Do you know what’s awesome about spaghetti? Its so tasty, but so ridiculously easy to make, that anyone can do it and exclaim, “I’m a great chef! You bet, bitches.” You’re magically like one of those people on the Food Network when you make spaghetti. But all you really did is boil up some noodles and heat sauce out of a jar. And still its delicious. That’s what’s awesome about spaghetti.

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Kona Grill: OK. Actually, if you order from the Happy Hour menu, its more than OK, its DECENT. Cheap drinks, cheap food, good times. And when you show up after everyone else has ordered and eaten as much as they can, playing the Newman role of “cleaner”, its even better. BBQ Pizza, Fish Tacos, its all good. Oh, and $2.50 Bud Light pints. That’s good too. That’s me last night: Dick was out with his wife and three of her co-workers, and calls me to meet them so he’s not The Lone Cowboy with the ladies. I show up an hour after them, eat up most of the leftover food, drink two beers, leave. Nice.

I understand that trains were a vital part of the history and growth of this great city of Omaha. I understand that trains transport goods at a cheap cost, keeping prices down for people like me. I understand that many people derive their income from the business of trains. I understand that several of my friends do work directly with the industry.

I also understand that when a train is sitting on the tracks, immobile, in between me and my destination for what seemed like an eternity, its not awesometime.

I hate trains.

Well, hate is a strong word. And I don’t hate all trains. I don’t even dislike all trains. Mass-transit trains are good. Light-rail trains are cool. But the train that was sitting in Millard last night keeping me from volleyball? I’m pretty sure I hate that one.

There are times when utilizing Picture-In-Picture to watch two things at once is preferable than watching one thing in High-Definition. Monday night was one of those times.

Finding myself in the unfortunate position of choosing whether to watch the reopening of the Louisiana Superdome on Monday Night Football or watching the Twins potentially clinch a playoff berth against Kansas City, I made a choice alright. I chose Picture-In-Picture over High-Definition. See, my “small” 27 inch TV in my living room upstairs may be standard definition but it has PIP. Which is nice.

In the interest of full disclosure, my fantasy football opponent this week had both Michael Vick and Warrick Dunn going for him in the MNF game, and I was clinging to a 23-point lead after Sunday’s games. As if I wouldn’t have been anyway, obviously I was a Saints fan on this night.

So with a feast of hot dogs, nachos and Cool Ranch Doritos, I sat down to watch two games at once. Good times.

Heading to Dick’s on Saturday, I came to the six-way intersection where NW Radial meets up with Maple and Military at 60th Street. Rolling up to the stoplight, I nearly didn’t notice the fact that the intersection was taped off with “Police Line DO NOT CROSS” tape. I distinctly remember thinking, Wow, did somebody get shot? Because its not every day you see dead bodies on the pavement.

While these thoughts raced through my mind, the light turned green. I skirted around the tape and jogged a half-block south, as this street was not blocked off. It was at this point that I came upon a marching band, in the street, right in front of me. With cheerleaders wearing bunny ears leading the way. I knew I hadn’t won the lottery — although someone in my hometown did win $200 million over the weekend, buying the ticket at a Kum&Go I used to frequent damn near every day in high school — so what was the deal?

Benson Days. This was the parade for Benson Days. And I was seemingly now smack dab in the middle of it.

Momentarily, I entertained thoughts of playing along with it, even going so far as to grab my bag of mints from the armrest cubby so I could throw out the individually-wrapped mint candies to anyone who might be watching the parade. But then it occurred to me that this had to be the most sparsely attended parade in the history of parades, at least since that time they threw a “I’m the Richest Guy In The Universe” parade for Ronald Camp.

This was just the warmup/queue street adjacent to the parade. Realizing this, I turned around quickly and got outta there. The problem still remained that the street I needed to be on was closed, and probably for many blocks. How to get across that street to Dick’s? Thank goodness for the GPS Navigation System in my car. I navigated a path through the heart of North Omaha — 60th to Ames, Ames to 30th, 30th to Hamilton, Hamilton across Saddle Creek. Good times, rolling through North O with the Alternative Rock station on XM (or as its called down there, “White Boy Music”), windows down and sunroof open. I wish I’d had my iPod so I could have played some Vanilla Ice. Alas.

Good times. You bet.

We went to a shindig that the invite called “A Blue Party” Saturday night. Now, theme parties are lame, but they are still parties, so as long as there’s beer, they retain some semblance of Awesome. Plus, when you consider I could have turned down the invitation to stay at home instead like some people are want to do, or I could have been watching the Nebraska game on Pay-Per-View, or doing other not-so-fun things…so yeah, compared to that, its automatically awesome.

You had to wear blue. That was the rule. So everyone did. And the beer of choice at this party? Pabst BLUE Ribbon, or BLUE Moon. Nice. Also, there were BLUEberry muffins, BLUE chips and salsa, and other things of that nature. Lots of married girls too, which was probably the only part of the party that stunk.

The host was wearing a futuristic space outfit. Like Zolar X, only better. And later in the evening, he broke out his badass keyboard and jammed with the disco music on the sound system. He was a better keyboard player than Zolar X, too, which is saying something considering they don’t have a keyboard player. He’s that good.

At one point, a game of “I Never” broke out in the kitchen. If you’re not familiar with that, you go around in a circle and say something you’ve never done. If anyone else in the circle HAS done it, they have to take a drink from their beverage. This of course serves as an admission that you’ve done that something. There are two strategies: say things you know your friends have done so they’ll have to admit it and be embarrassed in front of everyone, or say things you’ve done and then drink to admit something you otherwise wouldn’t. Option one is good, but option two is funnier.

I won’t reveal anything that came up in there. I think Gilby and I both lied for dramatic effect on several occasions — playing to the room is always a winner in that game. Because I’m pretty sure I’ve never had an encounter with a hooker. Despite what I may have said that night. All I know is it was funny at the time — the entire room was in shambles when I drank to that.

Anyway, that’s an evil, evil game. You bet.