It should come as no surprise that working the graveyard shift didn’t improve my love life. For some reason, eligible females had no interest in going out for breakfast and red beer, shooting pool in a tavern, then letting me take them home to my roach-infested apartment for sex. Even if I had encountered such a depraved girl, working six and sometimes seven-day weeks made scheduling romance virtually impossible. Once I moved to swing shift, however, and the seemingly endless run of Hood River apple juice cans ended, me and my back-to-normal biorhythms suddenly had weekends free at hours other humans did too.