Been quiet again, I know. It's just a phase in the moon. Or maybe something I ate. Still with the whole not anything to share period- just don't think of myself as all that interesting, and not up for ranting about anything. I read enough of those at work on the message boards- mostly about cars and racing. And it is a bit self-serving to complain- I did put myself on the boards, intentionally. And sometimes enjoy it. But there you have it.

Yesterday was my final PT for my shoulder. It is done. I have most of my mobility back, and what I don't have yet, I will get soon, or never- not all is necessary for fully functioning. I probably won't be spending much time doing sideplank position in Yoga, so there you have it, again. And yes, it bloody well did hurt. But it's like that. If it hurts, I did more of it. Because I thought it necessary. And it appeared to work. I am done a month early. Ha.

Kman had a road trip last weekend. He went on a drive with a passel of other BMW enthusiasts. He didn't take his old girl- she is currently disassembled in the garage- appears she has a slight oil leak. For a couple of decades. And my honey is nothing but a man for Sisyphean efforts. Stick a finger in that dike, son, it might slow the flow a bit.

And my current writing project is slowly taking over my life. I should be happy, but am a bit perplexed. There are characters in it who suddenly appeared, and one came back from the dead (where I put her in the last draft- seems she didn't want to die, after all.) Since when do they have a bloody choice? Appears when I write fiction, they get free range like the chickens. They say, "fuck you, we do what we want." And I oblige by recording it all. Fine. Be that way, then. And it it sucks, it won't be my fault.

And now I go to work. It's like that.

All right then. Because it has been difficult to drum up enthusiasm lately for my usual rantn and ravin, I might have to resort to just confessin.

I've been working on a project. I was supposed to remain in phase 2 of my new me development process (if you remember, phase 1 was the job). Phase 2 is very close, actually. Less than 20 pounds to go, and the pounds that remain are configured very differently. So that's all good, and I had always intended to remain free of the "weight loss blog" kind of thing. So that's that.

Phase 3 has started prematurely. But I think that's how things work. No clean boundaries, really. The project is writing in nature, and I am knee deep in research. What is is about? Sssshhhhhhh.....that might not get told quite yet. But it isn't autobiographical so much as just...different. I've been re-reading a bunch of books, though. Things that got me thinking back in the day. And I do mean back in the day. I found a book that spurred my interest in the subject I studied in grad school. I found a book that scared me so badly that I took it back to the library unfinished. But had to check it out again to find out what happened- and then read it again and again. But only during the day. There's really something incredible happening as I dive into these stories again- it's bringing back my internal voice- the one I used to use all the time to play and tell stories to myself when I was bored. And that's not a bad thing, I suspect.

No, the voices aren't telling me to DO things, or anything like that. Not to worry, Holmes. I am fine. Just getting in touch with some elements that have been neglected for far, far too long. And not entirely sure what is going to come out. But the long-postponed project that I was working on a couple of years ago is still in there, and a couple of elements that I couldn't figure out have resolved themselves very nicely in the past week.

And that is what I am doing in my head lately. That and singing along to the music in my car. Because that stops me from hating other drivers. No way I can be screaming at them if I am singing along to the fabulous and dreamy Jack White. So there. Don't be hating.

Ah, the joy of discovering that some days all I encounter is the incessant OPINIONIZING of one collection of experts after another. All fucking day. Not my people- they are fine. It's others at the company. Who CANNOT and WILL NOT leave a sentence untouched. Because it is IMPORTANT to have the best and most highly intellectual opinion about it. Regardless of what it is. And regardless of how high they rank on the jackassery scale when they express that opinion. It just does.not.stop.

Ah, it fucking kills me. And I am constantly amazed. But then I grow jaded. And thankful that I don't have to deal with these horse's asses daily. Only via email. Which is sufficient, thank you.

And it also explains why I would surmise the majority of these particular fellows never, ever get laid. I wonder how many men at my company own Realdolls?

Ah, the Monday morning post. Sort of a summation of the weekend, what I remember, at least, and avoidance of going to work.

Well, not today. Nothing of true note happened this weekend- mainly some snow (yes. Snow.), visits with friends, calls with family, some shopping, some driving around, and cleaning of the house.

So the problem with this forum is that it is always by necessity at this point a soliloquy. And I've never been all that into the speechifying...well, maybe a bit. But sometimes I just get tired of listening to my own voice. I prefer to have conversations. I prefer to not dive so deeply into my own head. Just because I really don't think there's much in there that anyone else would find interesting.

But I will admit that the idea that others might not find my every word fascinating came with age. Once upon a time, there was a princess. She thought that she was unique. She knew that she was special. She also figured that since she was unique and special, that everyone knew it, and would be interested in everything she said. And so it was. On and on. No one ever told her that she was a pedantic bore. No one really wanted to face her wrath. Because the wrath was very evident right under the surface. So they put up with her, until they didn't.

The end.

But it did end, and there is a happy ending, after all. Because she grew up, got her head out of her ass, and realized that other people have limits of what they find interesting. And a lot of the garbage that passes for mental activity is merely that- potato chips and soda of the mind.

So. And onward. We saw a documentary on BBC America last night about Realdolls. And the men who love them. Oh my. God. It was an hour of very disturbing things. And I can only imagine that all of the men in question live in homes with a certain...funk about them...

And that is my gift to you on Monday morning. Realdoll documentary. Heh.

"Marie Antoinette" was on last night. I have to say I hate that movie. Costumes, check. Sets, check. Emptiness, check. And it's not just the sappy moviemaking. I have always hated the story. Hated it like I hate the story of the Russian Revolution. And it is personal. No, I am not claiming to be the reincarnated Anastasia. Nothing of the sort.

I have always sympathized with both sides, and fully understand why neither family could be allowed to live. They HAD to be wiped off the globe by the revolutionaries not only to legitimize the movement and finalize the victory, but also to ensure that there were no happy returns. It still boggles my mind that they didn't do the same to Napoleon. Seems a tad...naive.

But the human destruction causes me grief. I hate that Marie and family were slaughtered because they were stupid. And rich. And the basic end-game genetically. Now how much of this was their own personal fault is one thing. But being thrust into roles for which they were neither prepared nor suited wasn't necessarily their fault. And that's the crowning bloody tragedy of it all. Ditto the silly Romanovs. The whole culture that they perpetuated and relished of being so detached from humanity as a whole, and the excesses just make it more of a sad display.

I honestly don't know which side I would've fallen on. Probably the revolution's. As no doubt, I would've been a peasant, and heartily pissed at the expense and quality of footwear. And food. And seeing those saps living la vida would've brought out the pike skewering rage in me right quicklike, y'all.

But I still hate the stories and hate the movie, and can definitely be happy that I don't HAVE to either teach the topics or read about them. Not without a large bucket of wine to drown my sorrows at the stupid fucking human condition.

While I have a kitty making biscuits on my lap, I can breathe for a minute. I'm not going anywhere.
Not for a bit.

Lately those moments aren't as common as I would like. Not the kitty part, just the silence. Internally and externally. Feels like nothing but running around endlessly. Point a to point b. Over and under and through again.

Endless repetition and then some more. Again! And the thing that is funny about it is that the repetition doesn't just become ritual. Nothing that profound. Just busywork. Not infused with splendor or meaning. Just busy. Not even with the necessity of a squirrel gathering nuts. Just busy.

And there you have it. The cat has left, and I must commence with the busy.

Context:
They were very young. Probably too young to handle fully the experiences and responsibilities that they seized so willingly. But they had their reasons. History played a role. As did emotion. And escape.

Narrative:
Not your typical fairy tale. In fact, not a fairy tale at all. No real villains, just well-meaning, but at times ineffectual people. A couple of fools. And in the end fine people who made some questionable and at times bad choices.

Summation:
Yes, indeed, time heals all wounds- if you let it. And there might be scars. These aren't removed by silicone bandages (have you seen these?). They are forever. But they become less important.

Reality:
Taking the time to transition from bitterness to sadness to something beyond all of these choices can cause a ruckus internally. But it isn't the hardest part. And it isn't something that is easily shared. Not with the causes, and not with the effects. It's an internal game, really.

Conclusion:
Watching the cat eat a spider is more interesting on a good day than pondering the imponderables of the past, and more fulfilling ultimately.

If it's not raining it's bloody foggy outside. Once upon a time, I thought it would be wonderful to live in England. Well, most of my childhood, actually. Always wanted it. Ever since I ran across a children's biography of Queen Elizabeth I. Then I read everything I could find about England. And being English. But Montana is a long way from England. Like that's not obvious. And my family is a far cry from English. We speak the language, and that's about it. Most of the rest of it is as foreign as the Galapagos. We have wonderful teeth (for the most part). We drink our beer cold (if we drink beer). We don't particularly cotton to cricket- it bores us. As does soccer. We prefer American Football. We don't drive British cars- the electronics are too sketchy. And there's no one in town to service them. And growing up, I don't remember having tea in the house. That particular fact really bothered me. Because tea seemed important. A cornerstone really. And we were so very unBritish. And I wanted it to be different. I wanted tea.

I remember my mother went out of her way to buy me tea. It was the Lipton kind. And I overbrewed it. It was the nastiest stuff I had consumed, with the exception of the vodka I sipped one time (wanted to see what the fuss was about- still can't drink it- appears aversion therapy works sometimes). So I thought tea was nasty, and the English were a tad odd.

But this weather thing. Nothing romantic about it, really. Just moist. And too cold for things to grow properly yet. I used to love foggy days, mainly because I can count on one hand how often they occurred. But now I have lost count, and the romantic aspects of it are vanishing quickly. Because all it really means is that the drive to work will be slower, and the windows at work will be all pearly, and dark.

But it's not all bad. I didn't grow up English, but I did grow up with a fondness for Mary Poppins. And for Ian Fleming. And for Arthur Conan Doyle. And for Virginia Woolf. There are others on the list, I am just getting bored.

Cheerio.

General update now:

Nothing to rant about. But I did make an excellent discovery yesterday. I have been verging on road ragey for weeks. Mainly because I commute amongst idiots and arseholes. Trust me. They are. So, I hate who I become when I am driving. It perplexes me, as I can't figure out where that aggression is coming from. So yesterday. Instead of NPR, because it is begweek, and I already gave for the year, I opted for CDs. And it was good. I sang along like a goofus. And it was good. No rage. Perhaps I have found a solution. Or unbeknownst to me, I had the right chemical mix of coffee in the blood for once.

Shoulder progress is steady, unpleasant at times, and overall encouraging. Still never gonna see complete mobility, but it'll not hurt. And the PT is now officially kicking my ass twice a week. And I love her for it. But not in an S & M way, just know that she's doing her job well. And it's not in a $2Million dollar flat in Chelsea.

Job is fine. Not much to report there. Just the usual fire drills, hijinks, and petty annoyances that take up time during the day. I still maintain that a hefty number of people who work at my company are stark raving lunatics, but there you have it. At this point, I can probably count myself in their ranks- see above, about the driving...

It is, of course, as I write, raining again. Not much to say about that either, suffice it to say it is dreadfully depressing. There was a garden growing in our street gutter. A layer of mud had sprouted 6" of grass and weeds. It was frightening, and confirmed what those tv shows about the end of humanity have to say. Once we are gone, the blackberries, ivy and weeds take over. There is a camaro down the street that I need to take a pic of and post here- it has been on blocks for years. It is covered with green mold. God knows what the interior looks and smells like. But the exterior is something to behold.

Nothing else to report at this point. Just wanted to give the update for those of you who might be interested. Now on to work.

Changing gears

I was going to write about the wonders of our new Dyson vacuum cleaner. Amazing. Simply awesome. We lived in absolute filth, people, and were totally unaware.

But I got sidetracked by my response to another person's blog. And need to vent. Go figure.

In F1, currently, there is a bit of a scandal. Seems the FIA (governing body of the racing series) President, Max Mosley (yes, son of Sir Oswald Mosley and Diana Mitford- Wiki them, bloody fascinating but scary-ass family) was caught in a sting operation cavorting with 5 hookers in a rough trade afternoon. What is nice about this is that he is 67, and apparently in very FINE health. What is not so nice about this is that the News of the World in Britain has labeled the ladies Nazi re creators for pay. Now I (in the spirit of intellectual inquiry) watched bits of the film. And I didn't see Nazi symbolism anywhere. Just some high end call girls dressed in domi outfits, and some prison garb. (Oh, you bad, bad boy Max!). And some bottom spanking.

According to the news, the video goes on for five hours. Impressive. But for such a seemingly spendy venture, if indeed Max's fetish goes towards Naziism, it was a waste of his money. Because that was just not there. Not there.

So. My point. The F1 community and the press are reacting in the most deer in headlights alarmist fashion. They are pillorying the man. In public. Despite the fact that he hasn't been accused of a crime. And the Nazi thing hasn't been proven. And the video was taped illegally (and I suspect as part of a blackmail scheme-there are at least 5 different cameras involved). He has been set up. Obviously. No question. And still. The press (ie. Murdoch's establishment in England) is hammering him. And he is suing the pants off of them. And rather than take a moment, be calm about it, and insist that the allegations be fully proven, most of the teams have chosen to condemn the man.

What really chaps my ass, besides the unfairness of being condemned without a trial, is that I feel sorry for Max. I don't like Max. Never have. And I feel that I must defend the man. Ick. Feh.

I just overwhelmingly hate that people attribute the press with some kind of magical power of truth. That if it is written down, it is automatically true. That pisses me off beyond extreme. And I want to start calling out instances of the media being manipulated. And in this instance the media clamoring for one man's blood is more than I can bear.

Looks like someone's got a case of the...

Sometimes I just don't know what the hell people expect. It astounds me. Like when they act surprised when I do something clever. Or astounded when I create a new process that works well with some heretofore muddled situation.

What the hell do they think I have done with my life?

What the hell do they think I did before getting this job?

I just don't get it. And it's hard not to let their underestimation slip into my pores. And keep a cheerful and happy face on it. No place to go but up, right?

But the patronizing extent of it all... "thank you (redacted) for being so proactive on this!" Fuck you, you tool- it's only my JOB. Fucking ass. And I've been "proactive" about this for about, oh, I dunno, a year now. At least the ones who bother me the most aren't the ones I work that closely with. Like the bossman. He is cool as hell.

But then, I probably need to step off a bit. All this hostility is no doubt personal and hormonal in nature, and needs a better outlet. Like a nap, a funny movie from the 30's, some quality time with Kman, and a raise. I'll start holding my breath for all of the above right about ...... now.

In the meantime, whilst I turn blue, I will go get ready for work. But a nap would be nice. I wonder if I can convince Kman to call in sick with me today.....