Dude, I'm Nevah Gonna Do It ...

Okay, so ... this guy is my hero.

Here's an "I'm up in the middle of the night and can't figure out why" list of 10 reasons why I want to be him:

1. He lives in New England.  I wanna live in New England, and not just to be nearer my beloved Patriots, either.  There's the soup factor, too, y'know.   And the rest of the seafood.  Mmm ... seafood.
2. He has a full beard, and people "respond to the natural grass."  Dude, I so know it.  I can't grow a full beard at gun point.  I can't do a lot of other things at gun point, either, but that's a big one.
3. He has the classic New England accent.  If I have to have an accent, at least let it be that one.  Jeez.  Or the deep south.  I thought I'd make an awesome redneck, but ... nah.  New England.  It rocks.
4. He's got the kick-ass sweatshirts.  Dude ... 'nuff said.
5. He's a business owner.  It's a car wash he runs with his brother, but still -- how awesome is it to never be laid off?  I wouldn't know.  But I bet it's awesome.
6. He's secure enough in his masculinity to admit that Tom Brady is the most attractive man on earth in his opinion,  who beats out Carson Palmer even when jaundiced.  I'm not ... yeah, I'm not there yet.  Sorry.
7. He says "dude" a lot.  Dude, that rules.  Just ask Raga.  Chicks like guys that say "dude" a lot.
8. He's got like an eight foot wingspan.  Just ask him.  That means he can bring down Devin Hester in a diner in less than 14 seconds.  And he thinks Peyton Manning looks like an aerobics instructor out there, waving his arms around.  "I'm not really changin' the play -- but this looks smaht an' cool, right?  Call my agent, I'm available for pahties."  Best.  Commercial.  Ever.
9. He's got a blog dedicated to the Patriots.  My wife has a football blog, and she did it up in Pats colors (with a gentle bit of guidance from some artist she's sleeping with), but it's not a Pats blog.  Pats bloggers rule -- and they get paid, too.  I saw a job opening on one of the job boards for it.  I was so tempted to apply, but knew I couldn't dedicate the time to it.  Dude.
10. He's on TV.  Again, 'nuff said, right?

So yeah.  He's my hero.  I wanna be Matty.

You go, dude.

Technorati Tags: football, blogging, Patriots, random thoughts

Merry Christmas to All!

I wanted to take a moment -- because I don't have anything else to do, and Christmas is about this sort of thing -- to tell all of you I hope you have a wonderfully blessed, happy and safe Christmas. May all the richest of blessings be poured out upon all of you, each and every one, and may your joy be increased and magnified greatly.

To Raga: God bless you and your family. You've come to mean so much to us, and we are so very grateful the network of digitized data packets routed over circuits and server farms somehow managed to bring you to us. If you ever decide to start a blog, be sure to let us know. We're going to bookmark it immediately, add it to our feed readers and Technorati favorites, pimp it all over our humble little corners of the blogosphere, and visit it every day to drive your hit count up. We love you, and I wish I could tell you what a gift you've been to me.

To Bryce: You've been a great friend, Bryce. I know we don't know each other too well, but I've really enjoyed the time we've spent exchanging comments, posts and emails. It's been a lot of fun to watch you hammering away at Oasis, and over the last few months I've realized how much fun I've had following along. Oh, and I think it would make a great Broadway musical. If Andrew Lloyd Webber can't do the writing, maybe you can get Clay Aiken to write it for you. He might even try to cover your mouth for you.

God bless you and your family. Your generosity has touched me, the strength you've shown has made me respect you as a person and not just a writer and blogger/webmaster/programmer, and you will continue to be in our thoughts and prayers. Know that you are close to our hearts.

To Dwight Wannabe: Thanks for all the great information and fun stuff you provide to wannabes on your blog, Dwight. It's really nice to know that someone cares enough about the rest of us nobodys to try and help us get along and get through, even if it's just with Eff-Around Friday fun stuff. We appreciate what you do ... even if you scare my wife a little.

To Sherri: I'm not sure what to say to you, Sherri. You've grown into a close friend for LOML and I think you're pretty terrific too. You've got your own special challenges and life's little hang-ups haven't ignored you, but you've still managed to form a bond with my wife that is something really wonderful to watch. Thanks for extending that hand to her, and to me.

To Stranger: You've been heavy on our hearts and minds for a long time now, Stranger, and we want to tell you how much we admire you. You're an intelligent, articulate and caring young woman, you're together and strong, you're wonderful. We think the world of you, and have nothing but the utmost respect for you. We're so glad you're doing better and now have found the culprit throwing you for a loop. And, we want you to know you are everything we'd love to be if we ever grow up.

And, to anyone that reads this blog that's not listed, or hasn't commented, and is lurking quietly in the background (if there are any of you): Thank you too. You're always welcome to speak, if you want. We don't bite. And I hope you've enjoyed what you've seen so far, and God willing, will continue to see. It means a lot to me to know you're having enough fun to come back and read some more.

God bless you all, and have a very Merry Christmas. You've made our holiday season special in your own unique ways, and that is a wonderful gift. We all humbly thank you for it.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: random thoughts, blogging, life

Inspirationally Challenged

During my ever-s0-brief stint in college, I had problems with, of all things, English.

That's a little embarrassing to admit now, but it's true.  I struggled with English.  Not so much the class itself, but the assignments.  They didn't seem to be much related to English as a language, and they certainly didn't do much to enrich my command of it either.  There were a series of papers, given by a young woman with thick glasses who was, as far as I could tell, trying to assert her position in the class over the students.  In retrospect, this was likely because she wasn't very much older than we were, was a bit mousy and mealy-mouthed, and not very intimidating or commanding as a classroom presence.

At any rate, she issued stupid assignments, didn't provide any instruction, never taught from a textbook (and if there was one I can't even recall it anymore), and took every opportunity to make sure we were reminded she was in charge.  She took a particular shine to me.  I was going through some personal things at the time, and wasn't the best student in the class.  She wanted to make sure I understood there would be no leniency with her.  She got the message across, loud and clear.

At any rate, one of those particular assignments which I didn't understand (and still don't twenty-odd years later) was for us to write a paper about how to do something.  It could be anything, she told us, but had to be the instructions on how to do something.  The style we took -- instructional, procedural, technical -- was up to us.  It had to be so many words, typed with thus-and-such line spacing, page numbers here, name and title there, yadda yadda, blah blah blah.  We had something like a week or two to do it, so it shouldn't have presented any problems.

Except I wasn't a very good student, and I'm really bad about being told what I have to write about.  When you give me confining parameters, I go blank. This was no exception.  I couldn't think of a single topic about which I knew enough to write a "how-to" manual.  I also don't like being told how many words it has to be.  Margins, line spacing, all the formatting?  Fine.  I can live with that, although I must confess, as an artist, aesthetics are likely more important to me than most.  But I can handle those aspects of the assignment.  The topical assignment?  Well, that sucks, because what you think is interesting and what I want to write about may not be in alignment.

So, I stewed about it.  Since I was young and fairly inexperienced with anything but schoolwork, I considered asking someone else.  But, that would be even more restrictive.  I'd be relaying information from a third party, information I probably wasn't familiar with.  And I wasn't very good at "putting things in my own words" (that was a real buzz phrase when I was in school).  So asking for input was essentially out.

Finally, a couple of nights before the assignment was due, I decided to write the paper on how to write a paper.  I ground away at it over the next couple of nights, along with my other assignments, and I turned it in on time ... one of the rare occasions when I did so.

When we got our papers back a few days later with grades, there were a few the instructor held aside.  She told us before she gave them back, she wanted to read some of them aloud and anonymously to show how the different approaches to the blah blah blah were yadda yadda, and how blah and yadda were blah yadda'd.  Okay, whatever.

She grabs the first one off the stack and sets her unattractive backside on her beat up old schoolmarm desk, looks at us all and says, "I don't like when people write how-to papers about how to write how-to papers.  I think it's a cop-out and shows a real lack of creativity, and generally I give it an 'F' without even reading it."

There I sat, filling my Fruit-of-the-Looms with rice pudding, hearing I'd just been given an "F" outright, without consideration, for doing something I thought was incredibly original and creative, because it showed a lack of originality and creativity.  And she'd never bothered to tell us the topic was off-limits, either.  She never gave us the rules.  (Bitch.)

She continued, "... but this one's really well done, and I thought I'd read it for all of you to show you how the style was addressed."  She then read my paper to an appreciative audience who all giggled at the appropriate times, and gave only positive feedback.  No one said anything negative, and no one knew it was mine.  Unless the beet-red color of my face and sheets of nervous sweat running down my face were a giveaway.

Anyway, at the end of it all, I got an "A-", marked down from an "A" because I didn't do an original topic.  I stopped and considered asking her what how-to article I could have written that hasn't, somewhere, already been written to make it original, but refrained.  What could an 18-year-old college student write about that hasn't been written about before?  The stupidity of her statement gave me clear insight, even then, to the mentality of the person I was dealing with.  So, I took my low "A" and left in peace.

As an aside, I ended up failing the class for not turning in an assignment by the deadline for the umpteenth time, but that's neither here nor there.

The point, if you can use that word here, of this post is, right now, I'm feeling very much the same lack of inspiration I felt when I faced that mousy, hard-assed instructor with thick glasses and a chip on her shoulder all those years ago.

I'm starting a second novel.  I'm using characters I'm familiar with, because I just finished a novel with them in it.  I have a general idea for the story, and I thought I had a plot, too, but danged if I do.  When I looked at it after the initial excitement wore off ... well, I wasn't real fond of the plot after all.  So now I'm three installments into a serial novel which doesn't have much to support it.

This probably isn't a problem for good writers.  Weak writers, inferior writers, however, are easily flustered and put off from their initial stories.  We flee instead of seeing what can be done with what we have -- trying to make it better or revising as necessary.  And weak, inferior writers use the snag as an excuse to stop writing.  Good writers, on the other hand, probably don't start writing until they have the general plot worked out in their heads (at least) and are excited and happy with the direction it's going.

I am not one of those writers.

So, I know a few of you have come here hoping for the next installment.  And I really wanted to give it to you -- really, I did.  I just ... can't right now.  I don't have it, because I haven't written it, because I don't like the plot my wife and I dreamed up as much as I thought I did.

Fortunately for me, it's Christmas Eve, and no one's likely to be around to notice, but when you get back, you'll find my justification.  Just like that English teacher, so long ago, you'll have to decide if this lack of creativity should be dismissed before it's even read, given the worst of all possible assessments and discarded.  For what it's worth, I'm telling you the God's-honest truth, and I'm humbly sorry for it.  If I manage to rescue the story, I'll come back and continue it.  If I don't, I'll probably remove the old installments and go forward with some new ones ... after I have a plot worked out and like it.

Or maybe I'll just write posts telling you how to write posts for a blog.  Would that be worth reading?

God bless and Merry Christmas, everyone.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: writing, random thoughts

List of Six - Software Review

List of Six, available from Baby Katie Media and created by Bryce Beattie, is a nifty, small program that does exactly what it says it does: keeps short (6 items or less) lists of things-t0-do in an easy to use, user friendly interface that masks the real power of the program.  It's astounding how many things you can accomplish when you keep the list of things you need to do short and sweet.  It's something I know I certainly need, and I have a feeling that when my wife tries this, she's going to be hooked.

See, my wife loves to-do lists.  She likes to keep a running task list in Microsoft Outlook, and Outlook allows her to check a box marking when the item is completed.  The problem is, Microsoft Outlook is an expensive and expansive program with a lot of nuances.  Just getting it installed is a chore.  Getting it to get it installed isn't easy either.  This is no free download from Microsoft, people, this is going to set you back enough money to buy the entire Microsoft Office suite, which is expensive, and that's a lot of disk space to eat just to have a task manager.

Sure, there are others you can use.  Many of them will be free, and dedicated just to being a task manager.  That's fine.  What Bryce has done, however, is take an idea for the software from a story written a few decades ago (when there was still a steel industry in the United States and which is provided on both the website and in the readme file) and based his software on that principle.  It works great, it's efficient, and it's so simple.  I doubt you can find another task list manager that will be as nifty.

The beauty of List of Six is that it forces you to keep the list short.  One of the things that makes my beloved sigh and procrastinate is the length of the list of things she has to do.  Her Task Manager doesn't do anything to help her prioritize the things she's staring at, either.  All of them are just tasks waiting to get done, staring out at her from the Task Manager pane with their metaphorical arms folded over their chests and tapping their tasky little toes impatiently.  All of them clamor for equal attention, and when they don't get done by the deadline they turn a nice, urgent red so that you'll see them better.

Problem is, they're lost amidst the other red items in that task list, which manages to always look like a roulette betting board.

Enter List of Six.  It's simple.  The program presents you with a text field, where you can see the items you have on your list.  It has a handful of buttons that are clearly labeled in normal, everyday English.  No cryptic terminology or jargon to figure out.  You can complete a task, add one, see the history of what you've done, and delete them as necessary from the list.  You can then print the list out so you can take it with you, which is great for those quick runs to the grocery store to pick up a few items.  Now, instead of letting yourself get all off-track and doing the aisle-surfing thing, ending up with a cartful of items instead of the four you actually wanted to get, you can take a moment, make a List of Six list and print it out to take with you.

And, if you get too ambitious and try to add more than 6 tasks to the list, you'll get this little message indicating you can only have 6 activities at a time on the list.

This'll keep you from getting overwhelmed.  Nothing's as flabbergasting and paralysis inducing as staring at a list of 300 things you need to get done before the end of the year.  This way, you put in the top six, order them according to their importance, and get them done.  Voila, no more arm-length lists of stuff to do over the weekend.

As writers, we need some help sometimes to get things moving forward.  List of Six can help us do that by helping us eat the elephant one bite at a time instead of trying to take it all in one gulp.

The program's flexible in its ability to allow you to re-order the priority of your activities, too.  Just throw your list up there as it occurs to you.  Drag the items up or down the list with the mouse to put them in a new order.  It's that easy.  If a task suddenly drops off your radar screen, delete it or re-order the list to address the new priorities.  In addition, there's a history of the activities you've finished over a specified period of time - the prior week, month, year or all time.  Cool, huh?

It's terrific, it's cheap and Bryce provides a money-back guarantee if you're not pleased with the program for any reason.  See the List of Six website for more information.  Is it worth $14 to you to be able to increase your productivity?  Even if you have a hundred things you have to do, tacking those things in groups small enough to see them all in one clear, clean screen and getting them knocked out will make you feel better about yourself.

Give it a try, and let the efficiency begin.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: software, reviews

Witch Hunt - Ch. 3

Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning!

"I can't believe you're doin' this, dude."

JD rattled around in some boxes tucked into a corner of the walk-in closet in his bedroom, Dillon leaning against the door jamb watching him as he fished out the equipment he needed.

"I made all the arrangements. I accepted the commission. I told the client I would be there, and when ... what's so hard for you to believe?"

"That a guy who's all scientific 'n' shit's so frickin' dumb, dude," Dillon sneered at the back of his head.

"I'm not being dumb. I just don't think this is any big deal. They almost never are."

"Almost? Dude, you're battin' a frickin' thousand. What're you, a dumb-ass? C'mon. Th' only stuff you seen was a big deal."

"That's not true," JD sighed, "and I've been over this with you. I'm going. Wendy wants to go with me. You're welcome."

"No way."

JD shook his head. "You're being irrational."

"I'm makin' sure I stay alive, homey."

"Oh, cut it out. You don't have any reason to believe you'll die if you go."

"I ain't givin' a chance fer that shit t'happen, bro. I think you oughtta make Wen stay, too. You wanna risk your own ass, that's fine. Don't risk her incredibly tight and perky one."

JD turned and glowered at Dillon over his shoulder.

"Sorry ... I can't help it, dude. It's true."

"Keep your eyes above her collar bones, please."

Dillon shrugged. "Whatever. Dude, I'm jus' sayin', this trip's a trip. You didn' learn jack from the last one."

"I understand your position," JD said, standing with several devices in one hand and a small, worn duffle bag in the other. "I do. You've made it clear. What happened scared you. So much you can't compel yourself to go with us. That's fine. But I made a promise and I'm keeping it. Wendy won't be made to stay behind, she's taken the time off work, and she's excited about the trip."

"Didja even tell 'er I don't think it's smart?"

"No, I haven't said anything to her about you."

"You didn't tell 'er I ain't goin'?"

"Why would I?"

"She might care 'bout that ... she might wonder why I ain't goin', an' ask me an' stuff. Then I can tell 'er how stupid I think you're bein', and she'd be all, like, 'Oh, Dilly, you're so much smarter'n JD, I wanna be with you all weekend havin' massive sex an' stuff while JD goes to play with more ghosties.' An' then we'll stay here all warm an' safe an' havin' massive sex, and YOU can go get killed."

JD was staring at Dillon with something between disbelief and disgust. "How ... how long has that fantasy been playing in your so-called mind?"

"Dude, I'm jus' sayin' is all. If Wen knew I waddn't goin', maybe she'd think twice, y'know?"

"She'll be here after she gets off work, why don't you tell her yourself. I'd leave out the sexual proposal component if I were you, though."

"'Fraid she'll take me up on it?"

JD laughed. "Yeah. Right."

"Hmph. Well ... still. When're you leavin', chump?"

"Right away. As soon as she gets here. I'll load her things into the car and that's it, we can go."

"Tonight?? You're leaving tonight??"

"No, this afternoon. It's a long drive and we want to get there as early as possible, so --"

"This afternoon??"

"Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"Dude! That's like -- that's like today, man!"

"Uh ... yes, that would be the 'this' part of 'this afternoon'. Isn't that interesting?"

"DUDE. I didn't know."

"Didn't know what?"

"Didn't know you were leavin' today, you asshole-licker!"

"I told you we ... did -- did you just call me an asshole-licker?"

"Aw, man!! I can't believe this shit! Dude!"

"What??"

"That don't give me time t'set up a party or nothin', dude! I'm gonna be all bored an' crap, while you're off gettin' laid!"

"Don't be crude. And I told you I was leaving as soon as I could make the arrangements. They're made. We're leaving."

"I ... aw, man. Naw, dude, that ain't cool. I'm all off-kilter an' shit now."

"You'll adapt."

"I can't. You gotta gimme some notice."

"I did."

"More notice."

"Why?"

"It's the rules, dude."

"What rules?"

"The rules that say you gotta gimme time t'be cool with bein' left alone an' shit. Dude!"

"Rules? You're a grown man for pity's sake! What's the matter with you?"

"How do I know you didn't leave a damned ghost up in here, dude?? You could be trackin' it all over th' place like dogshit!"

JD shook his head. "Will you grow up, please? If you're not comfortable staying here alone -- for some reason -- then come with us. Your choice. Or go back to your mom's basement for a week."

"Dude. I'd rather hang with ghosts."

"Suit yourself."

"When's Wen comin', dude? I gotta try an' talk 'er outta this."

JD glanced at his watch, stacking bags near the door of his room. Some were filled with the clothes he'd need for the week. Others were filled with the instruments and laptops he'd need for the investigation. He grabbed a handful of straps with each arm and went into the hallway.

"Should be any minute now. She was leaving work at 11. It's nearly 11:30 now."

"DUDE!!"

"What now?"

"You said this afternoon! 11:30 ain't after noon!"

JD sighed, moving down the stairs. "We'll be going to lunch before we get on the road. Possibly dinner too, depending on what time we get there."

"You're goin' out t'eat? Without me?"

JD stopped and looked at Dillon. "Dill ... do you want to come on the investigation with us?"

"Hellz no."

"All right then. It's your choice."

"I don' want you guys goin' either."

"Sorry, that's not possible."

"Dude."

"Indeed."

JD set the bags beside the front door, Dillon close behind him with the rest of the bags.

"Thanks," he said absently, taking them from Dillon and stacking them with the others. "Let me get my list and make sure I got everything I'll need."

"Man," Dillon moaned. "This sucks, dude."

"It is what it is. Okay, let me see ..."

JD slowly walked toward the kitchen, looking at the printed list on the 3 x 5 index card in his hand.

"It ain't like ya never broke a promise b'fore or nothin'."

"I don't break my promises," JD answered absently, still looking over the list.

"Yes you do. Chump."

"No I don't."

"Do too."

"Name one."

"You promised me in 5th grade that in 6th grade you weren't gonna be a geek no more. You been breakin' that promise every year since."

"Oh, stop it."

"I just don't like it, dude. I gotta bad feelin' about this."

"You mean like intuition?"

"No, like a gut feelin' an' crap."

"Do ... do you know what 'intuition' is, Dill?"

"Look, all I'm sayin' is, I got this feelin' somethin' bad's gonna happen t'you guys up there. You should call this off, dude."

JD sighed again. "Dillon ... I'm trying to be patient with you. The entire trip is most likely going to turn out to be absolutely nothing but a few squirrels in the attic, or someone talking in the hallway and voices carrying through the ventilation system. We're being put up for free, fed with 5-star food, and have the entire resort to ourselves. There's wireless Internet access throughout the entire hotel, a store, and a fantastic view of a valley. It's going to be a vacation and a lot of fun. And since you refuse to join us, it's a perfect chance for me to be alone with Wendy in an extremely romantic setting."

"Until you die."

"No one's going to die."

"You so are."

"No, I'm not. Wendy's not going to either. And you'll be fine here."

"Aw man ... you gonna at least call once in a while??"

"Yes, mother. I'll call you once in a while. If I'm not busy."

"Man."

"Wendy will be here soon. I'm packed. Are you going to help me move this stuff into the car?"

"What 'bout food for me? How'm I s'posedta eat?"

"There's food in the fridge, and if I recall correctly, there are no fewer than three grocery stores all over town, countless fast food restaurants, a Denny's, a buffet, and a mall with a food court. I think you'll be okay."

Dillon pouted. "Yeah. I'll help yer ugly ass."

"Thank you." JD watched Dillon staring down at his Chuck Taylors quietly. "Do you want to come with us?"

"Hellz no."

"All right then. You have my cell number -- for emergencies -- call if you need to."

"What counts for emergencies."

JD shook his head. "You're going to be fine. Try not to destroy the house while we're gone. Clean up after yourself."

"Dude. I've lived on my own before, y'know."

"Clean up after yourself, please." JD strode into the kitchen and sat at the peninsula, going over his list again.

Dillon exhaled loudly through his lips, flapping them together. He pushed himself off the wall he'd been leaning on and paced the floor, staring through the picture window in the living room at the street outside.

"Wen's here, dude." His voice was soft and hollow.

JD got up as Dillon opened the door, and Wendy swept in, all dazzling smile, wafting auburn locks and sparkling eyes. JD smiled instantly, his chest warming internally as he saw her come in.

"Hi, Dilly!" she said, throwing her arms around Dillon's neck and hugging him hard. He held her tightly.

"Mmm! Good to see you, sweetie," she said, pecking him on the cheek.

He laid his head on her shoulder. She giggled and hugged him again, then tried to pull away. Dillon didn't release his embrace, and hid his face from her.

"Um ... did you miss me, Dilly?"

"Uh-huh," he said into her coat.

"It's ... good to see you."

"Uh-huh."

"You ... you can let go now, Dilly. We have to leave."

"Dillon's not going with us, Wendy," JD interjected as he approached her.

Her head snapped around in shock, her jaw dropping open. "What??"

She pushed hard and finally separated from Dillon, his face sad, his eyes not meeting her gaze. "Dilly? You're ... you're not going?"

He shook his head.

"Why?" Wendy stepped back, her eyes stinging with unexpected tears, her hand going instinctively over her mouth. "Why? Are you ... are you mad at us or something?"

"No," Dillon said quickly, taking her hand, "naw. Nothin' like that. It's all good. I just ... I don' ... I dunno. I got a bad feelin' about this one, Wen. I don' think you an' dumb-ass should go."

"JD, he has to come, he's part of our -- team."

"I asked him repeatedly. He doesn't want to come along."

"Dilly," she said softly, her voice wounded. "Dilly, you gotta come, hon. It won't be as much fun without you."

"Wen," Dillon said, his face worried, "I really don't think it's a good idea. I mean, y'know, with all th' crap that went down las' time ... somebody coulda got hurt, y'know? I think ... I think this time someone will get hurt, but Jackass won't listen ta me."

"Oh, Dilly ... sweetie, it's probably nothing. Most of the time they aren't."

"What're you, a cult dude?" Dillon said, scowling at JD. "You got her brainwashed t'say th' same shit as you."

"I don't have anyone brainwashed, Dillon, it's just true. The last time was an anomaly. This time it won't be that way."

"Aw, man ... Wen, I ... I -- I really think you guys oughtta call this off, man."

"I told you I can't do that. But if you think Wendy can be convinced, now is your opportunity." JD folded his arms across his chest and raised his eyebrows at Dillon.

"Wen," Dillon said softly, "don't go. It's gonna be all messed up. Don't go."

Wendy wiped a tear from her cheek. "Oh, Dilly ... I'm going. It's going to be a good time. I wanted us all to have fun. I ..." She trailed off, and wiped another tear. "I'm going to miss you, Dilly."

He sighed. JD shrugged. "I told you."

There was a moment with the three of them just standing there. JD finally moved first. "We have to go, Wen. I'll get these things into the car and then load your bags, too."

She nodded, and threw her arms around Dillon's neck. "Behave yourself, Dilly."

"Wen ..."

She pulled back, tears welling in her eyes again. "Hey, it's only a week. I'll see you when we get back. We'll have a pizza, okay?"

Dillon's face was pained, frightened and worried all at once. He finally made himself nod, and a tear streamed over his stubbled cheek.

Wendy hugged him again, and Dillon grabbed the rest of the bags and carried them out to JD's car. He was arranging them in the trunk when Wendy came and brought along her own luggage. JD was surprised at her having one large bag and a small overnight case.

"Is that ... is that all you have?"

She tipped her head. "Yeah, why?"

"I - I don't know. I expected more."

"I'm very efficient. It's only a week, right?"

"Yes, but ... I guess I expected more, that's all. I thought women packed more heavily."

"I got everything I needed in there. And who needs clothes for sleeping?" She bit her lower lip teasingly while watching JD blush deeply.

Dillon placed the last of the bags into the trunk, and JD shut it. They stood there, staring at each other.

"Well." JD finally said. "I ... guess we'd better ... get going."

"Yeah," Wendy agreed. "We have a long drive."

Dillon was silent, eyes downcast.

Wendy embraced him again. "Bye, Dilly. See you soon, okay?"

He held her tightly and nodded against her cheek. They parted and Wendy opened the passenger door of JD's car, watching Dillon as she slid into the seat. JD watched Dillon closely as he opened the door, but they didn't exchange words. Finally, JD got in and closed the door.

They started the car, and JD did a slow U-turn, passing the house. Dillon stood on the curb, hands tucked into his pockets. JD slowed the car to near a crawl, watching his friend standing in the street, just watching them. They began to creep away, and Wendy wiped her face again as fresh tears rolled from her eyes.

JD was looking in the mirror, his face long and heart heavy, as he gradually pulled away from the house.

Dillon watched the car receding down the street, gaining speed.

"WAIT!" he screamed, bolting after the car, flailing his arms, "JD, WAIT FOR ME, MAN!! WAIT FOR ME!! JDWAITFORMEMAN!!!"

JD slammed on the brakes and parked the car, jumping out with a smile on his face. Dillon raced up to him, looking confused and alarmed.

"I ... I guess I'll go," he said softly, clearing his throat. "I mean ... yeah, I'm good. I'll go."

JD grinned broadly, the two friends standing in the middle of the street. Without a word, they hugged hard for a moment. Then they parted, stepping back from one another quickly, checking to make sure they hadn't been seen.

"So ... yeah. I'm all good."

"Me too," JD said, coughing into his fist and getting back into the car. "How long do you need to pack?"

"Oh yeah," Dillon said, "I guess I'll need clothes an' stuff."

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