This isn't exactly news or a surprise, I guess, but it is official: I'm pulling the plug on thedailydewayne.com. This is the last scheduled post.

THE PRESENT >>> The reasons are threefold. You knew there'd be a list, right?

1. It feels played out. If feels like the 13th season of Friends with episodes like "The One Where Joey Reviews Each Year of His Education." I've told some stories twice, just like real life.

2. I'm written out. Since switching to full-time reporting in June, my heart hasn't been in my fingers. It sucks, but I fell like that creative energy should be reserved for he who pays -- and how much is this costing you, by the way? Do you offer a health plan?

3, which is related to 2. Some of my previous favorite topics are somewhat forbidden with the new job. It's just bad form. And there there was the day I was interviewing an actress and I had a chilling thought: What if she knows I once blogged about her shrill, shrieking, whining scenes? Awkward!

THE PAST >>> The good things of TDD have been substantial. Friendships have been enhanced and created. I've loved meeting people who otherwise would have forever been strangers. Google has hooked me up with random Amazing Race fans, Jess Cagle followers, Olympics freaks, long-lost grade-school chums and assorted Dewayne(s) across the country.

And when I've tried to quit you before, someone who mention they liked a post or they'd quote or me or say I made the cry or reported that I was read in Russia. I kept going, despite the Russian spam.

THE FUTURE >>> Sure, I'll miss it, but maybe you'll stay in touch so I won't have to miss you too.

I'll miss having a total-control forum, especially when I see things like a pep band with violins (pep orchestra?). But that was last month, and I haven't written about it until now. Heck, I'm three weeks behind my target date for this final post.

The site will remain up for a few months, just in case you want to save prose or a picture. And I'm keeping the rights to the domain, so shoo, squatters, shoo.

However, I'm migrating to a new email address. Try this one:

Dewayne

then the letter B

followed by the word "evil"

(at) gmail-dot-com. (No spaces anywhere)

If that doesn't compute with you, ask for clarification via the old email. I'll be checking, but please update your address books.

Meanwhile, I have other ideas for me and the net. I'm toying with Twitter and flirting with Flickr again. I'm mulling more sites but not the kind that makes me millions.

I hope you've enjoyed our time. I hope you remember the acceptable-dating-age formula. I hope you use the world "literally" correctly but not use quotation marks willy-nilly. I hope you have Dan Abrams over for brunch and you invite me as well.

As our national poetess Dolly Parton once wrote and Miss Whitney Houston once warbled "I hope life treats you kind / And I hope you have all you've dreamed of / And I wish to you joy and happiness / But above all this, I wish you love."

Me too.

Dewayne

Forgive my tardiness in posting pics from last weekend's soiree. I'm going to file the event under "success" since the number in attendance was a personal record, even besting the dreaded Year of the Layoffs. Oddly, fully one-third of the group was newbies, which makes me wonder if I ticked off some oldbies, but ... whatever.

Oddly Part II: While making my list, I noticed lots of duplication of first names. Thus, a theme was born, demonstrated in these photos (MF has long contented that all my friends have one-syllable names. She has a point.)

Matt & Matt & Matt (Note my aqua cups).

April & April

Keith & Keifer (Birth certificate check!)

Tom & Tom & Tom (No Jerrys!)

Scott & Scott & Scott

Mary & Fran & Mary Frances

Gene & Gene 13

Ron 13 & Ron (no number)

Finally, the palindrome pair: J.B. & Bj.

Regrets: I neglected a chance at Mike & Mike & Mick. And I had an early Susan and a late Susan. Drat!

Those of use with unique names were photographically out of luck this year ... although I could have gone the rhyming way -- I had a Shane in the house!

Remarkably, there was little-to-no gossip created at this year's function. And no bloodshed. And no big reveal of Mystalker (wow, he even got a real name above).

Oh, but there's a peeping tom (not one of the Toms above) in the nabe. Stay tuned.

Since the early days of this blog, I've had this notion that involved me using my rudimentary Photoshop skills to make a graphic of my imaginary dinner party. It would feature 12 celebrities mugshots with mine at top (not that I'm dreaming of celebrity) and centered. Below would be five rows of two, then one row of one... a vertical seating chart.

Once completed, I would station it in the mini-column at right below Over It List, and as my mood changed, so would the guest list. Fun.

Dream on, sisters.

But I did finally settle on a list, and I shall now present it in type-only format (with parenthetical thoughts, of course. I haven't gone completely mad.)

We'll start at the head of the table: ME, then, from bird's-eye view, continue to my left in clockwise fashion. Perfectly civilized.

So, again, picture it -- ME, passing potatoes to ...

Matt LeBlanc (but as Joey Tribbiani, and not so sad about his divorce).

Jake Shears (Mr. Scissor Sisters)

Madonna (Guaranteeing that SOMETHING will happen)

Jonathan Rhys Meyers (Who can translate what Madonna is saying to us)

Billy Campbell (I hear he wears a sarong a lot. Discuss)

At the opposite end of table ...

Rob Marciano (CNN weatherboy)

Kelly Ripa (I'm assuming Mark is in Canada filming something)

Jake Gyllenhaal (I expect a full report from Ripa)

Miss Tyra Banks (fierce)

Tom Brady (he can talk modeling with Miss Tyra) ... and ...

Mr. Ben Affleck.

INVITED FOR DESSERT: Kathy Griffin (It's so D-List in here), Dan Abrams (can he hear me?), Andy Roddick (I fancy him serving little pastries from a racket) plus entertainment from Christopher Meloni and Mariska Hargitay, singing selections from the musical comedy I've written just for them.

How are your PhotoShop skills? Who's coming to your dinner?

Yes, the end of high school recapping. What was I thinking? I'm not even sure what I was thinking back then. It was all very ordinary. Got into college without even taking the SAT. Those were the days.

There was a band trip to Florida for an odd symphonic band competition. It was worldwide but held in tiny little pods of groups -- and included a banquet. At this affair, the ratings were given. Let's call them supersuperior, excellent, good, fair and certificate of completion. There was lots of drama, but we were mainly freaked by the groups who went nutso with applause for being awarded the certificate of completion, which we had already nicknamed "the paper doiley."

Fastforward to graduation. At the rehearsal for commencement this one guy, Tony, dressed up like the principal: obvious unibrow, ultrayellow sport coat. Think canary. He paraded up to the stage, did the routine with principal (shake with right hand, grab diploma holder with left). All was still.

Later, principal was unamused, I guess. Tony was not allowed to participate in ceremony. Wonder if he's a criminal now.

At graduation, I got to sit next to my dear French horn pal, Suzy B, due to the alphabetical nature of it all. We were front row on center aisle, perfect seats. There were only 373 people in our class, but there were kids at rehearsal that neither of us had ever seen before. Or since, for that matter.

We had been to plenty a graduation, and I always thought "Pomp and Circumstance" was a sad song, especially the clarinet part. But on our graduation night, I was just glad it was over.

Oh, but not really. After the ceremony ended, my friend Tim and I were leaving through a side entrance and we bumped into our classmate, "Abby." She was bawling. Bawling! A bit dramatic, I mean, what was her deal. Oh, did I mention that the constant rumor was that she was Involved with a certain instructor at the school -- one with children older than Abby? Oh my.

Tim and I went to his car, and then we spotted them, Abby and her father figure, walking to a car. What would you do? Just what we did. Follow. Oh, at a respectable distance, and we lost them. Then accidentally were right behind them again.

We followed them across the river in Indiana. Fun! Crossing State Borders! Kinda Stupid! You see, Tim's car was probably the most distinctive in Daviess County: a metallic blue Pinto station wagon ... with giant primary-color polka dots up the side. They HAD to have seen that in the rear view mirror, but we continued.

In Indiana, the roads are flat and straight. We knew that the highway dead-ended ahead, and they would have to turn. They went left and then U-turned back towards us. Insert 17-year-old panic here! Our plan had sort of run out as we thought they were going to a motel, and our crazy crazy notion was to pull up beside them. "What is he going to do? Mark us down a grade?" he giggled in post-graduation euphoria.

Anyhows, Tim finagled the car (derisively known as "The Bubble Machine") behind a natural gas tank, and they passed. But they knew.

We told a select few, and few of those believed.

Two years later, they were married. Still are today.

oOo

Next was college, of course, and don't worry, we're not going to have a semester-by-semester breakdown. For me, college did exactly what it was supposed to do. Good times, decent education, people that changed my life forever -- all without a marching band story. But that's another story, one that you've already heard.

And we're back.

Was just looking at the junior year yearbook, and you won't be surprised that it's going to be a marching band story. Aren't they all? I was surprised that this storyline wasn't in the annual at all, because it seemed pretty significant at the time, and the editor was in band and all.

OK, so junior year, there was a definite shift in things in the bandroom. We had always had a strong symphonic/concert band, and the marching band sounded good, but the marching was pretty elementary. It was four-member squadron marching, very linear and very predictable.

Somehow, the director saw the light, and hired an up-and-coming drill designer. What happened from there was pretty brilliant if accidental. I would mention his name -- it's still bantied about in those circles -- but I won't because I think he screwed us around the next year.

ANYWAY, this junior show was different for us because there were curves, backward marching, something called the zipper drill, something way harder called the backward parabulas and more. We were challenged.

But the genius was in the beginning. Although the marching was more difficult, it was still straight-lined and a casual onlooker might see no difference. Until about a minute in, when suddenly, it's Arc City, almost with Jack in the Box urgency. We in the band knew it was cool, but we had never actually scene it from the stands. It got a nice response from the home crowd.

But what I remember most is traveling across town for a rival game about midway through football season. As the "visitors," we performed first at halftime. When we got to the first big moment of impact, the hostile crowd sorta gasped. Cool! Then at the end we got a standing ovation from them, and trust me, this was not expected.

Two days later at church, the jocks from that school told me that our band was way better and that their band sucked. "Ours is so easy, I'm sure I could do it."

Wait, did I have a point? Oh, yeah, unexpected applause is the best. It was like decades before I had another round like that -- and then it was anonymous, but that's another story.

oOo

To the yearbook signings.... funny how I noticed in this book how so many people I would have considered average-looking were actually quite pretty or in some cases striking. I could not have been the hair, which seems to be limited to a shaggy Farrah or a 'fro. Not pretty, y'all.

Anyway, on with the signatures. Folks were getting long-winded by now, so I'm boiling most of these down, and leaving out the ones that make mention of next year when we'll be "big seniors."

"I hope your diseased hand heals soon." Suzy B.

"Remember band camp! Lemonade sheets, flying fugies, and Dave. Of coruse, there's WKU, Murray-cheap, Murfreesboro. Sanders knocking over two tubas. Remember Mr. Masculine and Mr. Posturpedic. The Band Banquet, you can't forget that." Tim H.

"I don't think I would would have survived this year without you and the Suzannes. I can't wait til Dave the Magnificent blows his lip to pieces." Mary D.

"Next year maybe we will have some classes together besides lunch." Tim R.

"Doesn't this snow look inviting? Seems we never get enough of it, especially this year and last." Greg.

"You all will have to get together in Honors English next year and write. I expect some very funny letters." Suzy D.

"It's just been loads of fun in French Fourphones (4 phones) with you and Dave (oh, wow!). What we will do next year without Mlle Hagernose? I mean, besides celebrate. P.S. May the Force be with you. P.P.S. Oui, c'est ca!" Craig.

"This year in french has just been sheer nirvana. It has made me much more of a person. Without this year of french, I wouldn't know many good foreign language insults. I wouldn't know it was possible to have an eggplant for a nose or put pantyhose in your hair. If I hadn't been in that class, I would have never learned how to skip class without getting caught or about African transfer students living in Belgium with a greek goat and discussing their lunch that isn't very promising. I would have never asked a certain tenor sax player about anything concerning a condition of wetness, and most important I wouldn't know any Connie Francis songs! I still don't know what Oui C'est Ca means! ... I think you, o'Suzanne and I should have a cabinet (in band) together and call it the Connie Francis Memorial Horn and Book Storage and Back Wall Covered with Gum Cabinet." Dave.

I have to say, this was quite a write-up from Dave, and he clearly was an influence that year. We had English, French, Band and maybe more together. He was first chair French horn, and a Yankee! (The family had transferred from Syracuse.) I don't think we understood him at all, but he was funny and dramatic.

A few years ago, I bumped into him at a drum corps contest! My friend Ted, who never recognizes anyone, said "Isn't that Dave?" Sure enough. He's a band director, and I bet his name is distinctive enough to Google. I shall do that right now!

Hang in there, one more year, y'all.

I'm driving through College Park, and there are signs up for their big holiday kickoff, block party type thing. It's pretty laid-back, and I enjoy it. I note that it's later than usual -- Dec. 7 -- and make a plan. Why does it seem like I'm already doing something that night. Hmmmm.

Duh. That' s the night of MY holiday party, and I've known that for 6 months. Sheesh.

I blame it all on the end of daylight savings. I am so depressed to leave work in total darkness. I'm certain that I have some seasonal disorder. But on the bright side, so to speak, it usually lifts around Thanksgiving, followed by the uncertainty that is December, then a good couple of months until it all hits the fan in March or April, followed by a summer of recovery but good lighting conditions. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. Yeah, I'm sick of me too.

RIN TIN 10TH >>> As we continue to look back at school days, it seems that not much of note happened as a sophomore. (The secretary in our high school always pronouned it "SOF-fah-mores," much to the mockery of us smart-A teens. And now, in my mind, so do I.)

I was placed in an honors English class that was a mix of sophomores (make that SOF-fah-mores), juniors and seniors. The sophs were all boys, the juniors were all girls, and the seniors were a healthy mix. I felt out of my league, but boy, it was cake. The seniors were brilliant. Amongst them were their valendictorian, salutatorian, honor graduate, both of the Most Like to Succeeds, etc.

My friend Suzy D., a junior, was in the class too. In my yearbook (foreshadowing), she wrote, "Well, we've survived a year of English. That class has done more to develop my inferiority complex. I don't think I could make it through another year of that class."

One might have gotten a bit head around such greatness, but the faculty had a plan. It wasn't called Honor's English, it was called Special English. But there was also a class called Special Math -- and it was for people who weren't quite up to long division yet. So if you told classmates you were in "Special" English, they'd say, "Oh, I thought you were good in English." Crafty.

Anyway, I stayed special for the rest of high school. (There was another DeWayne in the class -- with a cap W, poor thing. Whenever the teacher would call on "Dewayne," then "DeWayne" would answer. You don't give up that kind of gig.)

oOo

Scenes from the yearbook.

"Can't wait til Band Camp when we'll be big, bad Juniors." Suzanne B.

"Remember Holy Mollies and Cosmic Rays convention. Remember Pettimals that Don Ho has and his weird wardrobe." Tim H. (Curiously, I do remember all of those.)

"... Marching season and basketball, dead babies, contest sectionals, band practice when all we did a was make Wills & Kirtley fell our wrath." Jeanne C. (One of the brilliant ones... but ... dead babies? Wills & Kirtley were the band directors.)

"We had a lot of fun in French and Band. Next year we'll be in the same English class too. Isn't that exciting? ... You're a real good (?) horn player and if you don't make all-distric next year I'll punch you out! Your not very dumb either. ... Till the next annual, I remain: Your Friend (?), Dave." (Dave was a transfer from Syracuse, and a fellow French horn player, as was both Suzannes and Jeanne. We were a FHorn family. Dave went on to become a high school band director, and I bumped into him 20 years later at a drum corps contest.)

"I've enjoyed knowing you this year ... Anyhow, I am looking forward to our "tricks" at band camp." Ted. (This is notable as the first of Ted's writings in my yearbooks, and he's one of the few people -- maybe 5 -- that I ever communicated with from HS).

"Since you live in the neighborhood, I'm sure that I'll see you next year. Keep clean, Mike."

"It's been lots of fun in Crispy Critters, Bio and Frogs III this year. Youo can't beat it with a wooden leg. Holman's ties, Donna's "asinine" questions and Dave's letters really made my day. Yours truly (ha-ha!), Craig." (Translations: Crispy Critters = Special English; Frogs III = French III.)

Now I'm remembering that this is the year we had to take a semester of P.E. (If you weren't in band, you had to take a whole 'nother year.). HATED IT. Everytime we'd finish a class, Tim and I would calculate in our head of what percentage of the semester was over. So P.E. was good for something: MATH.

Back to class, y'all. It's ninth grade, the beginning of high school. And guess what, no deaths to report this year.

Freshman year is significant because it sealed me on all things marching band. First of all, there was an elaborate initiation ritual, but I'm not going to chat that up because it's the topic of my first novel (What? You didn't know?). Suffice it to say that it involved hazing, but not in an alcohol/jumper cables connected to your nips sort of way. This was more mind games. And dang effective.

That year, the band made a trip to the Astro-Bluebonnet Bowl game in Houston. We left home on Christmas night, which seemed like heresy at the time. We traveled from Kentucky on four Greyhound-esque buses, but they were far from reliable. USUALLY three were running at the same time. I can remember they'd put the kids from the bus that was out of commission into the aisles of the other three. How did we survive?

The directly smartly had pre-arranged meals along the way ... but once you get off schedule, disaster looms. Some of the food had been sitting out on the table for HOURS by the time we got there. How did we survive?

I remember how old/mature the upperclassmen appeared, even the juniors who were just two years older. I was well into my 30s before I felt as mature as my impression of those juniors.

There was a bit of a jock mentality at my school, which was odd because most of our teams bit. They didn't seem to know that. We didn't care. It's OK, I'm with the band.

When I dug out the yearbook, I was struck by a couple of things. Our school had a LOT of clubs that I had forgotten about. Makes the school look kinda progressive for its day. There are pics of student council, Beta Club, Key Club (there's a guy with a rifle!), Karate Club, Math-Science League, Chess Club, Nurses Club, Christian Student Union, Radio Club, Lettermen, Pep Club, FBLA, FHA, FFA, Music Club, Pantherettes, Drama Club, Young Democrats, Teenage Republicans (those two had the same faculty adviser!), Young Historians, Hunting and Fishing Club, Rocket Club, newspaper staff (it was called The Big Red Machine), Foreign Language Club (later splintered into French, Spanish and German clubs), various choral groups, ROTC, Junior Crime Council and the many segments of the band.

The group shots were taken in many creative spots in the school, some nooks of which I had completely repressed.

Secondly, there seems to be a lot of girls named after their grandmothers: Charlene, Sheila, Helen, Betty, Margaret, Phyllis, Darla, Darlene, Doris, Dolores, Nanny (!), Shirley, Wanda, Norma, Mae, Virginia, Ramona, Pansy (!!), Annette, Priscilla.

This was before people started making up names. Our more unusal girl names were Madonna (not that one), Misty and Blaise -- pronounced like BLAZE except sometimes cruelly as BLAH-ZAY.

There's a sprinkling of Dwaynes, two Dewaynes, even a Dwain. Later, we would be joined by a DuWayne. It could be worse. I'm talking to you, Cletus and Lotus. (They're not even twins!)

oOo

Anyway, on to ninth-grade yearbook inscriptions. The book was called Echoes, which I like.

"I'm glad I met you this year. I hope you forget about all the times I was caught with gum. I'll remember you when I move." Sharon

"We've become good friends. Good luck in everything. Love Ya!" Leslie.

"We are all seraching for something, peace, in ourselves, security and sometone to have. I hope you find what your looking for, man. Stay cool." Wesley.

"To a real nice guy who usually sits behind me in every class we have to sit in alphabetical order." Ann

"To a real nice (?) guy I'm glad I have you in most of my classes. P.S. Remember Ted after the do-nut on Ted's finger and when he screamed after walking after the bathroom!! Ha!" Tim. (Editor's note: huh?)

"Sometimes your cool and sometimes your're always pushing me around. Why don't you get strong enough so you can play baseball and be a Hank Aaron like me! But for right now, just stay smart as you are! Your friend, Steve H." (I have no idea who this is, or where he learned your vs your're.)

"Dewayne the bathtub, I'm dwowning! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!" Perry

"Some good advice to Dwayne (or is it Dewane): Do unto others before they do unto you. C'est vrai. Craig. (King James Version)."

This week I rode a Segway for the first time. It was for work, so they'll be something in print one day soonishly. It did prompt me to make a list, and who doesn't love a list, of other things I've never done but might like to.

+ I've never played on Dance Dance Revolution. I think I might suck at it though. I've never touched one of those Wii things either, come to think about it.

+ I've never been to the Pacific Northwest, and now with Jorge and Agnes and Brian (sometimes) there, I really have no excuse.

+ I've never been to a high school football game in Florida. (I've also neglected to mention that we just passed my 18th anniversary in Orlando. Holy crap!)

+ I've never seen that Friday Night Lights show, even though everyone says I would like it. I taped it for a bit this summer, thinking marathon, but then NBC stopped airing it and I never got around to it.

+ I've never met a man named Colt, and yet there are three prominently in college football right now -- the quarterbacks for Hawaii and Texas, plus the kicker for LSU. I think I'd like to be called Colt.

+ I've never shoplifted. In my reckless semi-youth, I did steal some undergarments once, but that wasn't retail. What? Just seeing if you're still awake. But it's true, and maybe not my proudest moment. Oh well, I've always thought I'd be a good "paid shoplifter" for a mall. You know, a security measure sort of thing. Doing it amateurly would certainly bump into some morals issues, and so my fingers remain unsticky... well, except for that one time in my reckless semi-youth.

Can't recall the last time I was this disinterested in Halloween. I haven't even stuck my head in one of those temp Halloween shoppes. There was a small movement amongst the boyz to go as retro airline stewardesses. Sounded like a lot of sewing to me, but I was game if it meant wearing a cape.

And then, as it turns out, many of the boyz out of town this week. That whole Wednesday Halloween Thing just doesn't work, you know. (But that doesn't mean you can start wearing your costume on the Thursday before, like I saw last night. Bad, bad form.)

I did have one costume notion that I'll give away here. Only requires a box, scissors, double sided tape (or sewing kit), a pair of jeans to sacrifice and some likeness of the vice president.

It's My Dick Cheney in a Box.

It's all yours, but do send a picture.

SCENES FROM RETAIL THERAPY >>> Oddness at Gap today. I had made the circuit in there (no sale, winter merch), and the salesboy said to me "I'm going to get you a job in here. You're here all the time. I recognize you!"

Hmmm. Haven't been in there in months, and I didn't recognize him. He then backtracked and said he was joking. What?

Then I browsed a bit only to annouce to salesboy no. 2: "I DON'T need a sweater for pete's sake."

He retored with sarcasm: No, you need this parka!

Yikes, we have one overnight temps below 70 and Gap wheels out the parka. Why does retail not get the Sun Belt?

Meanwhile, I have this weird desire for a fedora. This would put me somewhere between Justin Timberlake and Bear Bryant. What is up with me?

Stranger still: in Target, a man has a scheme for a Halloween costume. It involves wearing three pairs of tighty whiteys. Or should he buy blue ones. He is delighted; his tattooed galpal decidedly less delighted. What is his costume? Homer Simpson? And why do I not get invited to these kind of Halloween parties?

As I walked away, Faux Homer said "I can't remember the last time I bought underwear!"

This ends More Than I Wanted to Know Theater.

Back to fedoras. That Derek Hough kid from Dancing With the Stars wears one in the behind-the-scenes videos, which covers up his hair do, which is superior to the strictly ballroom one he sports during competition.

I'm a little fascinated by the Houghs, including his sister Julianne, who won last year -- I've never quite gotten over that tigress outfit she wore. I did a little bit of research and found that the Houghs were shipped to England as children for ballroom training -- and they lived with the parents of DWTS dancer Mark Ballas. Ah ha! (Mark is the one dancing with the Cheetah Girl, and he has the whitest teeth in prime time ... we're talking Mark Consuelos level.) Wait, there's more. The three of them had a singing group called 2B1G -- two boys, one girl -- although it looks like TOO BIG too, doesn't it. Clever? Coincidence? Discuss.