2007 was one of the best years of my life. What a shame that it was so boring.

I've been wondering why life has become so whitewashed lately, like a once-favorite shirt that's been washed a few too many times. Maybe 35 is the age when one finally has seen everything at least once, and anything that can happen is a repeat. I guess I have yet to experience marriage and the birth of a child, which everyone seems to say is two of the best things a lifetime can offer, but somehow that all seems like a lot of work.

I don't know if I'd want 2008 to be a difficult but rewarding year over another successful but colorless one. I've had a lot of the former and I think I'm over it. Part of the greatness of the past year is how in stride I responded to any good fortune, as if the experience of dealing with all the crappy things in other years taught me to not make any sudden moves at all, even in celebration.

Today presented the unique situation, in my life anyway, of going to an escrow office and picking up a check made out to me in the amount of $6,810. Throughout the day I've also been waiting for a potentially life-changing phone call, which, as of 4:30pm, still hasn't come.

I drove to the escrow services office and parked in the vicinity of where I believed the office should be. I wasn't thinking straight, however, and realized that I parked on the odd-numbered side of the street, and the office was on the even-numbered side. I could have gotten back in my car and driven to the other side, reparked, etc, but it all seemed like such a hassle, and I'd already put a quarter in the meter. So I raced across six lanes of Wilshire Boulevard with no problem (on the second try actually; a police car driving by thwarted my first effort) and with less hassle than I was expecting, emerged 20 minutes later from the escrow office with the aforementioned, large check in my name.

Then came time to cross Wilshire again. And it hit me: this is where I die. No matter how safely I cross this street, a truck will come out of nowhere and flatten me. I have just enough life left in me to watch the check fly away in the wind, and to feel my cellphone vibrate in my pocket with that call I was waiting for.

That didn't happen, obviously.

I've moved in to my new apartment in a beach area. Everyone is happy and pretty. Going to the local grocery store last night was one of the least frustrating and most effortless grocery store experiences I've ever had. This is all going to take some getting used to. Everything in my life has been suspiciously fresh and exciting and positive lately. And for once I'm bucking my own M.O. of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe this time, there's only one shoe, and I really will get to the other side of the street every time.

In a few weeks, I’m moving out of the neighborhood where I’ve been living for the past couple years, just as I was really starting to appreciate it. I’ve been taking more walks lately. When I first moved to the area I thought it was a pretty boring walking area, but the thing that I forgot is that I thrive in boring environments.

Down the sidewalk a bit from my gate is a tree that produces some kind of round-ish green fruit, perhaps small limes, or unripe lemons. As I begin my walk, I pull one of those little pieces of fruit off the tree. For the rest of my 30-minute-or-so walk, I play a little game of running out into the middle of the street and pitching the lime down the middle of it to see how far it can go until it stops. I’ve gotten pretty good at it. The trick is to aim for the exact middle of the street and send it on as straight a course of possible, because as soon as it starts to roll too far to the left or right, it inevitably hits a curb pretty fast and slows to a stop very quickly.

A major rule of my little lime-pitching game is that I have to wait for a perfect moment when no cars are coming either way and no pedestrian is walking by to see me do it. That’s harder than it sounds. On an average walk, I only really get to pitch the lime a total of about four times. And even then, sometimes I look up after I release the piece of fruit down the middle of the street to see someone I hadn’t noticed before, looking at me from apartment stoop, eyeing me suspiciously. Or suddenly a car will pull up to an intersection and see a speeding lime roll by in front of them and naturally deduce that the only explanation for it is the guy standing in the middle of the street a ways down, watching it go.

My best day was last Friday evening. I got six throws in, and all of them were really good, middle of the road attempts. I was feeling especially high that night. It was Friday, for one thing; always a reason for delight. And things are going particularly well for me right now. It seems every time my phone rings, it’s someone on the other end telling me that something I wrote and sent to them is something they want to possibly give me a prize for. That night I’d just gotten a call from someone who read the play I wrote four years ago and they’re going to do a reading of it in New York City. After that, they might produce it. That made me want to go out and take a walk, and throw fruit down the middle of the streets of my neighborhood. It sounds insane, but could it be that all the insane things I’ve done to entertain myself all my life are exactly the sort of things that I should be doing more of than ever?

Last night I had a dream I encountered a very old dog, that had acquired the ability to speak English. She (?) was a little hard to understand, but I was impressed. Unfortunately, being as old as she was, she was senile. All she would talk about was her love for Carol O'Conner and how much she loved All in the Family. It got old pretty quick.

All my dreams have been interesting lately. I choosing to think of it as a sign that my brain is waking up and the fog that has enveloped it for the past two months is finally lifting. I really hate summer. I don't know if it's the heat, or the extended amount of sunlight, or the tilt of the Earth, but I can never quite get through the whole season without either losing my shit or completely turning off. This year I chose turning off, which is probably a good thing.

My Autumn 2007 music mix is almost completed. This weekend is Labor Day, September begins, and I can begin to accept the idea that fall has begun, even if calendars and scientists say that it doesn't really start until some seemingly random day next month. If I was still in college, I'd already have gone through a week of classes by now. It may still be 110 degrees in the valley right now, but Summer, I declare that the extent of your reign can now be counted in hours.

Soon I will begin to be able to string a few words together and "write" again. In the meantime, I'll let someone else do the talking again.

Hang my head low, so low
Don't see me only as I am but see me how I long to be
Shining like a flowering tree under a gray Pennsylvania sky
Look for me as you go by

Hang my head low, so low
Every burden shall be lifted
Every stone upon your back slide into the sea
It's me for you and you for me

I love The Innocence Mission. They're the only band I can listen to for hours and stare into space to. They remind me of my grandma's house when I was little, and soldiers coming back home to small town after World War II, and the mercy of a god that I don't admit to people I still believe in, and teenagers holding hands on a bridge over a stream, and college when it would snow for the first time in November.

I’m not a bad speller, but I don’t begrudge people who are. The rules of spelling in the English language are a joke. One thing I could personally never keep straight is the whole I before E except after C rule. It’s easy enough to understand, except I guess I just don’t have enough respect for C’s influence over I and E. What strange power of persuasion does C have over those two letters? Or is it simply that C and I don’t get along, and E is stepping in and saying “Enough, you two! I’m separating you. I, you stand here, and C, you stand here, and I’ll be in the middle!”

And then you have words where I and E switch places, and C is NOWHERE to be found. Like weigh. Where the hell is there a C in that word? Okay, so apparently there’s another rule that says that I and E switch places if they combine to make an A sound. I must have been absent in grade school the day they explained that one, because it makes no more sense to me than the other rule. But then you have the word weird. Is this some kind of stupid joke? Is this supposed to be ironic or something? They decided to go all anarchic with that one word because it’s weird? I’m not laughing. Need another example? Okay, my first name. Neil. I’ve been told proper names don’t have to follow normal rules of spelling. I’m really starting to wonder when any word has to follow any normal rule of spelling, ever, quite frankly.

So, I and E can switch places at any time for any reason it seems, but at least that I before E except after C rule is always true, right? WRONG. What about the word raciest? There it is: Photographic evidence that C and I maybe aren’t as unable to get along with each other as we’ve been led to believe. Some might say being that there’s a suffix involved, the rule is voided and this should be an obvious exception. OBVIOUS TO WHO, I ask! What about some immigrant?! They’re fresh off the boat, confused, penniless, eager to begin speaking and writing in their new language, so they take an English course. In this new, topsy-turvy world into which they’ve been thrown, they’re looking for just one piece of solid truth that they can hang their foreign-made hat on, and they are given this: I before E except after C. They are so overwhelmed with joy at this certainty that they almost want to weep. Then, perhaps only days later, they are perusing a newspaper or magazine and happen upon a word that dashes their belief that there can be an absolute about anything in this bitch of a country.

It’s obvious to me now. The I before E except after C rule was invented by the rich, to keep down the proletariat. That’s right. The next time you see some rich bastard on the street, ask them how to spell D-E-C-E-I-T, and I’ll bet you all the money in the world that they get it right.

Does any other animal on Earth, beside man, have the ability of being able recognize a situation or possibility of being absolutely impossible, but continue to hope and attempt to achieve success at it anyway?

Like, I heard one time that dolphins are the only species besides human beings that have sexual intercourse for pleasure. Is there some creature, such as the platypus for example, with a tendency to have a life dream of passing the Bar Exam, despite its utter incapability to grasp the legal system, much less find a way to pay for law school? Does a gazelle ever look across a crowded grassland and become instantly, hopelessly taken with a lion with whom she could never hope to have a healthy relationship, even if she somehow persuades him not to eat her right off the bat?

I doubt it.

Memorial Day weekend means the beginning of summer. But far more importantly, it means the debut of my official Summer Mix CD.

Summer is by far the most difficult of the seasonal mixes to put together. For one thing, it comes relatively quickly after completing the Spring Mix, and therefore I have less time to find a lot of good new songs to add. The other big factor is that summer was never traditionally my favorite time of the year, so finding older songs that really give me a great nostalgic feeling are hard to find. In fact, most of my memories of summer throughout the 1990’s are of utter boredom and frustration. I was much happier in the fall, winter and spring when I was off at school, and not working a crappy job or sweating to death in 90% humidity. For me, summer was just one long hiatus until I could get back to the interesting part of my life. Then the interesting part of my life ended completely, so now I see summer as just any other three month stretch. But I digress.

With all of that said, I feel pretty confident about Summer Mix 2007. This year’s spring mix was one of my best ever, so there was bound to be a bit of a letdown anyway, but I actually think this one picks up where Spring ’07 left off. It’s very chipper. It draws heavily from the ‘80s, which is strange because I generally hate ‘80s music. But most importantly, I think I did pretty well with scrounging up new songs, which is the true litmus test of how good or bad the mix really is. Here are the songs:

Grace Kelly by Mika (For the first mix in a long time, I started off the proceedings with a bang. A big, loud, fun, energetic song. My only reservation about this song is that I heard it on Star 98.7 last week, which means that by this time next month, it might be super popular and I’ll hate it.)

Open Your Heart by Lavender Diamond (So happy it hurts.)

White Heat by Madness (Technically an ‘80s song, but it reminds me of Summer 1990 because I found the tape for 99 cents in a record store and listened to it all summer in my car. Reminds me of a girl.)

One Kiss Don’t Make a Summer by Lucky Soul (This song was made to be included on a Summer Mix. I like the strings.)

Hannah by Erik Voeks (I cheated; this should really have been a spring song. Still, great memories of 1994 are welcome any time, any season. Was I really ever so happy?)

Fake Do-Gooders by Eames Era (I might have to eventually buy the full CD by this band.)

Plant Me by Suddenly, Tammy! (1993. Simply reminds me of everything that was good and beautiful in the world, one time, long ago.)

Give Up? by Hot Hot Heat (I’m betting this will grow on me. Their songs always do.)

When Smokey Sings by ABC (I have no idea why I put this on here. It’s just a good song. My friend Dan and I used to think the women in the beginning sounded like choking chickens.)

In Competition for the Worst Time by Idlewild (I feel bad for Idlewild because I went crazy over their second album then got tired of them fast. So I’m throwing them a bone. Something about the title just grabs me…)

Bury Me Closer by Palomar (Very pleasant.)

The Strong and the Silent by A House (Summer of 1995, right after I graduated from college, and I didn’t know what was in store. So I imagined the summer was like any other and that I’d be going back to school at the end of it, just like normal. So I delayed my complete breakdown for a few months.)

Manchester by The Beautiful South (The first single from the last album, the one I didn’t bother getting. One of my all-time favorite bands.)

The Goonies R Good Enough by Cyndi Lauper (I spent the summer of 1985 running through the woods, looking for caves to explore or danger to get into. God, my hometown was so boring.)

Everybody’s Got Their Own Part to Play by Shannon Wright (I’m predicting that this will be the song that I’ll still want to hear more of after August.)

Stars by Au Revoir Simone (You make me want to measure stars in the backyard with a calculator and a ruler, baby. Somewhere in my memory banks I remember feeling that way.)

Mandinka by Sinead O’Conner (From the best summer of my life, 1988. I was still just young enough to enjoy being young but suddenly just old enough to sense there was something coming up.)

Light of the Moon by Riverman (They’re a total rip-off of Nick Drake, even naming themselves after one of his songs. But they do it well, so fuck it.)

I have to admit, I make these mixes wondering what memories the songs will hold after the season is over. I’m already feeling a little wary of the Summer of 2007, I have to say. But at least I’ll have a nice collection of songs to document it.

One day you wake up and it’s better. Not a faint grasping at a hope that it’s better, it just is. Maybe it’ll be back to the old guard by noon, but this morning you sense an invisible shift in the layout of everything around you, as if everything in the world was taken away and replaced with slightly brighter replicas overnight. You hardly want to accept it, but your heart can’t help it in its bursting, and the feeling manages to hang on through your morning shower, and yes, a look in the mirror afterwards reveals that there’s a shine in your eye.

Will your friends notice? They do. The concerned telephone calls to each other to which you weren’t privy, the stilted, well-meaning but empty words of encouragement, the frustration of seeing you not at your best for so long: As if by wave of a magic wand these are replaced with the recognition that this particular sickness has run its course. And they know, because they’ve been down and gotten back up too.

Life becomes a fun game again. You’re the car, the thimble, the iron moving around the game board that is the whole wide world. In due time, before you know it, you’ll even be the smooth metal ball rolling under the glass, flying up the alley, going almost too fast, bouncing into and off of bumpers that either fling you off or pull you in for a moment, all the time hurdling toward the lowest point until some flipper knocks you up into the air again. There’s a risk of hurt in this human pin-ball, but you’re up for it, because you conveniently just remembered that you’ve missed it so much.

The feeling sticks around, despite all odds and your own worst fears, and after days of feeling this refreshment, you actually begin to look back fondly on the darkness. It was your own special kind of pain, unique to you, and now that it’s gone, you actually find yourself wondering if you’ve become less exceptional without it. Except for the way that it changed you forever, made you a little older, a little stronger, you might be tempted to go back to its comfort, smothering as it was. But no. You’ve become attached to how much easier it is to do everything, how nice it is to not constantly see the worst in yourself, how much better it is to go through life wanting to live it.

And then one day you run into him or her again, by accident, and it feels a lot like someone climbs inside you and slices you from your neck to your intestines with a dagger that’s been sitting in a freezer for a couple hours. But it only lasts for a little while, and after it fades you can at least be happy in the knowledge that your heart will long carry a memory of something that your mind has managed to make all better.

I have about as much chance of ever accepting people who attempt to initiate small talk on an elevator at 8 o'clock in the morning as I do of understanding what goes on the heads of suicide bombers.

Goodbye, Jerry Falwell.

Try to stay cool down there.

I have nothing to say today, so I'll let The Shins say it.

Born to multiply,
Born to gaze into night skies,
When all you want’s one more Saturday.
Well look here, until then
They gonna buy your life’s time
So keep your wick in the air and your feet in the fetters
‘Til the day...We come in doing cartwheels
We all crawl out by ourselves
And your shape on the dance floor
Will have me thinking such filth I’ll gouge my eyes.

You’ll be damned to be one of us, girl,
Faced with the dodo’s conundrum
I felt like I could just fly
But nothing happened every time I tried.

Oh duotone on the wall
The selfless fool who hoped he’d save us all
He never dreamt of such sterile hands.
You keep them folded in your lap,
Or raise them up to beg for scraps,
You know, he's holding you down
With the tips of his fingers just the same.
Will you be pulled from the ocean,
But just a minute too late,
Or changed by a potion,
And find a handsome young mate
For you to love.

You'll be damned to pining through the windowpanes,
You know you'd trade your life for any ordinary Joe’s,
Well do it now or grow old.
Your nightmares only need a year or two to unfold.
Been alone since you were twenty-one,
You haven't laughed since January.
You try and make like this is so much fun,
But we know it to be quite contrary.

La la la la la la la
Dare to be one of us, girl,
Facing the android's conundrum,
You see I felt like I should just cry,
But nothing happens every time I take one on the chin,
You Himmler in your coat
You don't know how long I've been
Watching the lantern dim,
Starved of oxygen,
So give me your hand,
And let's jump out the window.

It is sad but somehow fitting that I didn’t hear about the demise of one of my all-time favorite bands until two months after they announced they were splitting. The Beautiful South made the declaration on their website on January 31st, and I just happened upon the information by accident during a random Google search a couple days ago as I was looking up something else. It was a little like hearing that an old friend that I hadn’t talked to in years has passed away; not something that rocked my world, but enough to make me pause for a moment. I had to admit that the disbandment was for the best. I was one of their biggest fans, and even I didn’t bother to buy their last album released last year, partly because I would have had to pay $30 for an imported copy as their albums stopped being released in the States long ago, not that that ever stopped me from laying down the cash before. Their last great album was in 1996, their last very good one was in 1998, their last good one was in 2000, and they released three since then. I’d written them off. But yesterday I pulled out their debut album from 1990 and listened to it again, and though I still believe it was a band that ran its course, I now know that I have to pay tribute to The Beautiful South for what they meant to me.

They weren’t the best band in the world. By their own admission, they were only the 7th best band from Hull, England. But no other band’s music better suited my personality, especially in their (and my) heyday throughout the 90’s. I sometimes wondered if Paul Heaton, the main singer and songwriter, was following me around, writing songs about me. They have a song called Good as Gold which I still consider my all-time theme song. The music of TBS was laid-back, jazzy and very uncool, the sort of stuff you’d hear on an easy-listening station for adults who don’t really appreciate music and just want something pleasant playing in the background. The lyrics, on the other hand, were laced with irony, observation, and even a bit of bitterness, and the combination of relaxed, catchy tunes tempered with such wry contempt and detachment had me hooked from the beginning. The five albums they released in the years 1990 to 1996 are more than the soundtrack to my life during that time. They both described my existence as well as informed it. In a way, they justified it. The Beautiful South didn’t give a shit. And they didn’t give a shit very quietly.

Very few people in America have ever heard of them, and even in their homeland, their albums never sold that well. The truth is, it was embarrassing to admit to liking The Beautiful South in the land where people knew who they were, and pointless to admitting it in a land where they were unknown. But anyone I introduced their music to grew to love them, and a lot of people in the UK secretly loved them, too. Case in point, their 1994 greatest hits album became one of the biggest-selling albums of all time in England. It was released near Christmastime, and millions of people rushed out to buy a copy, gift wrap it, and present it to a family member so that they could avoid the shame of buying for themselves, and then borrow it constantly.

Did I outgrow them near the end, or did they begin to really suck? Both, I think. The songs lost their wit and became merely critical and whiney. I myself found it harder and harder to maintain the ability to judge the world while separating myself from it, and I can see that in the songs as well. And when they did try to be clever, that’s when they really got annoying. The later albums are a chore to listen to, to be honest. They found a bit of a spark of fun again in 2004 by releasing a covers album, putting a TBS spin on songs by The Ramones, ELO, the Grease Soundtrack, Blue Oyster Cult, and other music they/I hate. For a moment they were back, and I was back, and it was like visiting an old friend.

Long live The Beautiful South.

I've been trying to write a screenplay for a few months now. I wrote the first half in about a month, and it's taken me about three months to get myself to seriously start the second half. I know I'm really procrastinating when in order to avoid writing, I actually look for things I can do around the office. I actually just cleaned my desk. And I know I'm really avoiding writing when I post a blog.

What is up with this website, by the way? It changed a couple months ago, and now I sign in using my Google account, which makes things a bit easier I suppose, except I have to go through a series of logins to finally really get access to my own blog. I just entered the same password three times. And no matter how many times I click that "remember me" checkbox, it never remembers me. I shouldn't talk; I constantly introduce myself to the same person about five times before I finally remember that I've actually met them before, but computers are supposed to be smarter, aren't they? And why is that now when I post a blog or even a comment on someone else's blog, it takes about half a day to appear? Isn't this the age of super-speed in every facet of communication? I mean, I'm writing this entry at 10am, and no one will read it until at least 4pm later today. By then, my screenplay might be finished, and this entry will be obsolete before a set of eyes even falls on it. Doubtful, but still. Should I go ahead and post my predictions for what NFL team will go to the Super Bowl next year now, so that it will be relevant when these words finally appear in cyberspace? Okay, now I'm just being obnoxious. But seriously, the Steelers are going all the way.

Okay, now I'm going to attempt to write the scene in the supermarket. It will be long done by the time you read this. I bet it's way awesome.

I make a mix CD for myself three times a year. One for spring, summer, and fall, complete with a label on the front that I design myself. I cull the new selections from songs I hear on the indie internet radio stations I listen to at work, and in between those I pepper older songs from the past.

It can be a stressful process. It needs the perfect opening song, an even better closing song, the whole thing has to flow, and if even one song sucks, I have to live with it that whole season. (It's also all a bit ridiculous how much emphasis I put on running order, seeing as how I usually listen to it in random order in my car anyway.)

I just finished my Spring 2007 mix, and I'm very happy with it. Here is a track listing, along with my explanations for the choice of the older songs I've chosen to appear.

1. Brother by Annuals
2. Near and Far by Sarah Shannon
3. Tuesday Morning by The Pogues (This was the album The Pogues made after Shane MacGowan left the band. I had this CD a while back and this was the only good song on it. It makes me very happy for some reason.)
4. Someone to Love by Fountains of Wayne
5. Chris R. by The Swirlies (This was the first song on a indie sampler my friend Mike gave me. The whole CD is so early 90’s. I can’t remember if it was spring ’93 or ’94, which is weird because I’m usually so good at remember things like that, but in a way it’s perfect because it goes to show that that whole period of my life was kind of timeless.)
6. We're From Barcelona by I'm from Barcelona
7. Walkabout by The Sugarcubes (From Spring ’92. Nothing special, I just liked the song. It’s from the same album as Hit, which is an awesome song too, but kind of too well-known by now.)
8. A Sentence of Sorts In Kongsvinger by Of Montreal
9. Female of the Species by Space (This is to commemorate my ten-year anniversary of arriving in LA. I was so excited to listen to KROQ when I got here because it was famous, and this song was big at that time. I quickly grew to realize KROQ sucks, but I still love the song, even though it reminds me of a tough time, struggling to get my bearings.)
10. Hard Days 1.2.3.4 by Loney, Dear
11. No Place Like Home by Squeeze (I didn’t have a car when I went to college until my senior year, so before that when I’d visit home on the weekends, I’d borrow my dad’s and pack in as much fun as I could in a short time. There were still some old cassettes in the glovebox from high school, including Cosi Fan Tutti Fruiti by Squeeze. I'd ritualistically play this song because I was always glad to be home.)
12. Small Parts by The Oohlas
13. Philadelphia Freedom by Elton John (This is one of the first songs I remember hearing, ever. It reminds me of riding in the car with my mom, listening to AM radio. I didn’t know what it was about, and to be honest I still don’t really, but it just sounded so happy and bright. I loved that he said “Shine the light, won’t you shine the light.”)
14. Stolen Moments by Six Parts Seven

Time to start stocking and stalking songs for the summer mix...

Today was another long walk, thanks to the car. The mechanic needed to fix one more thing, so I drove it to the garage, then started the long walk to work. Five miles. I did the exact same walk on Tuesday, but today was better because it was cooler and cloudy, and I think all the walking I've done in the past few days has made my legs a lot stronger. Along the way I thought about all kinds of funny things. Like the twin brothers that used to live across the street from me when I was little and how we used to eat the wild clover in our yards because it tasted surprisingly good. And I wondered things, like why did whoever painted the metal gate guarding the parking lot I walked by pick that shade of green? Stuff like that.

I stopped and got coffee in a cafe that I normally drive to, and while I was waiting for the restroom, I read a flyer for some self-actualization thing. The headlines were like, "Who really are you? Do you know your full potential? Why do you feel the way you do?" And I thought, "I'm in my 30's. Those questions are no longer fun or interesting."

I got to work after an hour and ten minutes. A couple hours later the mechanic called and said, on second thought, what I should really do is drive my car around for a few days with the new parts they put in on Tuesday so that next week they can more accurately do the readings to see what maintenance my car needs. So not only was my walk today completely unnecessary, but it means I'll be doing it again some morning next week.

I can't ride buses. It's not a personal problem with public transportation, I don't think. I used to love the subway/trolley back home. But I've been in this town for 10 years and I've managed to completely avoid the public bus system. Not that I've never needed a bus, however. Today, for instance, I walked five miles to work after dropping my car off with a mechanic. And close of business for the day is quickly approaching without the repairs being completed, so it's starting to look like I'll be hoofing the 3.5 miles to my home. I'm sick of spending money on car rentals, so it's a necessary evil at the moment. Well, not that necessary I guess. I could just ride the bus. Except I can't.

I don't want to go into why I can't ride buses, because I would need to first explore that topic on my own, and I'm as against that as I am riding a bus. Maybe it's something to think about during my walk home, but I probably won't. I'll think about what ever happened to that crazy guy that used to be in my acting class, and I'll wonder if birds notice the difference in traffic patterns on Saturdays and Sundays.

Oh, and I've never been to a funeral. I don't think the two things are related, but it's interesting.

A new guy started working in my office a few months ago, and I disliked him immediately. We’ve never spoken a word to each other, and I’m never proud to admit loathing someone on sight, but I can’t help it. He’s a little fat man, and he waddles when he walks, and even his hands are chubby. His voice is like a lower-pitched Kermit the Frog, and there’s only one volume setting to it: loud.

His office is in my department even though he doesn’t actually work for my department, I guess because it happened to be the nicest vacant office at the time he started, so I’m constantly passing him in the halls and being repulsed by him. I get the impression he’s not married, and against my own will I sometimes imagine that he’s into weird kinky sex with hookers, or maybe even male prostitutes.

His office a couple left turns from my desk, and on a quiet day I can hear him on the phone because he never shuts his door. I don’t have it nearly as bad as Belinda, whose desk is right outside his door. I’ve always felt bad for her, having to hear his stupid, fat, Kermit the Frog voice shouting on the phone every day. I didn’t realize just how bad it was though.

Earlier today, I was sending a document via the fax machine by Belinda’s desk, and while awaiting the send confirmation, I became aware of just how many noises the little fat man makes even when he isn’t on his phone or has someone in his stinky little office. (I’ve never actually noticed an odor from him, but I’d put money on his being smelly.) Every thirty to forty seconds, he would clear his throat loudly, or cough, or cough a few times in a row. I actually stood there timing the frequency of his noises with the stopwatch feature on my cell phone, and it was uncanny. It was almost as if he had his own stopwatch in his office, and he was clearing his pudgy little throat or emitting his flemmy little coughs on cue. I seriously thought of bursting into his office and presenting him with readout on my screen and asking him if he was aware of the annoyance he was inflicting on the world.

I just really don’t like that little loud fat man.

No matter how busy the day, no matter how I feel, no matter what I'm in the middle of, when Carolyn's Fingers by Cocteau Twins comes on the internet station I listen to at work, everything stops for three minutes and eight seconds.

Is it wrong that I'm more thrilled about Crowded House getting back together than I am about the Police reunion?

My primary fantasy as an actor is that I would one day be able to exist - financially and artistically - on acting jobs.

My secondary fantasy as an actor is that I could get a role in some movie or TV show that would subsequently result in my likeness being reproduced in the form of an action figure. I would take him everywhere with me. When I went to a restaurant, I would let him sit on the table. When I went to my accountant to take care of my complex financial matters, I would bring him out of my pocket and let him be part of the action. When I rode the bus, which I would never do because famous and successful actors (the kind that have action figures fashioned after them) never use public transportation, I would let my little plastic doppelganger take up the whole seat next to me. Unless there was a really pregnant woman on board and the bus was really full; then they could share a seat. And when I die, I would ask that the action figure in my likeness would be taken to the top of Mount Everest, and glued to the highest peak.

This Christmas, while I was back home, my dad and I took our traditional trip downtown and walked around for a few hours. One of my favorite stopoffs in our yearly tour has always been the William Penn Hotel. It's one of those really old ones with ornate mouldings, grand staircases, giant chandeliers, etc. It's even more beautiful during the holidays. I sang in the lobby of that hotel during a chorus trip in high school. That was such a fun trip. It's not that I loved singing so much; it had much more to do with the reality of a huge group of out-of-control high school kids getting out of class for a day to go into the big city and go a little crazy. Anyway, the combination of good memories and a big fancy old hotel results in something I really look forward to every year.

Most other years, ducking into the hotel is a necessity at that point just to keep from freezing. It was unseasonably warm this year. (Then again, "unseasonable" is the new norm, it seems.) We entered anyway, and like every year, I felt such a huge wave of joy seeing finely dressed rich people sitting in the restaurant and lobby sipping tea and reading their newspapers. The same giant Christmas tree as always stood in the middle of the room, decorated with such class. As always, I wondered what the rooms above us looked like, and how much a night in one would set you back.

I never noticed the Starbucks before. It was off to the side of the lobby. Purists and snobs would be appalled, I'm sure, to find a chain coffeehouse in such a beautiful old hotel, but I didn't care. I decided it was the perfect time of the day for my cup of personality. The appropriate moment to get my caffeine fix while on vacation is a delicate matter of timing. I bought my dad one and he asked me if I wanted to sit down for a bit. I was secretly against it, as I think walking with a coffee in the winter is a fabulous thing, but I was in a real go-with-the-flow mood, so I said okay. And I would have preferred to sit in the lobby with all those well-dressed rich people, but instead we sat at a table within the Starbucks, and that was still okay. In fact, the longer I sat there, I felt such a growing comfort and satisfaction within me. I cased out the place, noticed how the decades-old ceiling belied the age of the building in which we sat despite the brand new-ness of the coffeehouse itself. The employees were mostly young and jolly, whether because of plain old holiday spirit, or simply because nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. A young pretty girl sat by herself in a comfortable looking green plush chair, reading a book, a hardcover one of course. Her reading would be interrupted now and then by a text message or a call on her cell phone, which she replied to or answered eagerly. And I thought, how wonderful must her life be. Out the window was a view of tall buildings, some newer, some ancient, because that's the way my hometown is: Simultaneously decaying and renewing in plain view. A courtyard across the street was strangely undecorated and deserted, but it looked wonderful anyway. I imagined snow falling on it, and then remembered how on weekdays in the summer, people in suits would gather there and eat their lunch.

Dad finished his coffee and asked if I was ready. I'd save a little of mine so I could walk with my coffee for at least a little bit. I wanted to hold the cup with my black woolen gloves as we walked down the boulevard. For some reason my thoughts keep returning to that place. I left a little bit of me behind, and hopefully the piece of me I replaced will stay with me all year until I go back.

Oh, if I could make sense of it all!
I wish that I could sing
I'd stay in a melody
I would float along in my everlasting song
What would I do to believe?

Happy new year.

There's a new show on primetime TV called Show Me the Money.

I think a much better show would have been Show Me the Monkey.

I've never been a big fan of downloading ringtones for my cellphone, but I guess it's because I never entertained the notion that I might actually be able to find songs by artists other than Justin Timberlake and Chingy. But a couple days ago, I decided to get crazy and search for a few random favorite artists of mine, and let's just say that someone must have really screwed up somewhere, because there are a couple songs available for downloading that I can almost guarantee no one else in the world has ever heard of, much less considered choosing as the sound they want to hear when someone calls them.

I decided on Goods by Mates of State. It would have been White Collar Boy by Belle and Sebastian, but for some reason the little electronic bastard wouldn't download. I'm quickly learning, however, that selecting a song you like a great deal causes a bit of a problem. Now when people call me, I kind of just sit there listening to my phone ringing instead of answering it. Is this what we've come to in the world? Forget the fact that I now also find myself preferring to text message people instead of actually talk to them. I now choose to decline answering a phone call from a friend in favor of hearing the little sound my phone makes to alert me to their call. The Republicans may no longer be in control of Congress, the economy may be back on track, the terrorists may have no further plans for attack, but somehow I still feel lately that there is something very amiss with our little corner of the 21st Century.

Images from Austin, Part II:

Images from Austin:

Dan and I were good with our toys. While other kids in the neighborhood were leaving their Stomper trucks out in the rain and throwing their Rubik’s Cubes against the wall of the school at recess, we were giving our Star Wars action figures baths in the bathroom sink. I think it had to do at least a little bit with an awareness at a surprisingly young age that our parents were buying us these toys not only out of the goodness of their hearts, but out of the money in their wallets, and the least we could do was respect those little plastic acts of good parenting by storing them in a cool dry place away from the teeth of our pets when we weren’t playing with them.

We were, however, little boys after all. Our code of conduct toward toys only seemed to apply to toys that were paid for. So for one blissful, short period one summer, when boxes of Super Sugar Crisp cereal began a promotion featuring a free plastic figurine in the shape of the Super Sugar Crisp Bear inside the box, it provided Dan and I the opportunity to revel the immature need to destroy. On a clear sunny day on Dan’s front lawn, the Sugar Crisp Bear was captured by Imperial troopers and melted. In the realm of our imaginary world, the bear’s crime was treason, but in the real world, the toy’s only transgression was that it didn’t cost a cent.

After the first time, the act of destroying a toy ignited (no pun intended) fervor in Dan and I. We weren’t nearly about to start mangling our precious Star Wars toys, and it was quickly obvious to us that the best chance for us to burn a free toy again would come in the next box of Super Sugar Crisp cereal. Just like the commercial promised, Dan suddenly couldn’t get enough of Super Sugar Crisp. He doubled and tripled his usual morning intake. I would have joined in, but I found that cereal truly repugnant. Sure, I could have asked my mother for a box anyway, but obviously that would have been breaking the code. In essence, I would have been asking my mother to buy me the plastic figurine inside the box and not the cereal itself, thereby making the toy off-limits from destruction. Dan and I had very complex childhoods.

The wait between boxes of Super Sugar Crisp seemed like forever. Adding to the tension was the seemingly capricious nature of cereal free promotions. No child ever knew when one free item would begin or end, or stop and start up again. Different super markets got different shipments from different warehouses, and there was no guarantee whatsoever that Dan’s mother would come home with a box with that specific treasure inside. We really had three choices when it came to how to go about getting another plastic bear: One, Dan could ask his mother to be sure to pick up a box of Super Sugar Crisp that included the Super Sugar Crisp Bear inside. There was really no chance of this happening, as he would be risking his mother accusing of only wanting the cereal for the free toy. Dan and I had far too much pride to chance appearing as that kind of child. We may have started down a slippery slope by burning the bear, but we hadn’t lost all our senses. The second option would be for Dan to accompany his mother to the grocery store, which as anyone who’s ever been a child knows, is a special, unique kind of hell. The third option was difficult, but the one we chose to follow, which was to leave it up to fate. Somehow that always made it sweeter when we succeeded anyway.

We did indeed get lucky several times within the span of the promotion. When his mother would get home from the supermarket, Dan and I would, with the patience of people double our age, wait for her to put the groceries away. We would then sneak into the kitchen, open the cabinet, and find the new, bright blue, unopened box of cereal, with a little picture on the lower left hand side of the front of what we could expect to find inside. But what then? Wouldn’t it look suspicious to open a box of cereal in the middle of the day? Yes, we had to wait until the next day. He’d pour himself a bowl in the morning, and nonchalantly sift through the box of sugar-coated crispies to find that little plastic bag with the figurine inside. It would look nice and natural. Nothing to draw suspicion. We might even be able to convince ourselves that we were being completely reasonable. Deep inside though, we each knew we had little devils sitting on our shoulders.

Eventually, enough disappointing boxes of cereal came home in Dan’s mother’s brown bags that we had to admit to ourselves that our little private bear atrocities had come to an end. Dan’s daily intake of Super Sugar Crisp could now go back to its previous, safer level. But after it was all over, there was more than a couple small multi-colored puddles on Dan’s front porch. For a few months one summer, a large part of my and my friend’s satisfaction with life hinged on the contents of boxes of cereal. Or, maybe a truer way to put it is that the contents of boxes of cereal were just one more thing to be excited about along with all the other things we had to keep us entertained in the endlessly stimulating world of two little boys growing up in suburbia.

The Pennsylvania Amish make me wish I was religious. Nothing else in the world does, but they do.

They aren't reading this obviously, and somehow that makes them even more special in my eyes. I could never do what they do, or live the way they live. But I envy them in a weird way. Except for the weird facial hair thing. A beard with no moustache? Don't get that at all.

But when some crazed outsider comes in to a single room school and kills and injures a bunch of their innocent children, they actually have the strength to turn to their religion and do what it says to do which, inconveniently, is the farthest thing from what anyone on Earth would naturally want to do: Forgive. They didn't look in their Bible for loopholes because this was a special case. They believed they had to forgive, and so they forgave.

It makes me realize what a strange limbo I live in, faith-wise. The fact is, I actually believe in a god, but I don't really feel the need to devote my life to pleasing him. And he's cool with that. With everyone else screwing it all up so bad, it seems more and more that the best way to go about leading a moral, guilt-free and complete existance is to steer clear of any church, temple, mosque, synagogue, or any other kind of shame factory. The world is one big giant place of worship.

Last night I had a dream that I made a rush decision to leave town and go home, for good. I wouldn't even be saying goodbye to anyone. I got in my car and stopped at some cafe for some coffee for the trip, and I saw Neve Campbell sitting there, and I started to talk to her, because for some reason in my dream, Neve and I were acquaintances. We made small talk, and I remember her telling me that she had an upcoming audition for a regualr role on Walker, Texas Ranger. I said that I thought that show had long ago been cancelled, and she said she had thought so too, but apparently not. I started to feel enormously attracted to her. I thought about asking her out for the following Saturday, but then I remembered that I was leaving forever, and just then her boyfriend walked in. He was very tall. So I excused myself, and walked outside to my car. It occurred to me that I'd better call my parents and tell them to expect me. I pulled out my cellphone and found that for some reason I had locked the keypad, and had no idea how to unlock it. I stood there for a few minutes pressing random buttons, to no avail. I thought about calling someone with a similar phone for advice, but of course that would require unlocking my phone. I was beginning to lose my will concerning leaving. Not totally; I just thought it might be a good idea to hold for a day or two until I could plan things a little better. The whole thing just felt very, very sad.

There once was a September that lasted a thousand days. And then October lasted a thousand more.

I was always one of those kids that kept their bedroom clean, or mostly so, but one day in November my father, who I hadn’t really spoken to much lately, came to my door. My door had been mostly closed as of late, and he’d never really mastered the art of knocking, perhaps feeling that he shouldn’t need to since he paid for the house. Thinking back now, his reaction to the state of my room was quite hilarious, though it probably annoyed me at the time. After informing me or questioning me on whatever issue had brought him into my lair, which I don’t remember the particulars of but in was undoubtedly concerning something that I didn’t do, did too much of, or did completely wrong, he took a cursory look around my very small room and told me in no uncertain terms to clean it. I thought about arguing that in my own little corner of the world, I should get to choose the degree of the filth that I would choose to live in, but I could see pretty quickly there would be no room for debate. And with some amusement in my mind that I didn’t dare show, I could see his point. A quick scan of my room for my own self revealed at least 20 empty Pepsi cans that my father commented on a split second later. My bedroom was about the size of a large closet. If I’d had a cat handy to swing around by the tail, I would have knocked over all 20 or so cans without stretching very much.

It was the middle of November or so. It was November back in the days before I knew how much I loved November. Actually, it was the one that made me feel that way. I like to think now that when I bagged up all those cans and took them out to the garbage cans on the side of the house, I appreciated the cold evening fall air. But I was actually just probably thinking about homework.

The reason I remember this occasion so clearly now is mainly because of one particularly hilarious example of how ignorant I’d become of my surroundings amidst constant social activity with my new group of friends, and rehearsals for my first-ever appearance in a play, and hours-long phone conversations with my first girlfriend, and pointless car trips now that I had my license. During the first week of school back in September, my first assignment in Chemistry class was to create slime, like the kind you buy in toy stores. My chemical recipe was successful, and that green concoction found its way to the top of a copy of the Pittsburgh free newsweekly from the second week of that September. It had REM on the cover because they came through town on their Green tour, a concert which my friends and I camped out to buy tickets for and took the trolley downtown to see. The slime started out covering Mike Mills face, and I had been enjoying watching it seep further and further towards the other members as time went on. After the Pepsi cans, that was naturally the thing my father was most horrified by. For all he knew, it was drugs. “What in the world is that,” he asked, not even trying to be funny. He’d stopped trying to be funny with me a few months earlier, a couple months after I’d stopped pretending I thought he was. I explained the substance was a class project, hoping the scholastic angle would soothe the consternation he was undoubtedly feeling by walking into his son’s room and finding creeping green slime. His reply was “Well throw it away if you’re done with it.”

With a room so small, even the worst state of disarray is cleared up pretty quickly. I threw away some things, including the slimed issue of In Pittsburgh, tossed some things in the closet or under the bed, retaped and rehung the CD longbox fronts that I’d scissored up and used as cheap decoration every time I came back from the music store, and even vacuumed the small bit of carpet that wasn’t covered by my bed or desk. I had to admit the new tidiness was kind of relief. But it still wasn’t the same old room from the summer before. I’d been noticing lately that everything looked a little different; smaller maybe. Like my back yard. The tree I used to climb. The distance to the convenience store at the bottom of the hill was suddenly negligible now that I could drive to it when my mother needed milk. My once beloved bedroom was now a place I preferred to be only if I was forced to be in the house at all. Someone else’s bedroom was always better.

I took a walk on the Promenade and went into a few stores, and for some reason I set off the theft alarms upon entering and exiting each one. It was kind of cool when I entered, as if I was being announced with some kind of fanfare. But having them go off every time I walked out was a little embarrassing.

In every case, I simply let the sound go off around me and kept walking, but as I walked out of Urban Outfitters, the nervous-looking store greeter actually had me come in (setting off the alarm again, of course), and then, not having any idea of what to do once I did return, just kind of stared at me for a little bit. He looked around for...I don't know, a security guard, and not finding one, decided to take things into his own hands by asking me empty my pockets. I went for the left one first, not wishing to start with the right and have to possibly explain why it contains a small plastic toy turtle and a green egg-shaped stone that I've been carrying with me since 1994. Instead I pulled out my car keys and my security badge for work. Relieved, he said "oh, it was probably that." I knew full well it most likely wasn't since I've entered many stores on other days with it in my pocket without setting off alarms, so I waved it in front of the alarm system. It did nothing. I think at that point my jerk gene was kicking in, because then I turned and just looked at him, waiting for him to try something else. Again, he just stared at me uncomfortably. So I said "bye" and walked out, complete with my computerized fanfare.

Seriously though, what's up with the false alarms? Is it my magnetic personality? (HA HA HA HA!) For a moment I actually had to wonder if I'm suffering from some kind of intense kleptomania where I live in such denial that I literally have no idea I'm stealing. But if that's so, WHERE IS ALL MY FREE STUFF?

I'm no doubt going through a bout of the crazies, but I've maintained enough sense to know that it's probably pretty temporary and mostly harmless. It's from a combination of stress, a need to act despite an overriding sense of detachment, and more than anything, too much smiling and nodding while dealing with every sort of ridiculous situation and every type of out-of-touch-with-reality person in the past few weeks. And so, previously-healed wounds are reopened and freshly salted, all my dealt-with quirks reintroduce themselves like little monsters with outstretched hands, and I'm so determined to be a good boy I just let it all roll over me.

As I slowly wake up to this realization today, and begin to gain manna-from-heaven perspective on it all, the ice is cracking and I'm seeing the light. Just a few minutes ago, I had the most fun I've had in some time, surreptitiously changing the language setting on various copiers at work to Russian, Polski, Japanese and some other tongues I didn't even recognize, giggling like a schoolgirl as each screen changed to show options with unintelligible words. A very tiny bit of sabotage, and exactly what I needed somehow.

Heady, heady, end of the summer. August can be that way sometimes. And just a week ago I swore this time it would be a fun experiment to stay hang suspended above it all. I have to say now that as I look around, I'm sunk into things that I thought I was all done with being sunk in. But still be detached, it's all going by like some weird dream.

And then like some utterly inappropriate outburst in a very formal, impeccably-structured meeting of men in suits, I'm hit with a flash as I walk down a hall. Some random thing from long ago screaming for me to recognize that I've come so far to end up being so far away from anything that makes sense. Remember that year when Flood by They Might Be Giants became the unlikely soundtrack of all our lives? Its absolute ridiculousness made it safe for us to accept it as it crossed all boundaries and became beloved. Naturally Dan and I loved it immediately, already being fans, Jen Check who sat in front of me in Advanced English borrowed it from me and returned it with the price tag scratched off which annoyed me a bit because I just liked it on there, Scott A. and Scott C. caught on to it and we all learned every word to Dead, Carrie and Mary were easily charmed as well. But its true power was confirmed when certain others could barely pretend after a while to hate it, like Rytch who loved Depeche Mode and The Cure and not such silliness, and punk Justin who, one morning after a careful listening the night before to Birdhouse in Your Soul, declared the song to be all about light. "Well yes, light and other things," I replied. "No," he said, being obstinate like could be sometimes. "It's about light, and that's all." I still know almost every word from beginning to end, though I haven't listened to it in years. I didn't even bring it to LA with me. Who cares. Why do I need to know now that life was once one big playground where nothing really mattered, and therefore meant everything.

And then I'm back, so tired, with all these things that keep bumping into the same big walls and me prepared every day to make the same mistakes and all these people that do my head in, and the best thing I can say is that I no longer even bother comparing then to now like I used to do incessantly, because it's a little like trying compare apples to the Algorithmic Information Theory, but even after all this time they keep making songs about the one thing that everyone seems to think is all you need. It's a little like seeing giant billboards everywhere you look exclaiming Be Four-Dimensional Now! Go on, do it! What are you waiting for? Well, what am I waiting for? It's something, but I don't think it's what they meant. And it's a long, long way off.

About a month ago, I walked past Dustin Hoffman on the street. I didn't realize it was him until I was right up next to him, and I have to admit that it was a bit thrilling. He's always been one celebrity that I've really respected and genuinely liked as a personality.

I actually considered calling someone and telling them that I just saw Dustin Hoffman, but I thought about it for a moment and realized that, while it was certainly a notable occurance and something interesting enough to pepper into the middle of a casual talk with a friend or even useful as a great conversation starter, it wasn't quite monumental enough of a happening to really dial up anyone for.

The thing is, I completely forgot about it a couple minutes later. And I ended up telling no one, not even in a casual conversation, which, as I said before, would have been a perfect time for such an anecdote. I suddenly remembered it today again, but at this point, bothering to mention it to anyone at all would somehow seem pathetic. How could I suddenly blurt out to someone that I saw Dustin Hoffman a month ago in public and not have it sound kind of feeble? If I saw him yesterday, now that's something. But at this point I think it would seem like I'm just holding on too much.

If only he's said hi to me. Now there's an anecdote with no expiration date.

Yesterday I saw a guy sporting a mohawk, and I thought "wow, that's cool; you don't see that very often nowadays." Then he turned around, and I saw that the back of the 'hawk was kind of long, hanging down his neck. Then it hit me: It was half mohawk, half mullet.

A mullhawk. Business in the front, party in the back, punk as shit all over.

I drove by myself to the Sequoia National Forest a couple summers ago one Saturday morning, basically trying to do a repeat of a great trip I took by myself the year before. The prior September I drove to the coast of California to the redwoods, and it’s still one of my favorite memories. The Sequoia trip doesn’t quite hold up. In fact, it was quite a disappointment. I wouldn’t call it a disaster; it’s not like my car broke down or I wasn’t able to see the trees. But where I came back from the four-day redwoods jaunt feeling refreshed, hopeful and clean, the Sequoias left me thinking that it was a two-day trip that was a day-and-a-half too long.

I guess it mostly had to do with timing. The two trips were only ten months apart from each other, but on one end I needed nothing but the pleasure of my own company, and on the other end I was never not conscious of how pointless the whole experience was without anyone there to…I don’t know…validate it? Walking through the woods and hiking up a hill seemed ridiculous. It was sort of like: When you’ve been hanging around the same friend for too long, but you’re too polite to tell them they’re getting on your nerves, and then you go ahead and spend that extra day too many with them, and it’s obvious there’s tension. Except the other person was me. One solitary, grumbling sightseer, dutifully loitering around the largest trees in the world because that’s what I went there to do, wasting all that useless beauty. The trees may as well have been Styrofoam.

After being underwhelmed by one of the Earth’s greatest wonders, there was really nothing left to do but find a place to stay that night. For some reason it never occurred to me that all the cool, nice motels in the general area would be booked solid. I had to drive for miles to some dirty little town I can’t remember the name of to find a room. I ate crappy Mexican food in some small town restaurant where I swear everyone was looking at me. I just kept wondering why anyone would choose to live exactly there. How do people end up where they do? Were they born there, and just never became conscious enough to realize how miserable it all is? Or maybe they are truly content. Maybe they managed to find something that I’ll never have or understand. Maybe they really have everything they’ll ever want in that inconsequential dusty hot little town. I bet some of them never even bothered to go see the trees.

The sun was getting low in the sky, and I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to that motel. I drove most of the way back near to the entrance of the park, where there was a large lake. I parked high on a hill where I could see the whole thing from above. I’m really into that. I was getting there just as most people were leaving or had already left. I watched a line of small motorboats get pulled out of the lake one by one by a process of various pickup trucks getting as close to the water as possible, trailers behind submerging down a road that lead into the water, and then the boats would maneuver onto and be pulled out onto it, instantly on land and on wheels. It was an incredibly depressing thing to me for some reason. But I kept watching it happen, over and over.

There was one motorboat carrying two young men and two women that really didn’t seem to want the day to end. It must have been a truly wonderful day on the lake for them. Even from so high up, I could see their coolers of drinks and ice. And I could hear them. Bits of laughter floated up now and then, but mostly it was the music blaring from their stereo. Horrible, awful music. They were very partial to one song in particular: I Don’t Want to Lose Your Love Tonight by The Outfield. They must have played it three times while I stood there waiting for the sun to fall. I placed all my focus on those people, wondering about their lives, guessing at what they did for a living, what they liked to do when they weren’t out on the lake, etc. Were they married or was this the night that the captain hoped to hook up with this girl he’d been chasing for weeks? Did everyone enjoy that song he kept playing as much as he obviously did? Was one of those girls counting the seconds until she could get off the boat so she could just get home and read a book?

Strangely, this wasn’t as amusing or entertaining as usual. Thinking back on it now, I realize that it was one of the few times of my life that I was unable to escape myself by turning my attention to other people. Whatever the truth of their lives might be, the real truth of mine was that I was standing alone on top of a hill at sunset watching other people at the end of what must have been a glorious summer day. What would I ever do? Move to another city? I did that once already, and it was the hardest thing I’d ever done, and that was when I was still young. I used to think the world was wide open and full of possibility. But the truth is, I’ll only be able to move again to a place where I won’t be left standing alone on a hill. The world seemed so incredibly small all of the sudden.

The Outfield was taunting me.

Graffiti on a restroom wall.

Dear Hank,

Thank you so much for offering to housesit at the last minute like this. I hope you found the key all right. Either you did, or you gave up and broke in, and now you’re reading this note feeling really guilty about breaking one of my windows. (Ha ha!) I usually get Lucy to take care of things while I’m gone, but this is the week that she goes to build Inuksuks in Montreal. Do you know what Inuksuks are? They are little stone structures built in the image of men to let travelers know they are not alone on long hikes. I don’t know why she’s so into that, but she does it twice a year. She says it calms her soul, which she really needs, because Lucy is pretty tightly wound most of the time. Her parents could not have named her more incorrectly. (HA HA, get it?) Anyway, when she gets really out of control, she goes to Canada and piles rocks on top of each other on hiking trails and she says it really helps. And the weird thing is, she’s not even a hiker herself. She rents a car and drives up as close as she can to the pathways, builds one of these things right in the middle, gets back in the car, and drives about a mile down the path and makes another one. One time I came home after a trip and she had a bunch of those little things on the floor all over my house. Now that I think about it, I’m glad Lucy’s not around.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to be writing a whole big thing about crazy Lucy. I have to tell you some things about how to take care of my house. I don’t know if you’ve housesat before (or is it housesitted? Both of them sound wrong) but I’m sure you’ll be fine. You seem very responsible. I’ve never heard anyone say anything bad about you, Hank. I hope it’s because you’re secretly disemboweling anyone who knows your dirty secrets! Ha ha ha! Seriously though, I hope you’re not a freak.

Okay, so just a few things. By now you’ve probably met Frank. I imagine he came running up to the door when you came in, thinking it was me, and then just stared at you for a while wondering what you’re doing in his house. So cute, huh? Now, obviously Frank isn’t your normal cat, and I hope it didn’t freak you out too much. He’s very well behaved and really sweet when you get to know him. The way I figured it, owning a cat with two heads is way, way better than actually owning two whole separate cats. Still, I like to think of Frank as one cat instead of two cats; it’s less confusing for everyone involved I think. Although I think technically you could make a strong case that he is two cats, seeing as how he has two brains and all. Whatever, he’s just Frank to me. Anyway, like I said, he’s very sweet and I know you’ll grow to love him. Left Frank likes his ears scratched, Right Frank likes to be tickled under the chin. (That’s his left and right, not yours. Kind of important, because Left Frank actually hates to be tickled under the chin and will bite the hell out of your fingers if you even get close to doing that.) Left Frank is an outdoor cat and Right Frank is in indoor cat, so for about two hours every morning Frank sits there in the middle of the living room fighting himself until one half of him gives up, and you’ll always know which one wins when you come home from work and find him either in the backyard or lying on the bed. Sometimes I try to guess on the way home. Try it!

Oh, for the purpose of ease, I have two cat bowls in the kitchen. Just fill them both and let him eat. The good news is, he only has one stomach and poops like a normal cat. Like I said, way better than owning two separate cats.

Make yourself at home. The sheets on the bed are clean and the blankets are so warm. I have one of those detachable showerheads; have a blast with that. (I sure do! Ha ha!) Feel free to use the washer and dryer. One thing, just be careful of the couch. It’s very comfortable, but almost too much so. I wouldn’t suggest sitting on it for longer than a couple hours at a time. This might sound a little crazy, but I think it’s cursed. When I first bought it a couple years ago, I had a problem with not being able to get up off of it. I mean, literally. I lost my job and seventy-five pounds, not to mention all the things in my pockets. It pretty much sucked away my soul. Then I woke up one day in the couch. Seriously, like, inside it. I fell into some weird couch land, ruled by the TV remote control, and his army was all the loose change I’d lost between the cushions, and I had to do battle in this huge arena with a corkscrew I’d lost a week before, and my best friend was a kernel of corn. But I did find my driver’s license, and once I made my way out, I felt much better than I had been. It’s a long story, but the point is, be careful of the couch.

I’ll be back as soon as I can. This isn’t something I want to do, but the latest U.S. Census report says that at this rate, everyone in the country will be on some reality show before the year 2011, and I figured I might as well get mine out of the way. I really felt like this was the best one to do. Some of those other shows are just so pandering and degrading. Besides, helping a circus clown and a cowboy get a chimp across the country with no cash sounds kind of fun in a weird way. By the way, I saw you on Kick Me in the Groin last month. Congrats on making it to the finals.

Hank, I can’t thank you enough. I hope you enjoy your stay. Seriously, make yourself at home. Mi casa, su casa. Give Frank a big kiss for me every day. (Right Frank only; Left Frank would shred your face before you knew what happened.) If you see a bunch of people running down the street in front of the house one day, don’t be alarmed, it’s probably just the city marathon, and not Godzilla. By some amazing coincidence, it may be both, but I highly doubt that. Ha ha!

Thank you Hank!

Carol

P.S. Oh yeah, and by no means should you EVER open the third door on the left in the upstairs hallway. It’s not locked or anything, so I just wanted to make a quick note of that before I forgot. Whew, glad I remembered!

Last night I had the special and unique treat of attending the annual Association of Letter and Numeral Awards (or, the ALNAs). I try to catch it every year. It seems that a lot of people find it boring, but I’ve always found the letters of the alphabet, and especially numbers, to be quite interesting; perhaps not in their pure forms as such, but in their interaction with each other and in their subtle omnipresence in our everyday lives.

The awards show has never been televised. Ironically, the main networks have been quoted as saying that the show “just wouldn’t draw the right numbers.” I had always imagined that the show would be right at home on PBS, the very station that airs Seseme Street, on which so many numbers and letters have made wonderful guest appearances over the years. No one listens to me though.

No matter, the esoteric nature of the gala only ensures that I can continue to enjoy it in my own way. I can’t say that last night’s presentation was any better or worse than any other year’s, as they all seem to have their high and low points. As usual, they started off the night’s festivities with a musical number. It was the letter I and the letter U singing a duet. It was their version of Eddie Rabbitt and Crystal Gayle’s “Just You and I”. I thought kicking the whole shebang off with two vowels was a very good idea, but not having a consonant in there somewhere made it seem strangely incomplete.

The awards were announced and handed out at a nice pace, with most of the recipients keeping their speeches considerately curt. The exception was the award for Best Performance by a Grouping or Set of Numbers. This year’s winners were the numbers that make up Pi, and they really seemed to drag on forever. The funniest moment of the night came as the numbers 8 and 0 came out to present the award for Best Number. “Wow, 8,” 0 said, “that’s a nice belt!” Incidentally, the award for Best Number went to 1, which was no shock to anybody. However, I think the members of the audience really could have done without the sad display that came next, which was of that numeral jumping up and down for a good fifteen minutes shouting “I’m number 1! I’m number 1!” Sure, it was true in a very literal sense, but it also went a long way towards explaining to all in attendance why 1 is, indeed, the loneliest number.

As usual, after all of the awards were handed out, there was a forum and press junket. For me, this is the real highlight of every year’s program. It’s then that you really get to see the numbers and letters being themselves in a social setting that is far less formal than in the milieu of forming of words and larger numbers. For instance, it’s always interesting to watch the behavior of I, V, X, L, C, D and M toward the numbers. It seems as if the letters have yet to get over losing their jobs to the numbers after the fall of the Roman Empire. They deny that of course, C being the most adamant in that sentiment. But even as the letter that famously “is for cookie” attempted to set the record straight, I couldn’t help but think that M appeared somewhat vexed and X looked rather nonplussed.

The press hounded and prodded the numbers and letters. A few reporters asked genuinely intelligent questions, but most were there merely to dig up gossip and trivialize the proceedings. I can’t believe how little respect they showed, especially considering that their very livelihoods are based completely on the manipulation of the icons they were more or less subtly mocking. For many years there has been one subject that has been very touchy to the ALNA attendees: The growing widespread use of emblems and such that are not recognized as part of the alphanumeric family. “The Internet is both a blessing and a curse to us all”, said T. “The idea that a colon and the right side of a parentheses could suggest a smiley face scares the crap out of me.” A worried rumble of agreement echoed throughout the room. It wasn’t all gloom and doom though. K’s boisterous sense of humor broke through one particularly tense moment when she loudly announced that she and her two twin sisters are in desperate need of a new image consultant. 6 then stood up and jokingly asked “Well, what about me? Every time I get together with 9, people point at us and giggle!” As a result, it was then that Q finally voiced the obligatory bad joke that no ALNA night would be complete without: “Now there’s an irrational number.” Like every year, every letter and number in attendance emitted a simultaneous groan and chuckle, and it was wonderful.

The evening ended not long after, and one by one each symbol vacated the premises for another year. Their night to shine was over, but shine they did. As I type these words into my computer, I look at the keys and think of the tender respect I have for these tiny miracles that my fingers gently hover above and intermittently peck at. There’s A, situated nicely and peacefully next to two less popular letters, Q and Z, all nestled just below the row of numbers that seem to crown them illustriously. The picture it forms is somehow reminiscent of a high school senior class photo, with each character present. But this image seems far more ordered and civilized. Yes, numbers and letters living side by side on my keyboard, oh lord, why don’t we?

Once there was a snowman. He lived in a town populated only by little boys and girls. There were two types of children, at least as far as the snowman was concerned: huggers and stabbers. Huggers would come up to the snowman and throw their little arms around him. That made him feel good. Stabbers on the other hand would run up to him in the same manner as any hugger child, but then would pull out a sharp implement, such as a knife or shovel, and stick it deep into his softness. This hurt the snowman.

Unfortunately there was no way for the snowman to know by simply looking at the children which were huggers and which were stabbers. He could never know for sure until he was either stabbed or hugged. As much as he loved the hugs, the sharp thrusts from the stabbers were too painful to take for the snowman, and he eventually decided that he no choice but to avoid the children altogether.

Cutting off contact with the children of the town proved to be more difficult than he feared it would be. For one thing, he loved the company of the children, and often missed them. A larger problem, however, was the fact that the children could run so much faster than he could. Both the huggers and stabbers had no problem catching up to the snowman even as he ran in the opposite direction, always resulting in the subsequent embrace or violent attack that he was trying to avoid. In the frustration and growing desperation of the situation, the snowman became conscious of something he’d never known about himself before. Whether it was a hidden gift that was always there or something that simply developed as a result of his circumstances, he didn’t know. As it turned out, this snowman had the ability to protect himself from the children by breathing fire. The first few children to learn of the snowman’s newfound talent were quite surprised to say the least. And whether they were huggers or stabbers, those children were very sorry that they went near the snowman.

So the snowman was safe from being stabbed. However, the naïve children never stopped trying to hug him or stab him. They at least knew to keep their distance, but they just wouldn’t leave him alone. The snowman was forced to use his unique self-defense mechanism more often than he liked, as the very act of breathing fire in order to protect himself was very painful. And, in fact, he he eventually melted away in the act of self-preservation. But he was never a victim of the stabber children again. They all thought he just finally found a place to live.

He tried to think up an ironclad excuse not to go to the party, but he knew that none bore the right suit of armor to withstand the future attacks of his own guilty conscience, so he went. The most solid excuses, after all, must always be the ones we tell ourselves. He was quickly glad about his lack of imagination when it came to talking himself out of it. It was, after all, a going away party for a friend, and while he desperately hated goodbyes, he did love milestones. He loved being able to look back and say, “that’s when that ended.”

The impact of the departure hit home when they began watching old videos. Cliché, for sure, but if clichés never happened or were edited out of life, the average day would be twenty minutes long. Only one of the fold was leaving, but she was taking with her a gateway to other people and experiences he suddenly realized he would miss. It was only when, a few years before, it was all the only life he faced every weekend that he despised it. The videos reminded of him of what a dead end life it felt like to him to be at the time. As he watched, he refused to give into the persuasive, warped magic of nostalgia that’s made him rewrite his own history so many times before. But of course that didn’t last long. He thought about all those countless weekends in a house containing no one over 30, making up games with ping pong balls and cups of beer, drunkenly playing instruments in the garage, watching people be thrown in the pool. And all those camping trips when they went to places where he could see the stars again, even though he swore they didn’t look the same. Back then he was still young enough to find novelty in the dulling down of things.

He stayed a polite amount of time and piggybacked his goodbye onto another guest’s who had luckily chosen that moment to leave. Only a year before his drive home would have been much farther, now that he moved out of the valley. Then again, all his friends moved out of the valley, so his drive home would have in fact but much shorter a year ago. He got home and checked his mail. A Spin magazine, wrapped in plastic for some strange reason. Ah, because it’s accompanied with a letter asking him to renew his subscription. He ripped off the plastic and made a snap decision to cast the letter away with it into the trashcan. Somehow it felt like a time for letting the subscriptions run out on things. Not a decision to bring on an ending, more a lack of action that creates an absence of renewal. And that’s a different thing entirely.

Ah yes, the blog. Almost forgot I had one.

I’m sort of at a loss for things to say lately. Should I talk about the past? Should I talk about the post-past? (I guess they call that they present.) Should I make up more things to make my life sound more interesting than it is? Or is the mere description of my day-to-day life all that’s needed to entertain?

I don’t know. I think I’ll do away with my usual habit of thinking, and just say whatever comes out. Just to get the juices flowing.

Sometimes I like letting things get messy and dirty just for that feeling I get when I eventually do tidy up, and then for days afterwards I’m in the constant state of “Whoa…it’s so clean.”

In old cheesy 80’s action movies, whenever the hero would shoot and kill some nameless bad guy, I used to wonder if that character’s mother would hear about it, and how she would feel. I mean, yes, he was working for a terrorist trying to destroy the world, but she held him when he was a baby.

Along those lines perhaps, when I played soccer when I was little, I sometimes had problems getting myself properly motivated for games. What did I have against the other team? What did they do to me that would cause me to want to kick the ball into their territory and into their net? So I played defense, and I was very good, because I would become genuinely incensed when their offensive players got anywhere near my goal. Fucking dicks.

Alanis Morissette was really pissed off there for a while. I’m glad she seems to have dealt with it. What’s up with that Aflac duck though? Always yelling.

Quick story, and totally true: One time some guy named John that was dating my ex-girlfriend cast a love spell on me, which really worked, and then a week later he jumped out of the top floor of the Cathedral of Learning at Pitt University, thus turning the spell into a ten-year curse. I’m really glad that’s over.

There’s more to that story, but I just wanted to get the gist of it.

Mail trucks remind me of bees. Mail trucks: Stop, drop the mail, drive forward a little, repeat. Bees: land on flower, collect pollen, fly to the next one, repeat. And the front of old Jeeps look like those spiders with big eyes and smaller fake eyes under them. My friend Justin said that once in 11th grade and I thought it was so cool because I’d always thought that. Justin was always saying things I had thought all my life.

Dude! Look out for that giant snow spider behind you!

Don’t be scared. I’m a vehicle.