Love has no rhyme or reason...

(picture from MSN.com)

Hey Sagittarians!

Another one of your ranks has turned 28!

(It's me.)

Paging Dr. Freud

It is widely known that what you do on new year's eve directly correlates with how your next year goes. Given this is a theory, I have extrapolated the following: Your dreams on the night before your birthday dictate how your year will go. I don't want to bore you with all the scientific crap that I had to do to lead me to this conclusion; suffice to say it involves types of math you've never even heard of and lots of squiggly lines and greek letters standing in for formulas.

The only problem now is figuring out the interpretations of those dreams so I can either buy a lottery ticket or build a bunker underneath the rich willamette soil.

Dream #1

I am riding a cross town bus under water being chased by enormous rust-tinted great white sharks. Someone says "Wow, this is neat. Last year they wouldn't even come near us."

I think why the hell do you want sharks near your bus?

Dream #2

I am asked by a blind man to help him complain to Safeway that one of their stores is closed. When we get to the other safeway, he throws a fit, trashes the Safeway and I look down to see I am wearing a tatty robe and slippers. Consequently my boyfriend (who is a stocker at safeway) dumps me.

I get pissed, because in a moment of clarity, I realize I have been dumped on my birthday. So I ride my bike home, found out I left my keys in the door (again) and find looters stealing everything I own. So I have to keep them hostage in order to get my stuff back. This involves a lot of shit talking and torture and watching of the lifetime channel. When I try to call 9-11, I get a data error. Then when I try to email 9-11, it turns out that I have accidentally typed my emergency into a website that analyzes plot structure. It says I have a faulty plot.


Eh?

Hancock: The movie that won me over.

After wandering bleary-eyed and cranky for at least 25 minutes in Hollywood Video last night, I finally fell prey to their in-store movie clips. I was staring slack-jawed at the screen above my minimum wage minion when the trailer for hancock came on. I had been searching in vain for something that would sufficiently numb my brain (which still hasn't been relieved of all the pressure of Nanowrimo). So I ran to the back and got the disc, rushed it home over some perilous SE Portland suburban roads (which may or may not be paved, effing NW) and shoved it in my DVD player.

The whole movie was alright. The special effects were fantastic (as per all will smith vehicles) but I kept getting distracted by the blonde in the corner who was giving all these weird signals to will smith and cooing over Jason Bateman's baby face. I kept thinking "gawd that looks like charlize theron. Nah can't be her." Then it turned out it totally was. And she was awesome. There's a reason she won an oscar.

And I totally didn't see the twist. It just made me all happy and gooey inside.

And, beware: the cinematography makes it look like jason bateman and will smith are always on the verge of making out. Do Americans ever talk that close? And, how many scenes do you have to have with someone's head blocking out most of the screen. That makes their head like 50 feet across (were you to see it in the theaters, 100 in IMAX). Seriously, no one's head will look good that big. Not even Jason Bateman.

So yeah. Probably wouldn't buy it, but I'd watch it again. Which is way more than I expected.

Nano I have beat your sorry ass!

I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON! I WON!
Take that bitches.

Nano Update!

Well, I made it thru the first half of the month and nearly bagged the project every day this last week. But, after 4 days of schlumpiness on the writ front, I stubbornly sat down and wrote 6,400 words today to get back into the running. I am even a few words ahead. Don't worry though, in 2 hours and 18 minutes, I will once again be behind.

Word Count: 26,713 (85 pages)

Yay me.

Beware Ladies!

Writing your own novel may cause you to create a hero with whom you will fall madly in love.

If you think that the idea of a man who willingly changes himself is the ideal fantasy, imagine someone who you can create from scratch! And, he comes with all the malleability of play-doh and legos combined.

Take care, though, to give him some flaws, because eventually (after he has completely disturbed your sleep cycle) he will betray the heroine (your thinly veiled avatar) and you will spend many nights cursing him. It's good to have some ammunition stacked up for that eventuality.

PS. I know this post is poorly written. You try writing blogs after a cup of coffee, a pint of beer and 4,000 words spewed into a spiderweb narrative of questionable dignity.

Wander-lusty

I was only lost on this bridge like 8 times today. Or, maybe it was another bridge, I can't tell, they all share some sort of similar characteristics that classify them in the bridge category, no? It would be like telling the difference between children, peanut butters, republicans, or some other inconsequential nothings.
P.S. Please tell cranky man at the burrito shop that I am not visiting every day because I have a massive burning crush on him. I just don't know anywhere else to go.

NaNo is Upon us agaiN...

Fear not, gentle readers, that I should bore you with the detailed musings of a blocked writer, nor that I should post my word counts religiously this year. I know that bores anyone not intimiately involved in the half cocked scheme. All I gotta say is Damn! I am busy this time 'round. Perhaps this will force me to actually finish this year.

Stay tuned for yet another post on the coolness of Stumptown (as they call it here, although I haven't figured out why.)

Pork Sliders

Gordon Ramsay has told me (via Kitchen Nightmares) that there are always trends in restaurants that need to be avoided as you probably aren't the git with the best ones out there. The trend in Portland is Pulled Pork sandwiches. These little messy love cakes are awful first-date food, but they seem to have captured the hearts of the NW. Unfortunately, there can only be one King. It is not 50 Plates in the Pearl District, or that brewery near 35th and Hawthorne, but rather, Standford's down by the waterfront. Go there, get a plate of these squishy little sandwiches with slaw and munch to your heart's content. I command you.

Local Produce and the Women Who Love Them

These blackberries may be stunted and fast on the way to being rotting corpses, but they remind me of fall. This will be of some comfort when the yellow leaves have turned to dust and bitter wind strikes fear into those who must scrape frost from their cars.

I seem to be in a fatalist sensibility at the moment.

I love me some hollywood men...

Shhh... Don't tell anyone, but Pixar had a screening to test two animated films on Monday in Vancouver, WA. Guess they figure this suburban wasteland mimics middle america without having to stray too far from a trusty metropolis.

It was also my virgin temp assignment. If all temping is this good for people watching, I am signing up for life. The whole thing was so James Bond meets State and Main it made my mouth water. We were overlorded by two men who resembled, respectively, Seymour Hoffman as truman capote with a malaise issue, and a weird Micheal Flatley standing in the wind upswept hair guy. They muttered, they adjusted their designer jeans, spoke of level 5 special watchgroups, pissed off the overpuffed security guards, and by the end of the evening were heavy into infighting over the power struggles inherent in a group of travel weary narcissists.

Meanwhile, I was forced to hand out 800 bags of popcorn to equally narcissistic target demographs who felt perfectly in the right bitching about getting their free popcorn too early or whining that they might have to see a movie for free that they wouldn't have picked themselves. Seriously, if you can't handle the ramifications of beggars can't be choosers, you probably shouldn't beg. Plus, there was this awful scene that I foretold coming once I realized I had to ask people to give me their white ticket in exchange for the bag of popcorn:

Me: Can I have your white ticket please?

Idiot: Just the white one?

Me: It's the popcorn ticket.

Idiot: Isn't that kind of (pause, furrow brow) ticket-ist? (laugh, readjust pants, significant look at harrassed popcorn worker that says 'you want to sleep with me, don't you?')

I feel sorry for the people that actually do sleep with them. Can you imagine their pillow talk?

{in.sert} some insightful zen quote

Does anyone really read zen shit past the first few words?

We are the grass that grows along the freeways...in ways that are free.

I think it's time to start adding pix...

I photoshopped the horns off my sister's evil cat. Here she is. Proof the devil exists...and is surprisingly cute.

5K Beetches.

There was a run today, one that required you run like hell. And, oh yes I did. I kitted myself up like a cop-impersonating stripper, snuck out of my front door at the ungodly hour of 0730AM past the apartment filled with impressionable little white trash children and headed for Portland.

Honestly, it felt two parts "walk of shame" one part "wtf am I back in high school?", shaken, not stirred.

So, then god tries thwarting me with fog, but my car triumphs. And the whole way down the 5, I'm having these extended metaphor daydreams where I am arresting during a routine traffic violation for impersonating an officer in a uniform with the name "sargeant sexy" stitched on the lapel. Freudian analysis reveals a deep fear that I am, in fact impersonating my life and will be found out at any moment.

So I finally get to Portland after getting lost for the 700th time since I've gotten here. For those of you who don't know, Portland is designed to resemble an MC Esher drawing with bridges where the stairs should be. And it's frickin' 39 degrees out (I know, Mischa, my scion told me) and I am running around downtown portland in spandex. 5K later and several mysterious pains throughout all of my leg tissues and we're handed beer and hot wings at 930 in the morning. Really, who planned that?

Point is: I finished. I kick ass.

Okay, that's two points.

I have conquered egg drop soup...

As I get older and closer to senility, my opinion on soup has become much more pronounced. I assume this in in preparation for when my teeth fall out and I am forced to call 5PM a "late" dinner. The one thing that pisses me off mightily about soup is the frickin' salt content. You'd think human beings required salt licks for the crap I have eaten that is supposed to be french onion or egg drop soup. So I made my own. And it was so much better. No salt added. I wish I possessed a servile nature, then I could go into chef-itude and open my own restaurant. However, my forays into the food industry have generally resulted in me be asked to leave or suffer being fired.

Fear not, dear readers, I just burnt those places to the ground.

Portland, I (heart) you

I am relaxed for the first time in days. Father Jaye's relentless globetrotting for work garnered him some serious Marriott point and we've got a 2 room suite that costs a month's rent for free. They gave me a separate room because of my intermittent surliness. God bless my erratic temper.

Once rested and showered, we struck out to walk around the town. Being next to the river and having unnaturally clear weather for portland, we wandered along testing the restaurants for financial feasibility. Somewhere near an adorable little park, and across from the indutrial buildings doubled in the river refelection, we stopped at this great steak house you'd expect to accompany your parents to and settled in to feast on Pork Sliders with cole slaw. Fantastic, I must say. After a microbrew or two, I am happy to say I am in Portland. Finally.

At least, until tomorrow.

Day 4. Tired. Tired. Tired.

We only had 5 hours left of driving. Amazing that we held our tempers so long. Talking is at a minimum. Landscape pretty. Stopped in Eugene for the loveliness of Kowloon's although, god help me if that town wasn't designed by stoned hippies. It makes no sense. Dropped cousin J at Junction City. What it's junctioning to, I couldn't tell you.

Arrived Portland to insanely frustrating traffic patterns and extreme annoyance. If someone ever needed an effing nap, it's now. Will shoot anyone who comes to my door.

Ashland, would that you had an enviable infrastructure.

Day 3 driving North from the Diego of San.

Obviously, we're getting a bit cranky. Cousin J showed up tossed as an English Football Hooligan, but gamely went to sleep after 40 ounces of starbucks and two hours of Harry Potter on tape. God bless that man and his mysteriously soothing british accent. After yet another like 800 hours of driving, we ran into Dottie's man, R, on the great vastness of I-5. After a surfeit of increasingly vague cell phone entreaties, we all landed at the side of the road somewhere near the cali-oregon border. Needless to say, the scenery picked up mightily north of sac-town as there was now foliage present. Still a mess of desert intermingled with pine trees, but at least there's green where there was only dirt with a side of dirt yesterday. Cousin J took off with R in his company car to Grant's Pass while Dottie, Penny and I prevailed ourselves on Ashland. Unfortunately, I have extremely selective hearing due to my eroded attention span and took an inventive track to the Ashland hotel. This concluded my auto tour of most of Ashland and I found it to be a charming and quaint town. I say quaint with the highest regard as it is four times the size of my hometown.

Realizing that we would be left destitute should we not find sustenance before the sidewalks automatically rolled in at 6PM, we ventured out. Penny guided us to the local park (having spent high school years here) then around downtown. Adorable little city, but the prices in shops liken themselves to california. Should I live there, I would be able to afford none than the Salvation Army. After assuring us that our souls would be sucked out of our brains if we settled there, Penny left us for family dining with multiple children. Dottie and I got the local sourdough pizza and retreated to our cave to never speak again until the dawn.

Morning came and I snuck out with my camera as the landscape was breathtaking so long as you took care to walk a few blocks, cross the highway and lean over the fence into the blackberry bushes no longer bearing any fruit. I shall post pics if I can ever find that infernal cord to connect el computadora.

Day 2: Shall we be conquered by Sac-Town?

Buoyed by the Pirate Party, we cut careful swathes up the I-5 in our prized Honda and Scion (mine, totally not the box one). Good lord, I had thought San Diego a bleak prospect when one leaves the moneyed areas, but it is no competition to the wanton barrenness that defines the middle part of California. Certainly, I am aware of the unadorned nature of the "flyover states" separating New York from Frisco, but the middle of Cali is awful enough to convince one that even Laura Ingalls Wilder had it good landscape-wise. Sure, we could have taken a little detour and visited Death Valley for the sheer cheek of it, but none of us wished to prolong our tour through the 98 degree (it's nearly october, dammit) impersonation of a blank slate.

As we hit the pillows on discomfiting (and alarmingly small) hotel mattresses, I would like to send a shout-out to cousin J who may or may not be getting blind drunk at this very second. I shall never forgive you, sir, if you vomit in my car.

Lap of Luxury

Pirates were afoot at the Marina Del Ray houseboat contingency this evening. Rumor has it that partook in vast amounts of Benedryl and organic free range cheeseburgers. Terrified onlookers blanched as their terrifying cries of "yet another crepe, my good man" rang across the icy waters of a bay of indeterminate depth.

Day 1 is complete of the northern pilgrimage of the Sisters Jaye. We were housed by the excellent Penny and her longtime beau who fed us and even housed Dottie's vindictive feline. A fantastic breakfast was set before us and even attended by Eliza and her new man. It was one of those wonderful meals that wants for neither conversation nor a meteor to break up it's interminable boredom. However, the nonstop laughter was a bit trying on my nerves. Is it possible to be too diverted? To like your company in excess? It is hard to keep a severe countenance with chocolate milk spilling from your nose.

In closing, several notions were decided on the Houseboat: first, I am to be known heretofore as BetaWhore; second, Oprah is in all likelihood the same person as Bill Gates and one day, not long from now, will rip her "rich white man" mask off during a press conference a la scooby doo and require PC users to read White Oleander; third, I require more than 4 hours sleep to be sufficiently entertaining.

Gonzo

I saw the Gonzo documentary at the local pizza and brew theater here Monday night. HST still inspires today with his affinity for random gunfire, honest politics, and a (little utopic, i think) belief that the only thing drugs gateway to is World Peace. On his search for the American Dream, he inevitably came up short, burning out young in a blaze of glory and sticking it out long enough to bag himself a hot young wife before his untimely end. With his death, a legend was cemented. Perhaps this is the American Dream. Even more than the Great American Novel or riding the bucking, infernal stock market. HST found a way to live big and die bigger. His mystique will grow with the passing of time. With all trends pointing the way they do, we are in for belt tightening and moral strengthening. Chances are, HST was one of the wildest of the wild of men in the (soon to be) old west.

Ode to my ipod...

I (heart) you.

Funny how things always seem like a movie when you've got a soundtrack. Plus, I think this is the closest I will ever get to having my very own, superpersonal and yet quirky / intelligent / tearjerking theme song.

The conundrum of decision-making and all that...

I realized something this evening, and thought I'd share. Granted, many of you are much smarter than I and already have this wisdom. It was just one of those many, many moments I have had recently where, having chosen a particular path for a section of my life, two days later, I am overcome with chooser's remorse. I want back my decision, because it's obvious that I am not going to succeed at that particular career (in this case). And, as I was busy trumping up the decision and talking all poetically in my head about how I was on a precipice and had to decide NOW what my life was going to look like for the next 40 years when suddenly it hit me:

Once you choose something, you always have the option to recant.

(Barring, of course, such choices as giving away your kidney, adopting a child, or being romantically linked with michael jackson, you're kind of stuck with those.)

I know, I know, this isn't exactly rocket science (is it B?). But this seriously blew my mind. What? I can back out of something at any given time? I don't have to plan everything down to the smallest minute detail and agonize over my imminent failure/doom? What the hell am I going to do with all my free time if I'm not envisioning being stoned in the street for failure to live up to my impossibly high standards? I'll probably take up canasta.

Fact is, human beings are flighty, inconsequential creatures and we spend more time messing up and goofing around than actually being great, or whatever. Those with a fear of success/failure need to just take a valium and let ourselves be essentially human rather than talk ourselves out of it. If I decide not to follow this direction of life sometime in the future, I can pretty much guarantee that I am not wasting my time now. Because, it's not like, in abandoning what I want right now I am going to go out and initiate world peace or fight evil in a shiny suit of spandex. if I wasn't pursuing my half-assed dream, chances are, I'd just be watching reruns of firefly.

So I hereby give myself permission to be monumentally selfish with my time, dedicated to a [potentially] lost cause, and subsidize the local coffee shop with my daily patronage. Thank you coffee shop. [you're nice]

Some advice...

Dear M Jaye,

My boyfriend is an idiot, although I think I am as well, since I believe I have been snowed by him for approximately seven years. He won't take me to meet his mother because he believes some guy named Darwin says he is higher on the evolutionary scale than I am. Should I dump him or take a frying pan to his head?

-Not a monkey

Dear Monkey,

See, a long time ago there was this scientist who liked turtles and crap and he was paid an exorbitant amount of money through some bet with Genghis khan to convince everyone that man was made from monkey turds or something. So he went the Glapaganos islands which were so crappy no one else ever went there and smoked a lot of ganja and wrote this book called Origin of the Species which is dedicated to his muse – Theodore “Tiny” Roosevelt. Check it, I’m sure its on Wikipedia.

Given that the information spewed by your troglodyte boyfriend comes from such an untrustworthy source, I vote the frying pan. Then sleep with someone more evolved than him, write a tome about it and get on the Times best sellers list.

- M.

It seems my twin has spawned...

congrats to said twin and twin's better half. I'm sure it will be an adventure to rival the confusion and complexity of the Labyrinth. Parallelism be that bundles of joy come with their own bogs of eternal stench.

Acclimation is a double edged sword.

Within days of moving to the frozen north, I find myself frolicking through snow covered parking lots wearing only a sweatshirt and spouting steam from my nostrils like a diseased water buffalo. Having grown up hip deep in snow for nine-odd years, I find it simple to ease back into the habit of grabbing for mittens to check the contents of the fridge. Acclimation is good for these reasons. Otherwise, I might find myself carrying a heat rock everywhere, like an iguana.

To my dad's disapproval, I have also acclimated to another aspect of my life. Never have I fallen into something with such ease and enthusiasm. No, I am not talking about my punk phase from college. I am, of course, referring to unemployment. Oh blessed days of sweet nothingness. 'Tis to you I drink this champagne toast at 9:45 AM bedecked with mismatched slippers and tatty nightgown. I grieve for the fact that your days are numbered.

Family Based Superpowers?

I am wondering if my impressive array of superpowers was passed genetically rather from that nuclear waste bath I took when I was seven. For proof of said superpowers, see the list of relatives that attended/were visited on my recent holiday:

Me, Sister J and boyfriend R, Brother B and Wife C, Mother, Father, Cousin J, Aunt L, Uncle T, Aunt E, Cousins L and G, Grandma R, Cousin Bob and Aunt T, Uncle S and new wife K, a cute Dog, Wife C's mother, Uncle D and semi-aunt (legally) T, and cousin J's semi-ex girlfriend J. And these were just the ones who made it to the beach house. 23 in all and I am sure that I am missing someone or another. There were another 5 relatives back in Salem to be seen.

We were all in no particular order tired, overworked, chatty, insomniacs, alpha dogs, avoiders, lazy, surly (me), compulsively clean, compulsively messy, territorial, ditzy, dazed, napping, hiking, flying kites, vegetarian, natural foodists, covered up to elbows in BBQ rib sauce, watching Top Gun or Sharking the pool table.

On top of that, we were in a four bedroom killer beach house. Five of us were in the process of moving immediately before/after/during vacation. Two were trying to start a family. Most were coming in and leaving at various times during the week. And, we had a minimum of one and max of three rental cars to shuffle about the impressively contented masses.

Given all of the above, no fights erupted and all major snafus were derailed by a cunningly placed glass of wine or the judicious use of NyQuil.

Packing

Packing...Packing, packing. Go to the next room, pick up semi-vintage collector's edition Fat Elvis Bobblehead, wipe the dust off his face and drop it in the box. Take it back out, put it in another box. Go get soda, take a chug. Go back, sit on floor cradling bobblehead Elvis overcome with odd memories that lead to to others. Realize Fat Elvis is harboring a secret power to derail your packing. Lob semi-vintage piece of junk towards trash pile that has overtaken trash can. Guilt attacks every time you see his self assured smirk as the ass-end goes over the fore-end while he plummets to his fate. He lands facing you, a banana peel wrapped like a canary turban round his shiny head. Guilt turns to anger, and you slam Elvis' head down in the trash can, bundle the trash with a neat red bow, and frog march it down to the dumpster.

Two hours later, convinced the bobblehead is your spirit guide, you are hip deep in the dumpster sifting through old chinese food, dirty kleenexes and a Bob Dylan Record collection. Alas, a banana peel is folded back to reveal the not-so-shiny bobblehead. You wipe it off, take it back upstairs, and drop it in the box. Only, it doesn't look right.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

Guilt

Have you ever tried to tell 45 bleary eyed, non-english speaking janitors that you are leaving to find your path on some sort of existential journey and that working for a janitorial contract, no matter the $, is crap for a wandering soul like yourself? Oh yeah, and you're not allowed to hurt their feelings because they're all nice and remind you in many ways of your extended family. Hand gestures are allowed.

Bright side: My arch work-nemesis boycotted my party by writing I'M NOT COMING! in big fat letters to match his big fat head. Seriously, the thing is enormous. I was relieved. Convention would have required i give meathead a nice tap-tap-pat hug should he have profferred and I would have got his man-slime on me. Ew.

Down Side: SkSn tried to make me cry all over the three dozen lovely pink and yellow roses the whole place saw fit to buy me by listing everything that I was leaving and checking for tears. Not that he did it for sport or with malicious intent, but some people only measure your grief by the level of your hystrionics. People in ancient Rome used to hire paid mourners to follow relatives funeral processions just to up their own wailing and moaning to prove they were really, REALLY sad. But I descend directly from stiff upper lip stock from the heart England, Germany and everywhere else they bury/deny/avoid emotion. I would have been a crap paid mourner.

But, i got a party. It was my first party in years. And, they brought me food and said nice things about me and gave me an engraved timepiece to count down they seconds before I have to get another job.

I have a secret to tell you...

I am not watching the superbowl. I will get hell for it tomorrow, but who the hell really cares about a bunch of men in tights throw things and hitting each other?

I regret to inform you...

Danm, I have written a lot of emails lately that carried that header. That's what happens when over the weekend you decide to scrap everything and start over. I regret to inform you I will be leaving this soul-crushing excuse for a job (really, how is one's soul to survive subsisting on governmental janitorial practices?). I regret to inform you I will no longer be requiring your company. I regret to inform you I will not be needing my awesome writing coach. I regret to inform you that I signed up for your kung fu classes on a whim and can't do them now. Goodbye bed, goodbye furniture. Goodbye San Diego.

The Downfall

After watching the fiasco on TV last night, I am convinced the "tell the truth show" which I am too lazy to look up on dial up is going to kill more relationships than anything in the history of man. First, they up the tension and prolong the show by the cunning use of the PAAAAUUUUSSSSE. Never seen that before. Then, they show the reactions of the family members to the questions, which given their state of being in from of millions of eyes and a large audience is likely to be escalated. Then, they take morally relative questions and force everyone to think of the worst possible outcome.

Take the question: "Have you used the internet to flirt with a woman since you were married?" Given that the lie detector is going to pick up any hesitation on your part, you better answer that question "yes" or you ain't getting that $25,000. But, in truth, you could have spent five minutes flirting back and forth before you realized you were doing something wrong. Playful banter is a slippery slope, one usually doesn't they've gone to far until they look back and see the line behind them. Conversely, they could have solicited multiple nighttime rendesvous with ladies of questionable virtue. Either way, the answer is still a "yes".

This moral relativism transfers directly over to the TV audience. It gives people the idea that they should know the smallest innerworkings of their significant other. All those fleeting thoughts should only be discussed in confession or perhaps just saved for purgatory leaving the possibility that there is no High and Mighty.

There's a reason the Human Race isn't telepathic: we'd kill each other. All the evolution in the world can't erase the fact that we are impulsive little monkeys with dirty minds. I'm not saying we can't keep ourselves in check from being naughty, but we're certainly going to think about it. We're going to fantasize about bank heists, jewel thieves, running away to Mexico and leaving our families, cabana boys, jaywalking, streaking, flashing, starting fires, eating vegetarian, stealing puppies, buying those spinning rims for our cars, rapping, dying our hair green, following phish on tour and other evils. These are just thoughts concocted out of random neurons firing in the squishy grayness packed in our heads.

We are proverbial racoons with shiny pieces of tin foil clutched in our grasp. We'd have never got to the moon if we weren't so inherently curious. But we are also territorial, private creatures. Our general state of antithesis allows no rest for the conscious mind. Add to it a puritanical notion that the truth has always to be told, and the detante between the sexes will fall. There's been discussion of a battle of the sexes for generations. But I posit if you make it general practice to hook up partners to lie detectors, the slings and arrows shall be leased. The skies will turn black for their numbers. And, only the strong will survive.

Absenteeism is a symptom...

Sorry I haven't been around much lately. I have been playing with my side-project blog, The Daily Hypochondriac. It is much easier to post on there with the excessive daily interruptions that definine my work day. Plus, it's like getting to watch Scrubs if they would just kill off JD.*

* - Where the hell are they rounding up there test group subjects for that damn show? Apparently there is a subset** of American society that believes smugness, excessive male femininity, and overly polished facades mixed with tiresome physical comedy are damn fine entertainment.*

** - Upon pondering this, though, one finds it may not be a subset. Ross was pretty much the same character with a medical degree. And the whole thing just reeks of Everybody Loves Raymond if you really start to think about it. The Drew Carey Show devolved into similar antics, and MadTV is the same thing without character continuity. Don't get me wrong, I still love the supporting cast, but good ol' John Dorian has just got to go.

Ah, the school season is upon us...

Nearly 5 years out of college, and I can't help going back for more punishment. Perhaps it is my purgatorial state of existing in the southern california culture that rewards how much of your ass you can show through your shorts rather than if you got the smarts. Or, it might be the fact that my job requires 50 less IQ points than I currently possess. Okay, maybe 60. The fact remains if humans generally use 8 percent of ther brains at a given time, without these extra little classes, my squishy gray matter would atrophy like a coma patient's dancin' feet. Only problem is choosing which classes I will initially fawn over, then, weeks later, start to hate with every beat of my transplanted monkey heart.

A new category of dream

A darkened flightline across from a set of trailers. Ebony and Ivory in color, a normal dream of the drudgery of work showed last night in noir theme. Two women bedecked in pencil skirts and heels, only their legs seen as they sneak along the asphalt. A phone call. An order. Silent, eerie mood pervades and no storyline emerges save for the sense of being trapped without reason. We gave in and slept with handtowel sized blankets on concrete.

My apologies monsignior...

Loathe was I to note, yesterday, that I have neglected my blog for four weeks solid. Like all creatures bred in the north, I am subject to intermittent hibernation. I blame it on the military. Its evil hand swept us to the tundraland when we still traveled by smurfcycle. Trapped between snowdrifts and death-icicles hanging from the roof, something changed. When the sky darkens for too long, a profound laziness threatens. We can be found, curled like snails, under piles of blankets or pressed against heaters. Days, weeks, months later, the boredom sets in. We are forced to crawl out from our hiding space, squinting in the light, take up normal tasks such as blogging or spelunking.

All I'm saying is: t'ain't my fault.