On my way to the bank after work today, I was waiting on the corner of Broadway for the light to change. A crusty-looking guy approached me. Uh oh.

"You got a lighter?" he asked. Oh.

"Sure," I said, and pulled out my Zippo, but he didn't seem to be reaching for a cigarette or even looking at the lighter.

"You know, that's my iPod," he said, pointing at my other hand. What the--?

"I don't think so, buddy," I replied cheerfully. I was still holding my Zippo in the other hand, waving it distractedly. If things got bad, I could always light myself on fire.

"Anyone ever tell you you're a sexy man?" he asked. Fuuuuuuuuck.

"Just my wife," I lied. Nobody calls me sexy. "Ham-face," sometimes.

"I'm not gay," he said, a picture of solemnity. The light finally changed.

"I gotta go," I said, and started crossing the street.

"Hey, come back! Don't go! I . . . aw, God dammit!" he cried.

So that happened. It occurred to me that I needed a break from the city. Happily, I'm getting one!

This weekend, the wife and I are driving up to Cle Elum, a dinkish little town near the pass for a couple days of snowy recreation! I'd love to say this was all my idea, but it was totally the wife. She set it up, and a bunch of other friends are coming up there with us to stay in our three-room room-thing complete with a hot tub! And ping-pong table! And we're gonna go sleddin'! And inner-tubin'! And hypothermia-gettin' and pelvis-crunchin'! And of course, drinkin'!

There's something very rejuvenating, I hope, anyway, about spending a couple days with good friends behaving as if we were twenty years younger than we are. There might actually be genuine youngsters there to give us the scornful laughs that we surely will deserve as we drunkenly careen into trees, or snow plows, or bears. Or, even worse, they might laugh at the bunch of nervous drunks who are worriedly scanning the landscape for potential disasters.

"This looks pretty steep . . . there's a jump over there that I don't like the look of . . . is this inner tube rated for two people? Maybe you should go ahead . . . why are those kids over there laughing at us? . . . if you want, we can go play some more beer pong . . . "

Whatever. However things turn out--DANGER DRUNKS? OR COWARDLY SOTS?--it promises to be a good time. After all, there will be cider! And pie! And that sort of uncomfortable good cheer that comes with sitting too close to your nearly naked friends in a hot tub!

So I don't care if those kids laugh. I really don't. Even if the whole weekend turns out to be a bust, and we get shivved by the villainous teenagers after calling them "a pack of debased, trout-sucking rotters," I'll still be happy, lying there bleeding on that hospital gurney. A smile will play over my blued lips.

Not only for the memories of a weekend well spent with friends. Also for the secret knowledge, stored deep in my heart, that somewhere is a crazy street person who thinks that I am a sexy man.