1. I can be that guy.  No one likes to think they can be that guy, but I can be that guy.  The one who, after two glasses of scotch and a glass of wine, can look at a photo of a family and say “Now that’s a beautiful picture.  I like it when the husband is genuinely smiling and not looking at the camera like an animal trapped in a cage.”

2. Crunchy hippie chick types with pierced noses get greedy when they run yard sales.  I figured, fine, a buck for an Annie Dillard anthology.  She’s all, “Three dollars.” Hello?  I’m sorry.  Here I thought I was standing on someone’s front lawn with a bunch of chipped dishware and musty books, but apparently I accidentally walked into Barnes and frickin’ Noble. You know, where you buy books for new--and don’t take the chance that a previous owner pierced her nose over its pages and dripped fluids across the philosophical musings on nature and beauty.  (Although the pages seemed clean so I settled for two bucks.)

3. I’m not as addicted to movies as I thought.  I didn’t see any this weekend.  And only a few times was I pounded with the huge, bludgeoning realization that right now I could be watching Mean Girls and seeing Lindsay Lohan go all Heathers for a brand-new generation.  Really, I hardly ever felt that.

4. I spend too much time thinking about crap.  At one point I pondered why Disney bothered to name their latest attraction “Twilight Zone Tower of Terror.” Why not just “Tower of Terror”?  Is some kid going to beg to go to Disneyland because they respond to the brand awareness associated with a decades-old black and white anthology TV show?  Or is it merely descriptive--you drop down the Tower of Terror and land on Rod Serling’s polished skull?

Okay, in all honesty, I didn’t learn number 4 this weekend; I already knew it.  And maybe number 1 too.