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.