I've been busting a scoot with the readings, which quite frankly I'm loving like a puppy in tumble, although it is time-consuming and exhausting at times.

But last night I decided I'd had a nice long week alternating between slackerdom and theoryguru, and decided to treat myself to the company of a couple of friends. We started drinking beer at Exchequer and moved on to drinking beer at another place in Pilsen... a long blue bar with flickering camel neons all over the place, men lifting their sweatshirts and showing their new dominican tattoos (the dude looked at me strangely when I asked if I could see too, but really, I guess he didn't know me), and: one big meanie in yellow.

Her name was Janet, and the yellow was polar fleece, but she seemed to be the resident pool shark and after forty-five minutes of her hogging the table when I wanted to play with my friends, I put down quarters and hoped she'd just let us play without having to "win" the table. I hate places where you have to "win" the table. What a stupid idea, the thought that you have to play someone who is good, maybe a shark, certainly a piggy table hogger, in order to have your own few minutes of fun with friends. That is, if you can win.

The big meanie in yellow was the type who demanded you play her in order to win the table. So, when my quarters came up, I said casually, "so, slop goes until the eight ball?" which, for reasons of laziness, unhoned nascent talent, and in general good old-fashioned funtimes, is my favorite way of playing pool: tender on the "calling things out," emphasis on luck of the draw, and gentle on the rules.

But Big Meanie said, "no slop," in an offhand mumbling kind of way that caused me to repeat my question and add plaintatively and charmingly, "wouldn't that be okay?"

At which point, Big Meanie turned to me, closed the distance between us to six inches, looked me in the eyes and completely seriously and dictatorially said: "There will be no slop."

All went silent, my blood rose, I popped the eight ball 1/4 of a millimeter from the corner pocket and then smirked my way through the game by refusing to take a real shot unless my stripes were totally and completely in the clear of eight-ball mishap.

Big Meanie wasn't so thrifty, and I swear to god, when she hit that eight ball in the corner pocket, I haven't seen a person tuck so much tail in a long time. Two people approached me afterwards and asked me if I had really "won" the table. (I lost both games I played afterwards).