I just woke up to a screaming baby. No the baby isn't one of mine and no I didn't bring a mother home with me either. I woke up to the sound of a screaming baby because my housemate is in Greece.

This is my first morning home in Phoenix in two weeks. Just finished ten-days of flying split by four wonderful days with my kids in Colorado. I am, however, happy to be home, aside from the crying, screaming baby; my housemate's fault. You see, Lisa and my friend Candy are best buddies, and they both managed to swing three weeks off and a trip to Greece. They are on some island right now, getting drunk and causing men to be slapped by their wives for looking at their barely clothed, rock star bodies.

To replace Lisa's spot in the house her daughter Brittney and son-in-law Justin are staying here to help out. Justin works at a restaurant during the day and Britney babysits a pudgy, crying, screaming baby that wakes me up. Lucky for the baby she's cute, or I'd send her packing with Moose the suitcase pissing cat.

I got up and saw that Brit was watching television. I write the word television because I don't watch it enough to be on the short name basis of TV. I digress. I went to get some breakfast food--my regular, Triscuts and hummus--and returned to the couch to see what was on. I got to watch The Fray play their song Never Say Never live in front of a million 13-50 year old women. That's the song where basically the dude just says, "Don't let me go," over and over again. If you watch the live version, like I did, you get to watch him sing with a coital, grimace on his face. The fans, mostly hot women, were all singing the same lyrics, hands stretched out, with reckless abandon to the music and the same nookied look on their faces.

It kind of made me think of a Christian worship service. The music sounded the same; it repeated itself over and over and over again. None of the notes were too high or too low. There was a sea of hands stretched ceiling-wards as if by doing so they'd feel closer to God, the lights, the lead guitarist, etc. There was not, however, at least within the view of the camera, a hymnal for the Presbyterians, nor a Pentecostal dude blabbing in nonsense syllables. I did see someone crying for no good reason and another person setting up a table in the back for the post-concert potluck.