!

Believe it or not, folks, it got worse from there. Bald black guy, huge muscles and a cheap watch, and he actually got away with feeding her a line about being a gynecologist. (I told you she was thickskulled.) I pointed out that she didn't seem to like anything about me, a potentially awkward social move made ten times worse by the fact I did it drunk, and in the middle of the karaoke song I was singing. BFGF and Lawnchair eventually left, leaving only me and the best friend to drink away the failure, and I could only think of one thing to say in summation of the evening.

"You know, man, I'd have been nicer to her if she was the fat one." The sad thing is, it's true.