One minute you're riding high and the next thing you know the car's flipped and you're laying there upside-down in a ditch - figuratively of course. Consider that a metaphor for the weekend. The day at the office wraps up on Friday, I hit the bar for happy hour, then Black Cat for a night of sloshiness and Red Room-ery. It wasn't much, but when you know that the week's finally over and your out on the town with your partners-in-crime, you're riding awful high.

Enter Saturday, the day when I normally lounge around. Except this past Saturday I was feeling particularly inspired, so I managed to accomplish quite a bit. And looking forward to Nouveau Riche at DC9 later that night, I knew great times were just on the horizon.

Yet as fate would have it, DC9 was not the great times I had anticipated - maybe "okay" times at best. The music sounded all off and left a ringing of synthetic beats. That, coupled with a subpar crowd, created doubts in what was until then an enthusiastic regard for Nouveau Riche nights (see previous post).

So you count your losses, take your chances, and head to a Columbia Heights party at midnight. Maybe things will take a turn for the better. No such luck. The house party is inching towards over and I wasn't digging the beer pong. There's talk of a New Hamphire Ave. party, but in addition to its distance away, the talk says it's not worth the time.

It's moments like those when I inevitably find myself at Wonderland. Perhaps its because I live close to there, or maybe the place owns some irresistable force that beckons the night's castaways. At any rate, like a siren's song, Wonderland on a weekend night is rarely a great idea. Buyer beware.

But I refuse to spiral into a critique of a bar that needs no critique. Suffice it to say that sometimes it suits my mood and sometimes it doesn't. Fair enough. The only redeemable "good" to come out of there on Saturday was a run-in with Blelvis, the local, black Elvis impersonator who can sing a song by the King on any given subject if you give him a word.

Enter Sunday - my last day to make the weekend a success. I spend most of the day lounging around the house, biding my time until what I expect to be my moment of glory later in the evening. A few friends and I had scheduled a game of Risk and, although I hadn't played in years, expected my world domination skills to be in top shape. You know, like riding a bicycle.

Alas, the world was not meant for me that night. Despite shooting for the tried-and-true Western Hemisphere strategy and almost conquering both continents, I was one of the first out of the game. But I've gained a nemesis and when the world is once again up for graps, I'll ensure that it's mine.

The weekend ride is over. It's Monday and another week looms ahead. Yet some had worse weekends. For some the car really did flip. For Ingmar Bergman, it was his last weekend. When I sat down at my office computer this morning, I was even more shocked to learn that one of my high school heroes had also left the building. I'm talking about journalist Marvin Zindler from KTRK Eyewitness news in Houston.

As a local celebrity of "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" fame, he made the local news worth watching. He taught his audiences to fight for the little guy and always do what makes you happy. In honor of Marvin, here's a link to his signature skit.