Home sweet home, finally. The last 10 days were a little crazy. I particularly apologize for leaving a photo of Jose Canseco’s nipples atop the site for four days. That was insensitive.

So last night, I celebrated my return home by going out with the guys I used to work with. One of the old crew is leaving for another job and we always try to send people off properly. So we met at our dive bar, a place we frequent for three reasons: 1. they have good, cheap beer and food; 2. they have karaoke; and 3. they tolerate our shenanigans and tomfoolery. And we did not disappoint last night. The evening culminated in a rousing group rendition of Tom Jones’ “Delilah.”

The Professor, one of my dearest friends, crashed at my house after the festivities. This morning, he had to get rolling to go cover a high school soccer game, and I made plans to head to my brother’s house. The Professor and I walked outside, and I turned to bid him farewell. It was at this point that I realized his car was not outside my abode.

That’s right. I completely forgot I drove him home last night. Now, this doesn’t mean I irresponsibly drove after drinking. I was well within the legal limit. Well, maybe ‘well within’ is stretching matters. But things didn’t take the ugly turn until after we arrived here, when we drank a bottle of wine. That might have been unnecessary. Any time you’re opening bottles of Italian red wine at 2:30 a.m., you can’t expect things to end well, and I think that was proven by the fact that we were listening to the Little River Band’s greatest hits CD at 5 a.m.

Which is why I’m curled up on the couch at 10 on a Saturday night. Ten years ago, I could do back-to-back nights of carousing. Not so much anymore. I’ve also got to rest up for tomorrow’s Jets home opener. Game time at 4:15. Tailgating commences at noon.