The boat goes up, the boat goes down.

No cancer news today. Things haven't changed much. Cancer sucks...blah blah blah. I really REALLY don't want to go back to chemo next week. Blah Blah Blah.

Bayonne is a bit of an enigma. It is in the most densely populated county in the country, but because of it's geographical isolation it tries hard to separate itself from the hordes up north. Bayonne makes an effort to stay a small town community in a metropolis that is often considered the 6th borough of Manhattan. While there are two McDonald's, a Burger King and a Wendy's, Bayonne has long resisted the allure of chains. We got our first Dunkin Donuts last year, along with the first ever movie theater. A week ago, Bayonne entered the realm of "Strip Mall New Jersey" with it's very own Houlihan's. A landmark day in Bayonne history.

Sure, my life may seem the stuff of legends, but in reality it is often boring and banal. Today was just a day, like all others. I had nothing planned and nothing special materialized. I was bumming around my apartment, bored and hungry, and decided to head on over to the newest restaurant in town. So, I picked up a Sunday New York Times and drove on over to Houlihan's. So far, based on the facts at hand, nobody would ever derive that I would encounter the most perfect confluence of events that could befall me. I certainly didn't see it coming. I grabbed a seat at the bar, ordered up a Blue Moon and took a look at the menu. No surprises there, after all, it is Houlihan's. The bartender took my order and in short enough time my steak had arrived. I asked if they could put the Jets game on the tv closest to my range of vision and they obliged. The bar was full, the restaurant was hopping, but still, at this point, there was no indication that in a few minutes I would be dead center of an unimaginable set of circumstances. I had breezed through a few sections of the Times and was working my way through the Book Review. A few bites of meat washed down with a fine ale, turn the page, take a look at the score. Seemingly innocuous, correct? I began to read a review of a biography when I sat back and took stock at what had opened before me. The review was about a book entitled The Knight Who Became King Arthur's Chronicler by Christina Hardyment. The book was about Sir Thomas Mallory, who apparently was a bit of a thug, but also produced one of the most wonderful pieces of poetry with his work Morte d' Arthur. (I have a lot of thoughts on this particular issue, but I'll save it for another time) And there it was; the most beautiful combination of my life's interests. Steak, Beer, Footbal, and Mid-Millennium British Epic Poetry! The only way it could have been better is if, somehow, I was having sex at the same moment. There's something to strive for I suppose.