It came as an epiphany.
The bank's time and temperature wasn't wrong.
It was actually telling me what the temperature was going to be
tomorrow at 6:17 p.m.
It was a window into the future.
Perfectly useless for most aspects of life,
except maybe planning a picnic,
but nevertheless,
a chance to see what had not yet happened,
what was going to happen
28 hours and 16 minutes from now,
any now.

So instead of going to work one day,
I just sat in the bank's lot
and watched as it cooled off tomorrow evening,
down to an overnight low of 63,
before it started to warm up again at sunrise,
day after tomorrow.

It was only after I'd been there for over a day
that I noticed the parking lot was full of other cars
with their occupants doing nothing else
than watching that digital readout.
One guy here,
two guys there,
even entire families
sitting in rapture
over what tomorrow's weather was going to be.

I think it was finally hunger
that made me abandon my spot,
which was quickly filled by one of the cars
circling the lot,
hoping for someplace to land.

At times I'm tempted to go back,
just to see,
just to know.
But that intersection has become so congested
that it would add a full thirty minutes onto my commute,
and I don't want to leave any earlier,
and I can't afford to be late.

Indeed! 

Larry and Dave
were really bummed out with February.
It was cold and cloudy
and there was that miserable kind of wet
that just seems to be waiting for you everywhere.

So they decided to go to California.

It wasn't like either of the them
had any reason to stay anyway.
After all, Larry was waitin' tables
down at Pizza Inn,
and Dave's unemployment checks were just about to run out.

So they piled all their stuff
in the back of Larry's '76 Dodge,
and late one after they just took off.

"Wow! I can't believe we're goin' to California!"
Larry said as he reached out the window
to bang the ice off the only wiper that worked.

"In California there's all these babes
just walkin' around in string bikinis.
Just waitin' for dudes like us,"
said Dave.

"Wow," Larry replied.
And they drove on.

"And there's all these places to work at --
right on the beach.
Like surf shops and head shops
and places where you just hang out
and get paid to do it,"
said Dave.

"Righteous!" Larry replied.
And they drove on.

"And when you cross the border
they stop every car,
and there's this guy there
whose only job is to say,
'Wow, Dude, welcome to California.
Here's your Frisbee.'
And then he gives you a real Frisbee."

"Coolness," Larry replied.
And they drove on.

They drove on all night long
and never noticed Kansas,
the darkness and their enthusiasm
hiding the fact
that there really is nothing there at all.

In the morning they were in Colorado,
but Colorado looked just like Kansas,
only worse,
because neither of them had really slept,
even though they were supposed to be taking turns driving,
and the tappans started knocking so loudly
that you could still hear them
even with the radio turned all the way up,
not like there was anything worth listening to anyway
way out in the middle of no where,
which is exactly where the car overheated.

"Wow, man," said Larry,
"I didn't think a car could overheat
in the middle of the winter."

And Dave wanted to yell,
"Of course it will, you idiot!"
But he hadn't known that either.
But he was furious just the same,
especially since he lost the coin toss
and had to walk four miles back to the last town they'd seen
just to get some water for the radiator.

And when Dave returned three-and-a-half-hours later
dragging this half-frozen can
full of rusty water
that he'd actually had to pay a deposit on
(the can, not the water),
he found that some farmer
had helped Larry get the car going
over two hours ago.
And Larry had just sat there
eating all of Dave's Twinkies
and drinking the last Dr Pepper
instead of thinking that maybe,
just maybe,
he ought to go back
and give Dave a hand with the water.

This time Dave really did call Larry an idiot

And he continued to call Larry an idiot
all the way to Denver,
sounding all the more hateful
the more the smoke plumed out of the back of the car,
until Larry mercifully turned the car off
across the street from this discount pizza place,
where Dave went into
and got a job.

"Wow, man, I thought we were goin' to California,"
said Larry.

"Screw you," said Dave
as he tied on his apron.

"But what about the babes?
What about the Frisbees?"
asked Larry.

"Get real!" said Dave,
putting his hair net on.

"What about those places on the beach
where they pay you just to hang out?
asked Larry.

"Man, I got a job!"
Dave said with a snarl.
And with that he grabbed his bus tub
and went out into the dining room
to pick garbage up off the tables.

So Larry tightened down the tappans with an old pair of pliers
and poured in this really thick, nasty stuff
that was supposed to work better than oil,
and after he'd given Dave back all his stuff,
Larry headed for California.
Without Dave.

And it did take Larry longer than he'd planned;
his car died just inside of Utah
and he had to thumb the rest of the way,
but he got there just the same.

Larry would've written Dave from California,
but he didn't have his address.
I mean, you can't very well send a letter simply addressed:
"Some Pizza Place
Denver, Colorado"
and really think that it would get there.
Now could you?

But just the same,
Larry kept this Polaroid picture
tacked up on the wall
of this place that he worked at
right down on the beach,
and he really intended to send it to Dave.

It was a picture of Larry
standing down on the beach
with his arm around this really hot babe in a string bikini,
and in his other hand was a Frisbee.

The possibilities are endless
on Baseball's Opening Day.
The popcorn's fresh, the beer is cold,
on Baseball's Opening Day.

Brett can bat a thousand,
Cleveland can go all the way.
Anything at all is possible
on Baseball's Opening Day.

Saberhagen can win thirty,
Ryan can no hit five,
Ripkin will last forever,
and keep his streak alive.

Anything can happen.
Anything at all.
The beer man can be right there
before you ever call.

Every team is perfect.
Every arm is fine.
Every ball is waiting to be hit
in-between the lines.

Tomorrow...
Tomorrow things'll be different,
but tomorrow's another day.
For now the possibilities are endless
because it's Opening Day.

The Oy Vey Virus

The HGP website has recently become infected with the Oy Vey Virus.  It’s a particularly malicious virus that converts all text files to Yiddish, changes all music files into the soundtrack from Fiddler on the Roof, and all picture files to publicity photos of Jerry Seinfeld.  In order to clear our site of this virus, we will be back flushing all of our files between 8:00 p.m. and midnight (Pacific time) this Friday evening, April 1.  Whereas this is the only way to absolutely clear our site of this virus, there is the possibility that it can be distributed through any of our connections on the Internet, which includes anybody who has ever visited our site.  The IT Department here at HGP assures us that the chances of this virus actually being back flushed into anybody else’s computer is relatively low.  They don’t believe that it is necessary that you disconnect from the Internet during this time, but they caution you not to open any emails that are in Yiddish or that have the words “Oy Vey” anywhere in the address.