Your friend Kilgore has cashed in some good-karma chips over the last 24 hours. Among the good things that have happened:

• I discovered today that if you stand at the intersection of 18th and Stout in downtown Denver, you can see three Starbucks, none of them more than two blocks away.
  
  
• Friday night was the season opener for the Colorado Mammoth, our professional lacrosse team. DK and I arrived at the Pepsi Center, waited in line to get scanned by metal-detecting wands, (we're very serious about homeland security here in the Mile High City. If you ever hear about terrorist atrocities being committed at a lacrosse game, it didn't happen in Denver), and headed up the escalator to section 349, row 2, seats 1 and 2, where we hold season tickets. At the top of the escalator we were stopped by a healthy young woman tricked out in a tight pink sweater, short black skirt, and knee-high boots.
  
  "Hi, guys!" she said brightly. "Would you be interested in entering a contest?"
  
  "No," I said. Thirty years of harassment by telemarketers, panhandlers, Jehovah's Witnesses, and assorted other unnaturally friendly strangers has taught me to say no almost as well as a three-year-old at bedtime.
  
  "Sure!" said DK, with an eyeful of pink sweater. I rolled my eyes. I didn't want to wait fifteen minutes while DK filled out a credit card application for a chance to win a million dollars or whatever. I just wanted to get to our seats. But Pink Sweater didn't have a credit card application. She explained that she wanted DK to participate in a dance competition at the end of the first quarter.
  
  "It'll be you against two other guys," she said. "If you win, you and your friend get to sit in the Cal Spas hot tub until halftime!"
  
  Now I was interested. Cal Spas is a local company that places a hot tub at Mammoth games, in one of the corner corridors just behind the glass. The exciting part is that the hot tub is stocked with healthy young women in bikinis.
  
  "You have got to win," I told DK.
  
  At the end of the first quarter, DK took the Pepsi Center floor against two Pi Kappa Alpha rejects. The first guy, obviously nervous, turned in a decent effort and received moderate applause. The second guy's routine consisted of several ill-advised moves, including bouncing off the glass and falling to the ground. The crowd booed him lustily. Then it was DK's turn.
  
  DK rode the pony. DK smacked his ass. DK did The Worm. And ten minutes later, DK and I were drinking free Coors Light and watching sweaty Canadian men assault each other with sticks while submerged in hot water and surrounded by four exceedingly healthy young women in bikinis.
  
  Yeah, it was heaven. But the problem with sitting in a hot tub with beautiful, half-naked models is that you want to stare. You want to leer. You want to ogle, gaze and gawk, downloading thousands of gigabytes of flawless female flesh into your brain for later recall and meditation.
  
  But I am a gentleman, so instead of staring, leering, ogling, gazing and gawking, I mostly watched the game while stealing surreptitious glances at the models with my peripheral vision. Then I wondered if the models would think I was some kind of incredible limpdick for watching lacrosse instead of looking at their firm, perfect bodies. I can't win.
  
  Still. Heaven.
  
  
• The Mammoth beat the San Jose Stealth 17-8 behind strong goaltending from Gee Nash, our new goalie; and six goals and five assists from Gary Gait, the best lacrosse player ever. The announced attendance was 17,689. For a lacrosse game. (The NBA Denver Nuggets drew 17,230 the next night.) Look: if you live in Anaheim, Phoenix, San Jose, Buffalo, Calgary, Denver, Rochester, Philadelphia, Toronto, or Vancouver; I beg you to attend a National Lacrosse League game. Lacrosse is fast and furious and violent and the tickets are cheap. You will have fun.
  
  
• I received an email today from Chaotic Not Random reader Ken, the text of which is reproduced below in its entirety:
  
  Kilgore,
  
  Love your blog -- excellent posts!
  I also share a fascination with the
  gorgeous Meredith Baxter-Birney.
  
  Attached, please find two pictures
  of her stunningly nice hooters.
  
  Regards.
  
  Attached to the email were three pictures of Meredith Baxter-Birney wearing a surgical gown and getting her fully exposed left breast palpated by a man in a white coat. That's right -- Ken sent me breast examination photos. (Do you ever hang out with Lawrence from Office Space, Ken? It seems you two have a lot in common.)
  
  As far as I can tell, the pictures are captures from the 1994 made-for-TV movie My Breast. Once I got past the yuck-factor of looking at a 47-year-old woman getting a breast cancer examination, I had to admit that Ken was right -- Meredith Baxter-Birney really does have stunningly nice hooters. (The left one, anyway. For all Ken and I know, Meredith Baxter-Birney's right breast is hideously deformed and encrusted with mold.)
  
  So, thanks for the pictures, Ken. You rock! Now if you could just find pictures of Meredith Baxter-Birney getting her breasts examined while Michael Gross peeks out from the medical-supply closet...
  
  

+posted by Lawrence @ 1/03/2004 11:58:00 PM