I try to get to the King of Thai Noodle House every Sunday. As I walk in the waitress swings by and asks, "The usual?" to which I reply, "Yep." I guess this classifies me as a "regular", if the waitress doesn't even have to hand me a menu.

The "usual" consists of number 18 on the menu and a diet coke. It's been so long since I've actually seen a menu (thanks to the great memory of my waitress) that I don't quite remember what number 18 really is. Something to do with ground chicken, basil and peppers over noodles. Whatever it is, it's heavenly.

If I die, I want to come back as a plate in the King of That Noodle House. It would be nirvana to be smothered in number 18.

As I'm writing this, angled slightly to the left of my table, the hot peppers still burning on my lips, I'm noticing that something is wrong. Not with the food, but my left leg.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch the first glimpse, a discoloration on my thigh. On my favorite pair of knockabout jeans. Where did this Pink Stuff come from?!? It looks like I ate a watermelon popsicle over my left leg last night. The stains are faint, but noticeable, even in the filtered overhead light of this Thai place. The color is almost that of the pink vertical margin line on this notepad.

Maybe after I went to bed last night my pants got the urge to go out. Maybe grab some drinks. Go for sushi. I bet they got a bit too looped and did something stupid, like started to sing karaoke atop a table in some Japanese joint and slipped on a slice of sashimi and ended up fly-down in a bowl of half eaten tempura.

Party Pants.

It may even explain the rip in the left knee. It just sort of appeared there one day and I can't recall when, where or how. Maybe my pants went rock climbing or something.