So I'm driving down to San Diego to see the Seinfeld concert and my car suddenly starts wanting to veer into the center divider, making the noise "wubbwubbwubbwubb" by way of explanation.

When I arrive at my friend's house, I squat down and take a look under the car and notice that the left-front tire has a patch along the inside were one belt of the radial has wore entirely through and a second is well on its way.

Oops.

I think about this hard for a moment, quickly deciding that I don't want to think about it. Worry about it later, I say to myself. Something will come up.

So we go to see Seinfeld and he's funny, but I don't think I've ever seen so many upper-middle-class, upper-middle-aged white (very white) people so eager about anything in my whole life. One guy leaps out of his seat, wildly applauding, the second Jerry steps out on stage. He looks around, notices that nobody else is standing, and sheepishly sits down. The warm-up act keeps mentioning Petula Clarke as a generational reference. (This helps explain, I think, why I've paid a third the price for closer seats at baseball games...)

Afterwards, it's only ten o'clock, so we decide to head out to the Barona Casino, about an hour from downtown. It's an Indian reservation and they have legal blackjack, poker, slots, all that. I once gotten trapped about five miles from Barona when my fuel pump failed at two-thirty in the morning, so I know it's a place to have a good time.

We arrive and play for maybe three hours. When I go to get my chips cashed in, the woman behind the counter slides back two shiny, new hundred dollar bills.

The next day, I wake up and wubbwubb down to the nearest garage and get all four tires replaced. The bill is $200.27.

And my dad says I never plan for anything.