I just finished a really fun collection of essays in a book with the charming title Things I’ve Learned from Women Who’ve Dumped Me. I probably would have enjoyed it a lot more if the essays hadn’t hit so close to home. The chapters are called “Lessons” and there are 43 of them, which is a strange coincidence because I have been dumped exactly 43 times. Women might learn a thing or two from this book. Men won’t feel so singularly abused.

I was compelled to read it because of the tantalizing list of essays in the table of contents. Included in this book are priceless gems such as Girls Don’t Make Passes at Boys with Fat Asses by Andy Richter, The Heart is a Choking Hazard by Stephen Colbert, Don’t Come on Your Cat by Neil Pollack, Nine Years is the Exact Right Amount of Time to be in a Bad Relationship by Bob Odenkirk and You Too Will Get Crushed by Ben Karlin.

Also included is an essay titled Sometimes You Find a Lost Love, Sometimes You Don’t by Nebraska’s own Senator Bob Kerrey. How the hell did a story by an ex-Senator from the Great Plains wind up in a collection of essays by America’s most popular and cutting edge humorists? Is he funny? The story is about how Senator Kerrey’s friend was lucky enough to find his lost love while the good Senator was never able to find his. Apparently, Nebraska is a hotbed of ships passing in the night and missed opportunities. Do you ever wonder what goes on out in places like Nebraska? Boy howdy, I sure do.

I never thought I’d type these words but Red Bank, NJ was the place to be on this Friday night. Not Manhattan. There isn’t anything in the city that’s as smoking as the Red Bank Jazz and Blues Festival. An outdoor stage with the sun setting on the Navesink River as a backdrop, 2-Year Old Daughter showcasing her spastic dance moves to hot, hot, hot rhythm and blues and the summer’s first Italian sausage with grilled peppers and onions sandwich. How can you beat that? I wish I knew how to play guitar a hell of a lot better than I do. If those guys are a 10, then I’m a 2.

CB and I saw Almost an Evening by Ethan Coen last night. Ethan Coen is half of Joel and Ethan Coen, creators of fine films like No Country for Old Men, Oh, Brother Where Art Thou and Fargo. Also, some mediocre films like The Hudsucker Proxy and The Ladykillers. Still, it’s an impressive list. This was his first foray into the theater. It was three short one-acts (no intermission). The first play was pleasant, the second was a dead fish and the third was the best by a long shot. Very funny, although incredibly vulgar. It’s not for sensitive ears or faint hearts. Some of the actors had to double-up on their roles. It always amazes me to watch an actor play a role and then, a few scenes later, disappear into a completely different role. It’s a trick. When it works, it’s a good one.

Beforehand we ate at Noho Star. It’s been there a long time and is an old favorite. I had the turkey schnitzel, which was okay. I ordered a Dewar’s and soda and they served it in a water glass. I just wanted a little nip to decompress from work but they served me a double mega dose. Why? They’re not stingy, baby. Of course, I finished it. What was I suppose to do? Throw it out?

I spotted a celebrity as soon as I walked in the door. Contemporary artist Chuck Close. I get an extra gold star because I identified him from the back of his head! Touché! He’s bald and in a motorized wheelchair, so it was a bit of a gimmie.

My fellow train passenger sitting next to me has a problem. He just pulled a tall cup out of a brown paper bag. Then he pulled out a 12 ounce can of Budweiser, popped it open, poured it into the cup, put the empty can back in the bag, pulled out another 12 ounce can, poured half of it into the cup and then placed the half-full can of Bud on the floor between his feet. He takes a few gulps out of the cup and then replenishes it with the can on the floor. That he cannot get through his train ride without drinking is, to me, pathetic. I won’t make any new friends with this post, but here goes.

Alcoholism is not a disease and I resent it being treated as such. It’s an insult to people who are actually battling a disease. Labeling it as a disease makes it sound like something you could helplessly fall victim to. Something that’s unavoidable. Horseshit. You can’t quit cancer. You can’t quit leukemia. But you can sure as hell quit drinking. I’ve seen it done plenty of times. And I don’t know of too many diseases that will allow you to go out on a Saturday night, party your ass off and then drive head-on into a van full of kids. I’ve had alcoholics in my life and do you know what? They tend to be a bunch of big fucking babies. As soon as they stumble into a room, they have to be the center of attention and need to be indulged and mollycoddled and understood. Meanwhile, everyone around them suffers. Fuck ‘em.

My man here sitting next to me has a problem. We are only 16 minutes into our ride and he’s already downed 24 ounces of beer. He can’t get through this lousy commute without drinking. Boo hoo. Poor him. It’s likely that he will get behind the wheel and drive home from the train station. I sure hope he sobers up by then.

We have an interesting guest at Benevolent Dictators, Inc. this week. He’s a gentleman from India who owns a company that does the same type of work that my colleagues and I do. We are teaching him how to perform some of our more menial and repetitive tasks. He will, in turn, go back to India and instruct his employees how to complete these unpleasant tasks and take them off of our hands. Number One Benevolent Dictator insists that once we shed this unpleasantness, we will be free to concentrate on projects that are more interesting and creative.

Oh, and by the way, in addition to the more mundane tasks, the company that’s owned by the man from India has the capability to complete the more creative and interesting tasks as well. And for a small fraction of what we are currently being paid by Benevolent Dictators, Inc.

What could they possibly have in mind?