Ohno blew it big time: short track speed skating is--by far--the most exciting thing I've seen in a while.

Every once and a while, a weekend comes along that makes you reassess everything: your life, poptarts, loaded questions. This past weekend was in no way, whatsoever, one of these. Regardless, I do have a couple notable, if foggy, memories to impart.

First of all, Friday night ushered in the last 4 episodes of Arrested Development which was a good time. Unfortunately, it also ushered in a massive car breakdown. Like a penguin or seagull in Prince William Sound circa 1989, the cheetos bags and empty 40’s of 16th street are now covered in large, ominous pools of 10W30. To some this would be a big deal—a massive investment of money and divestment of pride. I, however, am not one of those people; I am the greatest mechanicalismerizer there is.

Now it’s true: I’ve always fashioned myself an urban sophisticate—cashmere, tin ceilings, martini bars, gum on sidewalks, these are my lifeblood, my raise d’etre. But even so, I’ve never lost sight of my rural upbringing and its utilitarian, can-do know-how attitude. When we ran out of Rosé at a recent gathering of urban go getters and celebrities, I was right there in the kitchen mixing just the right amount of tomato paste into the white wine. When the maid called in sick because she has to work two part-time jobs on top of her fulltime position for us, I drove right up to the entrance of the temp agency looking for a pair of sturdy hands and keen eyes. So, when H*ath*r’s car began spitting oil all over the place, I didn’t need to fear the terrible wrath of the emasculating Joe Oilrag and Jim Chewingtobacco.

The beauty of my plan is that it saves me money. After all, how hard is it to drop the oil pan, clean it out and slap some JB Meld over the crack? There’s even a parking lot next to our place where I can work safely away from 16th street and the various cars fleeing crime scenes or off to create them. I would probably even get to know local handymen who will, no doubt, come to watch me in action. Me: bib overalls, sensible work gloves, safety goggles and whatever wrench or squeezing tool the handyman is known to use. Them: admiring my smooth wrench-workmanship, my casual know how and furrowed brow. It was going to be great.

But no. Apparently, I’m not “knowledgeable” enough. I’m too “lazy to do anything more than buy some wrenches and bib overalls and sit on the deck drinking Tang and talk about how awesome the repair job is going to be.” Well to that nameless naysayer and dream-destroyer I say: Probably!

In other news, I also spent some time this weekend wandering around unknown parts of Chicago with an old acquaintance trying to find my bus stop and not get arrested. In the end, not only was the bus found, but I actually made it home and into bed without vomiting. Okay, I didn’t make it all the way home and into bed without vomiting. But I almost did. Like three quarters of the way. Half way. Just off the bus. On the bus, in the back.

But before you judge me know this: The bus was rocking back and forth and was really hot and the windows were covered in giant fluorescent pink caterpillars that were crying rainbows and chanting over and over again: Don't open the door to the Eternal Stairway. Don't open the door to the Eternal Stairway.

In a way, I was a victim. An awesome, innocent victim.