There are times when it becomes clear that others may see us differently from the way we perceive ourselves. And part of it is just getting older. I can speak only for myself (and not always can I do that very eloquently) but although years may have passed, I don’t see myself any differently than I did say… when I was eighteen. There were a couple of occasions recently, however, when it became abundantly clear that other people may now see me in a different light.

I went to the Dave Matthews show a couple months ago. I’ve been to my share of concerts over the years, and I gotta' tell you, man; it was great to get back out on tour. It was as if no time had passed at all. Pulled out the ol’ tie-dye. We were hangin out, tailgating, eatin' some veggie burritos, playing a little hacky-sack… I was groovin'. So much so that I had pretty much decided this was the life for me and I might just drop everything and stay out on the road for a few more shows. It was at that point when this kid came up behind me, dreadlocks and the whole nine. I figured he probably wanted to try and sell me some weed, or at least compliment my kick ass hackysack skills, when instead he said, “Umm, excuse me, Sir? Do you have an extra ticket?” And I was like, “Sir…?! No, there must be some mistake. I’m Dude. ‘Sir’ is the guy that frisked you on the way in. I’m Dude. Duuuuuude. Dude?? ‘Do I have an extra ticket… no, I need the extra space for my walker, you sonofa… get outta' here! Made me so mad. ‘Sir…’

And the next day, when I’d barely recovered from that one… it happened again. I attended a friend’s wedding in Rochester. And it wasn’t like I was trying to relive my adolescence this time around. I had a suit on and everything. Safe to say, “Dude” was not trying to make an appearance. It was a beautiful ceremony, and we were a couple hours into the reception. One thing people may not know about me... My above average talents on the dance floor. Oh yeah, I got skills. Very strong dancer. You might say I have my own style. In fact, so much so that one might find it difficult to connect my movements with any music that might be playing at the time. It’s quite an interesting routine… and very enthusiastic. So at this point the open bar’s been going for a while, and the dance floor was hopping. I realized I was having a particularly good day, because the people around me had begun to give me a wide birth. I think they were attempting to form a circle around me, but I couldn’t be sure. So, I’m at the point in my routine where I’m wagging my finger in the air as if to say, “Oh no you dinnnint!” (Yeah, always a highlight) when my eyes made their way back to my date (Which took a considerable amount of time. My dance doesn’t often include much partner interaction) and I see she’s laughing. And so were a lot of other people. So I looked around to see which bad dancer was making an ass out of himself, so I could laugh at him too. (You ever heard the saying, ‘If you’re at a poker table and you don’t know who the sucker is… ?’ Yeah. ‘Nuff said. Apparently, during my interpretive dance, something was getting lost in translation.

So, y’know what? Fine. I guess it’s best to have a reality check once in awhile. It’s all part of growing up. And I’ll hang up my dancin' shoes, right next to my tie-dye. But not permanently! Because, mark my words, you’re gonna' miss him when he’s gone… but yes, until further notice… “Dancin’ Dude” has officially left the building.

The new baseball season has, of course, begun. I think this may be the Cubs' year. I have predicted this before. That not withstanding…You have my word that the events I am about to describe to you actually took place. No names have been changed. No one was innocent.

…It’s two o’ clock in the morning and my neck hurts. For the last 20 minutes, I have been staring straight up. The reason? In front of me is a giant sign welcoming me to “Wrigley Field, home of the _ubs” Tomorrow is Opening Day, and our beloved Cubbies will be hosting the Milwaukee Brewers. The fact that the caretakers of this sacred park have neglected to take the time to fix the “C” for this occasion, somehow justifies what is about to take place. What we’re planning is being contemplated because it has to be. Because the friend on my left is a lifelong Cubs fan, on his first visit to the Windy City, and because the friend on my right has lived here his whole life and claims to… and I quote, “Know this field like the back of his hand”, which soon turned into, again I quote, “Dudes- it’s no big deal. I’ve done this tons of times.”

I have fought this crazy idea from it’s inception. (Which was three hours ago, in a bar called the Cubby Bear, shortly after meeting a group of girls from Wisconsin. Immediately after one of us said something to initiate their hasty departure.) But, my objections were half-hearted at best. Before I knew it, I too believed it was not only possible… it was our duty as loyal fans to climb up to that giant sign and put the giant “Cuh” back in the “Cubs” where it belongs. If not for ourselves… we would do it for the kids.

Exactly how three Thirty-something’s, with impaired motor skills, might make their way into a secured major league ballpark was the easy part; I was assured by friend Number Two. (Aptly named, in hindsight) Where it might get tricky, was locating the simple plug that had surely come out of the socket. Once we located that, we could plug it back in, and again the “C” would spring to life and all would be well in the World.

Our way in constituted climbing a cement wall… over the railing… onto a chain link fence… over another wall, shimmy across a long heating duct… drop into the bleachers and bingo… we’re in.

Things were going pretty smoothly at first, actually. Wrigley Field, for those of you who don’t know, is a very old park. Clearly not designed to withstand the onslaught of three overgrown adolescents on a mission. We made it over the first wall and the railing, it was when we got to the fence that friend Number Two, with all his vast experience, confessed he’d never actually been inside here before, but he’d always dreamt of such an expedition and had done a great deal of research from the safety of the sidewalk.

It was then, while I hung from my fingers and toes, 20 feet up on a chain link fence, reminding friend Number two, just how full of shit he was, that the first alarm began to sound. Mission Aborted. I won’t get into the details of our retreat, except to say that mine was not graceful. All I know is that I landed… hard… on the other side of the wall in a seated position. As my glasses, my hat, and both of my shoes had floated to the ground all around me, I noticed they seemed to form a perfect square like a baseball diamond, ironically enough. There I sat in the middle like a giant pitcher. One that was taking a breather because he was about to cry from the broken tailbone he’d just suffered.

We made it out of there, somehow. And the next day, as the doctor fitted me for the doughnut shaped pillow I would carry around and sit on for the next 4 weeks, I had some time to do some thinking. The moral of the story, kids, is that some dreams are worth going after. And you should stop at nothing to make it happen. Like playing in the major leagues, for example. Now there’s a dream worth pursuing. You have to know the difference though, between a dream, and just a foolish idea. If I learned one thing that day…some things… but not everything is worth busting your ass for. GO CUBBIES!!!

If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s being told what to do. (Which may very well explain why I’m sitting here as the ‘Single Guy’. But that’s not what I want to talk about today.) And I also don’t like anyone telling me when I’ve had enough of anything. (Which may very well explain why I sometimes end up the guy at the party with the lampshade on his head. But that’s not what I want to talk about, either.) What I am talking about the brain trust that is ‘the automated bathroom’. Have you ever visited one of these places? The bathroom that employs all the latest technologies, with sensors everywhere… little red lights that do all the work? Let me tell you, if the idea behind this was to make it more convenient for one to do their business… well, in the eyes of this businessman, they have failed miserably. Geez—I spent like a half an hour in this place the other day. First off… there’s the sensor on the back of the john. The idea is that when you stand up, you trip the sensor and it knows it’s time to flush. Well, to begin with, this has essentially put an end to the age-old custom of the ‘courtesy flush’. A tradition that I, for one, have always appreciated. Just how much, I never knew, until it was gone. If the guy next to me was in on the focus group, the designers of this Super Toilet would have at least thought to make the thing voice activated. For the love of God. All I could do was jam my fingers in my ears and go, “La la la la. Lo lo lo lo” until it was over. That’s not the only design flaw, either. Sometimes it will mistake a little shift for an actual exit and give you a little surprise flush. (I don’t know what an enema feels like, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to get one at a Wendy’s.)

The super fancy ones actually have an automated toilet paper dispenser. Now you know you’re truly living in the new Millennium. You wave your hand in front of it and it doles out two squares. I can’t speak for anyone else out there, but two squares? I was waving at that thing like it was going off to war. Two squares. Who do they think they’re dealing with?

Next it’s off to the automated faucet. I don’t even understand who they had in mind when they installed this particular breakthrough. You put your hands under the faucet and it goes, “Psssht.” Over. You get like a second and a half. You know who that’s custom made for? Those people who are just faking it and have no intention of washing at all, but because you’re standing there, they feel like they should at least walk over to the faucet. You can tell I’m not one of those by the amount of profanities I’m throwing out. Again, this ought to be voice activated. Would solve all my problems ‘cause I’m standing there with my hands extended going, “Son-of-a… awww, you gotta' be f---ing kidding me!!” And I’m doing the two-step trying to get it to turn back on. And as soon as I get far enough to the side to make it work again, I jump back in there and I’ve missed the window. “Pshhht.” Few things are as humbling as catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, cursing like a trucker, while you do a solo dance routine. If there is a row of sinks? I just go right down the line. “Pshhht. Pshhht. Phhht. Pshhht.”

Finally, my hands are relatively soap-free and I look over to see the red light of the paper towel dispenser staring at me. I should know better by now, but in order to complete the tour, I approach the machine and wave my hand in front of it. “Bzzzzzzt.” Out comes one little paper towel. So… after contemplating tearing the entire unit off the wall, I calmly dried my hands on my pants and I used the little paper towel to wrap around the door handle on my way out. Y’ know, so I don’t get any germs on my hands from touching anything that other people have had their nasty mits on. Because that, my friends, is the beauty of living in an Automated World.