There’s a strange dichotomy between the person that I am at work – this includes transit to and from, as well – to the person that I am at home. It’s an interesting phenomenon that every day I come home with some sort of ‘yes, tonight I’m getting my shite together, I’m going to pay those bills and do that laundry and return those phone calls and e-mails and then I’ll call that soup kitchen and see when I can swing by to volunteer and, and, and …’ but of course none of it happens. Home has become that magical volition-sapping drug that makes me stare for hours at eBay and watch inane sitcoms, as in, ‘dammit, why was I watching Dharma & Greg again?’

Maybe I should try to bring some of that work environment, that let’s-get-this-project-done atmosphere. At least I would drink less beer that way.

Obsession of the moment: Tiger Woods 2005. I was given prior warning, but paid it no heed. Now I pass this warning to you: Do not start playing this. It’s a freaking narcotic that leaves you tapping your veins, tying off and screaming, ‘more! More! I need to score a 75-under on a four-day tournament at Coeur d’Alene! My handicap is only 17-under!’ and then you realize you’re a junkie for a video game that emulates golf. Not that this has happened.

So the U.S. national squad looked like it was going to give us a good match … for the first four minutes. Then England scored its first goal in an international friendly match on a free kick from Kieran Richardson, who is 20 years old and, as recently as five months ago, was on Man U’s reserve squad.

I’m sorry, but I was expecting a game. Even though the home side carried some good possession time, the guys played like shite, to borrow a Brit-term I adoped from the many English that wanted to tell me how badly the players performed. This is not to say I didn’t have fun, because I had a blast. Soldier Field was momentarily transformed into a European stadium, replete with banners, flags, chants (from the English) and general rowdiness. The U.S. supporters, though, were relegated to repeating the weak ‘U.S.A! U.S.A.!’ a few times, but emotions were still high.

But freaking Ashley Cole (!) was there - I got to see an Arsenal player right in front of me. Score.

Food of the day: S’mores. Perfect after a long day of drinking and grilling. The coals are still hot, people are having fun and everyone wants to be reminded of childhood summers. Plus the ladies love the romantic gesture of making a cooked marshmallow. I should carry a grill with me at all times.

So we’ve all had problems that, despite our best efforts, can’t seem to be solved. Things like ‘What do I want to be when I grow up?’ or ‘is there life after death?’ or ‘is it time to stop playing Tiger Woods 2005 to be a social human being again?’ And these problems take on lives of their own, so much so that we personify them. We humanize them and sympathize with them. So we have said problem, staring us in the face with those cold, accusing eyes, all but saying ‘you can’t live without me; I’ve become who you are, how you define yourself,’ and we can’t say no. It’s like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube: the pieces keep shifting, and while the patterns change, the root remains the same. You just can’t solve the thing.

At least I can’t. I did date a girl once who could solve a Rubik’s Cube without looking - apparently there’s some Cube-to-hand algorithm or something - but that’s a different story.

When you have those moments of clarity, though, that allow you to see the root of the problem - the actual cause, not the displayed side effects thereof - you have to hold on to those thoughts as long as possible. And the mantra I need to remember is simple.

I can do better.

If I can stick to that, maybe a magical skeleton key to all my questions will pop up. Maybe in that fortune cookie I picked up at last week’s Chinese buffet? ‘You will get what you want through your charm and personality … in bed,’ it said. My lucky numbers didn’t help, though, unlike these lucky schmucks in New York.

Excerpt of the day: From Black Book: ‘Like a Friendster profile, their list is an example of studied eclecticism, its primary purpose to demonstrate list-making proficiency, and therefore little else.’ That magazine rocks.

Let’s say you’re a person with a full-time job that demands physical labor. A house painter, for example. You’re on the job site before the sun fully rises, you work a full day scraping and cleaning and then finally painting, your body aching and straining for eight to ten hours. In short, you’re freaking tired.

That visual demonstrates what happened today: full-out emotional exhaustion. I referenced ‘until tomorrow’ in yesterday’s post, and what a day it was. Every emotion from shock to revulsion to elation to heartfelt empathy manifested in just a short work day, and I get the distinct privilege of working in a bombed-out shell of an office tomorrow. Interestingly enough, I managed to stay positive.

I use the phrase ’stay positive’ despite a two-graf news blurb I picked up today. I’m sorry to post such negative, horrible things, but for some reason this brief jumped off the page and grabbed me. That really colors a day for you, even though I don’t want to discuss the matter here. Draw your own conclusion, whether they be revulsion at the scene, horror at its sheer unspeakability, outrage at the episode’s religious overtones or so on. I’m not quite sure what to say.

Upon later reflection, the emotional highs and lows of the day - including my trepidations for the future and my heartfelt, nervous excitement for the future, seems somewhat muted in light of the above.

Cuisine of the day: Mexican. Too much food for you to finish in one sitting, so you turn to pitchers of Margaritas. Funny how tequila brings out the inner chatty, heart-on-your-sleeve persona in all of us.

I spent most of the evening in a beer garden, enjoying the spring weather. Then I slept. I leave you with this:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Until tomorrow.

Diversion of the day: Crossword puzzles. If you’re stumped, say, ‘Whatever, Wayne Robert Williams,’ and move on.

So my neighbor just stopped by and gave my back door The Knock.

You’re familiar with The Knock. It’s the first step in taking action against 45 minutes of pent-up passive-aggressive steaming, of tossing and turning in bed while entertaining thoughts of calm, cool, collected confrontations that leaves the humiliated neighbor questioning not only his late-night decision to listen to music at louder-than-acceptable levels, but also his very manhood and raison d’etre.

(The) Knock, (The) Knock, went the back door.

The only problem was that as soon as I opened it, the angry look on my neighbor’s face dissipated. Immediately.

‘Oh, that’s not even loud,’ she said.

‘I know,’ I said.

(three seconds of prolonged silence, then cue lively discussion on shoddily constructed apartment buildings that transmit even the smallest footstep or softest bass thump of Blackalicious’ ‘Chemical Calisthenics.’)

Crisis averted, she went back to bed. I put on my headphones and continued to rock. I suppose I made a new friend on the third floor from my room two stories below by (softly) blasting good tracks.

Song of the moment: ‘Extraordinary Machine,’ Fiona Apple. ‘I make the most of it, I’m an extraordinary machine,’ she says. I agree.

I’ve become that specific sub-class of yuppie: the one that works all day, only to arrive home just before midnight to fire up the ‘puter and rock out on another task. Good for me. Then again, having some drive to create and do new things somehow mitigates that possibility of emptiness on the horizon, so we’re going to stay positive about this. Right? Right? In any case, I’m going to continue a lie that I promulgated in college, namely, that I work better late at night.

Song of the moment: ‘Landslide,’ Fleetwood Mac. It was playing in the car on the way home and, like any good rock ballad, sticks like peanut butter on the brain.

Drink of the moment: Tab. Where would we be without it? Answer: In a world without aspartame. And if I can’t have cancer-causing sweeteners, I’m sick of this shambling reality.