Hello again. It's that time of the year when I have settled into my new job, when I'm becoming acclimated to my new surroundings, when the bartenders at my new bar know me by name and drink (thanks Natalie and Amber and Cat and Dana for that on-tap IPA), when I finally started going to the gym again after five-plus months of vegetating, when I'm putting the California debacle behind me day by day by day, when it's about fucking time – in other words, Welcome to Joe's new life.

Hello again. It's that time of my life when I dread the next unexpected phone call, when I wonder what the next tragedy will be, scared to even think about it, when I'm so tired of dealing with all the loss this year has brought, when four deaths are four too many, four too many, when Jan. 1, 2007 can't get here soon enough -- In other words, this is the Year of Suck.

Hello again. It’s that time of the year when I’m finally leaving Southern California, when I’m putting this shithole of an apartment behind, when I have so few possessions left that it won’t take much to load them up in a trailer, when this constant reminder of everything at least won’t be staring me in the face every fucking day – in other words, Friday (March 31) can’t come soon enough.

Hello again. It is over. I could tell by her words and her body language that there will be no reconciliation, no change of heart. She won’t wake up some morning in the future and regret her decision and want me back. She won’t decide that her love for me is greater than her love for her new man; she loves him, and he loves her. It won’t happen. During our halting e-mail conversations, Michelle finally showed me exactly how I dishonored our relationship, and when she voiced her example it was an epiphany for me. I realized how I have poisoned every relationship I have been in. I have loved five women in my life. And I ruined every relationship. This is my apology to them.

Hello again. It’s that horrible time of the year when my life has careened out of control, when my world has been turned inside out, leaving me nakedly eviscerated, when what I thought I knew, what I saw as my future, what I understood about my life turned out to be untrue, when I have struggled though the worst Christmas and New Year’s of my life and I see no end in sight – in other words, this is Joe and Michelle’s Divorce Song.

Another story from the Tonster

The story begins (or should I say continues) June 11, 2005, at the Bellagio in Las Vegas , the night of Kurt’s wedding.

I’m walking through the casino with Mireya after hanging out for some postgame drinks with Scotty, Geddy, Cooper and a couple others. We have decided to leave and go back to Bally’s. Passing by one of the Bellagio bars, there is a cover band playing, and we hear the opening chords of Journey’s ode to mulletmen and mulletwomen everywhere, “Don’t Stop Believin.’”

Excuse you, this is one of Bellagio’s cover charge bars asking $20 to get in. So first of all, why is the cheese flowing, not the wine? And also, why can’t the band just go it alone? Behind us are two guys, one white, one black, also walking through the casino. Suddenly, they break into song, blasting out the “Just a small town girl” opening line in the highest Steve Perry falsetto they can possibly pull off, singing along with the cover band. They continue through the entire first verse, singing at the top of their lungs, in what can only be described as a bizarre (and borderline eerie) serenade, but I appreciate it, knowing full well that since this is Journey, imitation is not the highest form of flattery. I turn back to the two dudes, start laughing and give them a thumbs up. Even though they’re in their early 20s, they somehow know all of the words. It’s Vegas, it’s Journey, and it all makes sense. In four months, it will make perfect sense. If I had only known that this was one of the signs of something much, much greater. I look back on that night and wonder why it didn’t dawn on me to put down some heavy cache on my hometown team from the South Side.

Hello again. It’s that numbing, scary time of the year when people are being slain left and right here in sunny San Bernardino, when you’re safe unless you’re an 11-year-old girl sitting in your house or a 16-year-old girl enjoying a birthday party, when you’re safe unless you’re waiting for a bus next to my old office or unless you would like to be beaten and shot and dumped on a mountainside, when I hear helicopters out at night above my apartment complex searching for pillars of the community, when the number of murders in town this year (55) exceeded 2004’s total with two months to go, when that last example was increased by two with two women slain in an apartment complex yesterday (Nov. 22), when a study found that San Bernardino ranks as the 18th most dangerous city out of 369 surveyed, when you better damn well believe the 12-gauge and .30-.30 are both locked and loaded – in other words, this is Part II of Joe in California.

Hello again. It’s that wonderful time of the year when I’m finally settled in here in SoCal, when the multitude of Spanish-language radio stations no longer amazes me, when I realize that my ode to New Orleans has me waaaaay behind in writing about my exploits here on the Left Coast – In other words, this is Part I of Joe in California.

Hello again. This is the first – and, I hope, last – time I’m starting this without my traditional greeting. As last week trudged painfully, inexorably, onward, as the catastrophic effects of Hurricane Katrina became evident, as the extent of the tragedy forced its way into all of our everyday lives via television, Internet and e-mail, it didn’t seem right to start with the same flippant opening. Anyone who has ever been to New Orleans has a story to tell. I’ve been there twice.

Hello again. It’s that wonderful time of the year when it’s so hot that I sweat just thinking about it, when the sidewalk gets so hot you could fry an egg (and remember, if it’s “hot enough to fry an egg, it’s also hot enough to fry a dog’s brain”, as the 1970s commercial said), when my lazy ass sweats even more these days because I’ve let my gym attendance slide, when at least I don’t have to mow or trim the lawn anymore because the apartment groundskeepers do that at 8 a.m. right outside my bedroom window every other morning  -- In other words, Toto, I ain’t in Vancouver, Wash., anymore. And this is my tale of moving to California.