so, he was a small man. Smaller than you would expect, right? but with a huge head. Fucking huge. Surprising really, you'd think he'd be smarter with all of that real estate to be filled and all.

Huge head. And look at him now. Maybe he's just hydrocephalic, and the extra space is water. Or in his case, beer. Or something like that. But sweet Jesus, that was a huge head.

And then there was the girl with him. Dressed like a fucking whore. Some kind of fringy jackety thing. Not like she fit in or anything. shorts with heels. Always reminds me of hookers, that. shorts with heels. Not sad like shorts with nylons. That is pitiful. But shorts with heels.

The two of them. Made quite a spectacle of themselves. Only a few of the locals recognized them. And of those few, only one or two cared. The rest I think filed it away for later.

The boy died alone. In a crowd. But alone.
Probably more accurate to call him a man, but really he had the last
vestiges of youth. And a roll of hundreds attached to his belt.
The crowd howled. They wanted to see help. They wanted to see life.
They didn't bargain for death on a night out.
Neither did he.
Were his last thoughts of regret?
Or was he lonely?
Did he know what was happening?
Did he hear the flapping of wings...see grey mist...a bright white light?
Did he hear the crowd growing angry to see him lying in the puddle of blood
while the police kept them at bay?
Did he feel anger at their ineffectual protest?
Or was he so beyond caring about all of that?
And what of the police who were so jaded that it was
beyond any one of them to sit and hold his hand for the last few minutes he had left.
What of them.

A guy from work was telling me about his weekend yesterday. Seems he saw a shooting and witnessed the victim die. He was pretty shaken up- but his first impulse was to go out and buy a gun. Not where I would go. But whatever.

The story was grim. What bothered me, and I didn't follow up in questions, just because he was still pretty upset, was that the victim died without any human contact. He just bled to death behind a police cordon. There were probably aid workers on the scene- I can't imagine there not being any of those. But no one was there to hold his hand and say it would be ok. Not that it matters to the dead guy now. But I hate the idea of anyone, even a punk thug (and this guy was apparently one of those), dying on the pavement like that. Must've been a priest in a former life. Or something.

Other than that, bummer that I didn't buy a shitton of Yahoo stocks yesterday.

So we watched "Superbad" last night. I actually thought it was funny as hell, but probably didn't get the full experience since I grew up...a girl, and all. But here is the best part (in my opinion).

I was watching a high school movie starring (well, featuring) one of the people I went to high school with. Actually took some classes with her. For some reason her Hollywood career didn't take off like it should've- but she has been in a few things lately that I have been running across. Not in a stalky way, but by accident. Like the only time ever that I have seen "Law & Order", she was the perp. And there you have it.

But the movie was fun. And it had a nice edge to it- by that I mean, not horribly edgy, and just nice. Our thin hero reminds me of Kman. (notice, I have made the upgrade? Boyz to men and all that) Nice, and very, very funny. With those big brown eyes.....swoon.....
Kman, not the kid in the movie- I am not disturbed....seriously.

Other than that not much happening. Yet.

Yes, I am working remotely today. And there is a double meaning there. Remote and remote. Probably a triple meaning.

Suffice it to say that it is very quiet by comparison to my usual stew of noise and action.

And the cats aren't interested in a rousing chorus of "Spider Pig, spider pig, does whatever spider pig does." They just look at me and blink. Not team players.

Now I have to go nurse the email. It's what I do.

I thought that back in the day I made a rule about drunken blogging. Well, what do they say about rules and being broken? I have plenty of experience being broken.
But not brokeback. Never. Brokeback. Because, quite frankly, I can quit you. Anytime I want. Just ask anyone. It can happen.

And this isn't necessarily drunken. Not on a Monday night. Not at 7:00 PM. Just a couple of glasses of wine to appease the muse. Because today, quite frankly, coffee didn't do the trick. She was feeling....particular. Probably a tad out of sorts about being required to do her business elsewhere. Neglected around here, don't you see.

So in actuality no rules being broken. Nothing to see here, move along.

This weekend we tried to watch Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. It was too difficult. We gave up and went to bed. Even with the ever sparkly but cotton-candy haired Peter Frampton. He tried soooo hard. And Maurice died for your sins. You know it. Own it.

This weekend I tried so hard to burst the bounds. Professionally. I came up with a perfect paper. But it wasn't really. I found out today. And that's ok. But there is still something rotten in this state of Denmark, and I WILL discover what it is. Just haven't had enough water under that bridge. And don't know the right password. I will, though. That's a solemn oath. I don't take those lightly. Ask anybody.

Had a snow day. Until the afternoon, when it was possible to actually go to the store. But there was snow. Now ice. Later more snow. I am bored. More wine? No. Out of that. Forgot to stock up. Might have to drink Scotch. But not delighted about the prospect, because don't think I will enjoy as much as I should. So probably won't. Speaking in strange shorthanded fashion, and having some difficulty hitting right keys....perhaps rules are being broken. Know when to say when. Otherwise bad things happen. To good people. There was a book written. Not that I bought it- self-help lost its glamour when I tried to stomach A Road Less Traveled at the recommendation of a lunatic ex-boyfriend (Miji for those of you who know the code). Purer bullshit hath never been produced outside of the stockyards. Just plain not applicable. So fuck that noise.

And now I think I must depart, good night sweet prince, say hello to the wife and kids.

Things I have:

A firmed up date for surgery. Think Valentine's day. And pray for Kboy's sake that the pain pills are sufficient.

Crazy assed red chested woodpeckery birds pounding on my roof in the morning. Even on the weekends. To quote former President Clinton, "For Shame!"

A date with destiny in the form of a game designer on Monday. Less said about that right now, probably for the better- suffice it to say, I will be doing some major homework over the weekend.

An enduring and lingering dislike for Tom Cruise that was only intensified by reading the new unauthorized biography. Tom, you are dead to me. I still haven't seen "Top Gun." Don't think it's gonna happen now, either.

A husband who has currently gone missing. I could call and see where he is, but it's better this way. A touch of mystery. Actually, I suspect that he went to the book store for coffee and a magazine peruse. Because that's the way he rolls.

A new haircut. Because it was time. And when I start contemplating wearing a pony tail in public as a remedy to bad hair, it is a dire thing. Just like wearing workout togs in public. Not gonna fly, babycakes.

And that's all I can think of for right now. So it'll have to be enough.

"I think you can be clever without being crass."
"But I should push it."

"I still think it's possible."

"One of the examples was of a pair of Nikes with a graphic of a dildo going into some chick."

"Right. Crass. But I still think you are more clever than that."

"We're going for edgy."

Things we discuss over morning coffee.

Note to self: two large meals in one day, even if they do commemorate Kboy's birthday, are a bad idea. Especially after over 6 months of not eating like that. Ah, the pain.

And it is probably about time to stop calling him "the boy." He is 39. Perhaps time to come up with a more apt moniker.

Today is MRI Monday. I think it should be a new kind of game. Or something. Like Caturday. Or Naked Thursday.

I got a very strange email this weekend from some chick on a fishing expedition on Classmates.com. No, I won't share some of the particulars, except to say I am unclear as to her motives in seeking some of the people she's looking for, and I haven't seen one of them in over 20 years. The other more like 35. So gonna ignore it. Plus she used sketchy grammar and spelling, which is always a problem for me. Such a snob. It could be an elaborate hoax. I think that the one dude died, anyway.

On the complaints list, Kboy went to Anaheim this last week for a trade show, and brought back a couple of t shirts for me. That was nice. What sucks is that he was around bona fide rock stars and didn't stand in line for hours to get them to sign stuff. For me. To hang at my desk at work. He started this precedent by getting me a signed Peter Frampton picture. His fault that I have these expectations, really. But he had the lead singer from Yes at his booth, and didn't bother...sigh....I shall whine some more. And he was in the convention center with a couple of the more prominent members of Kiss. Which would be kind of a cool addition to Peter on my wall. I'm just saying. I guess the Yes guy is kind of a freak. And the line for the Kiss guys was a tad longish. But seriously, what the hell else did he have going on??? And it would be in the name of love and all that. Pay it forward, chump- I vacuumed the house yesterday in honor of your bloody birthday!

And to wrap this up, am currently watching a Korean soap opera on DVD. Hotelier is the honorable story of a young hotel manager in Seoul who is loved by two men. And has to make a decision. In 10 hours or less of rather tortured and very beige hotel goodness. Seriously. Beige and gold. The whole thing. Beige and gold. With very soft music. Reminds me of the spa at the gym. Only the lighting is better on the tv show.

Ah, just let the anger push you beyond that hurdle. Again and again.

An hour on a treadmill, climbing no where quickly.

The only way to endure is a combination of NPR news/weather and information. But at the very end, when it's become stupid difficult, break out the "Hell's Bells."

Because nothing is quite as motivating as the Australian screeching "Hell's Bells...Satan's coming for you..." to keep you moving on the treadmill. Because if you stop, guess who is coming for you?

Not the nice little Indian lady on the treadmill to your left.

Or the nice little farty Asian lady on the treadmill to your right (please, remember, we can smell those, nice little lady. And if there is something wrong, you should probably either be in a less enclosed room, or at home.)

But then maybe the farts are supposed to evoke Satan more thoroughly. Kind of a multi-media piece. But I don't think she knows I am listening to AC/DC. Or angry.

So follow that up with "Immigrant Song," and you have the perfect denouement for the most evil workout I can come up with. Call it self-punishment. Paying of the dues. Righting the wrongs.

Is it just me?

Or does anyone else have Christmas presents still in boxes sitting around the house? It could be that we are just overwhelmingly slothful. But I am looking at one. And it's cool. I just haven't taken the time to unpack and set it up. I have opened the box. But hell.

I still have boxes of stuff downstairs that I haven't gone through- papers mostly. I have this phobia about papers. And throwing them away. Wonder where that came from??? Without revealing too many sources, it is somewhat of a family trait.

So that might be the only resolution that I make. Belated and all. Go through the boxes. Throw away the crap I no longer need. Figure out a better storage plan for the crap that I do need. I am guessing that return address labels for West Seattle aren't in the second category. But that's the kind of crap I tend to keep.

And I'll set up the Christmas present thingy. Because yes, I feel the guilt. If you prick me, I will bleed. So please don't. It'll only piss me off.

Not much time to actually think and write- work stuff is going on. Full on politics. Sad co-workers. Mean co-workers. Stressed people.

I did get confirmation yesterday that the surgery will happen. The Dr was good- very confident that this can be fixed easily, and quickly. With a minimum of fuss. Which is his job. But the place was like a Seattle sports museum. With ballet dancers included. So I figure that my shoulder is much less of a challenge than re-building a pitcher's shoulder after it is destroyed. Cake walk, no doubt.

Next is my very first MRI. Next week.

In my dream I was singing Courtney Love again. And feeling like the rock star.
It's never really like that, though. I am made to understand on a daily basis that I
am not a rock star.
It's ok, really.

It's the time though, that I am beginning to see what my choices have made. And
how many of them are permanent. That sense of endless possibility is dying.
Probably not a huge problem- I hung onto that for too long, no doubt.
It's ok, really.

Because there's not a damned thing I can do about it. The relentlessness of the process
is revealing. And Revelling. Mainly because those of us about to die salute you.
And we're all in that club, and it's not a lonely place. It's what you make of it.
If you want loneliness, just think that you're not going to die someday. That'll do the
trick. Because all of the rest of us will be leaving on a jet plane. Don't know when
we'll be back again. Probably never.

So sod off, indeed. Sod is what it's really all about. Wouldn't it be interesting if global
warning was due to putting us in air-tight containers rather than just planting us in
an open ditch? I do know that it causes some kind of financial burden. But otherwise, can't
really pull much cause and effect out of the mix.

Only if you were to build on a cemetery, there would probably be some problems with
nasty chemical leakage. Enough said. Bad idea. Don't do it. Teenage Suicide- don't do it.
The song really does remain the same.

And in my dreams I am a rock star. Not iron man, but a rock star. It's bona fide.

Today the obsession is with sweaters. Not sure why, only that the strongest impulse I have is to crawl back in bed and be warm. I think it has to do with winter. And with politics. And with work. And with the combo package of the last two. Things are happening, and I am trying to ignore the whole blasted thing. Has no direct effect on me, and it's hard to give a shit.

So sweaters. Lots and lots of sweaters. They are in my thoughts. I have never knitted an adult-sized one. Only for a baby. It was fun. I should try. I should. I should.

Ok, distraction isn't working so well. Back to politics. And work. No escaping. Which figures. What did they tell us all about being careful about wishing for things? And something about wishing being horses and beggars riding, or something, something.

And the words are just flying off the shelf. Like water bottles with a hurricane coming. I haven't figured out why every time there is a storm warning here, people act like that. There is a run on things that make no sense to me. Like milk. If the power goes out, your milk will spoil in the fridge, Einstein. Or Eisenstein. (heh heh heh- now it's on to nonsense.) And the power doesn't make the water cease to come out of the faucets. I don't get it. Again.

And there is really nothing else to say. The words might be flying, but they aren't pertinent or particularly interesting. Just words. On a page. Signifying not a hell of a lot. Someone else no doubt said it better. Which is typical. And probably appropriate.

So when silence isn't necessarily golden- it might just be grumpy. And not feel like sharing.

It happens in the best of families, but probably occurs more frequently in the worst of families.

And that's why we hate Dickens. Too simple. The decision last night was that if he were writing today, he would be another Jerry Bruckheimer. No nuance, only action. And very simple messages. Ah, but knowing the audience- priceless, no? But seriously, the consistent and simply gratuitous use of coincidence? Come on.

And that's why we love Dostoevsky. Plenty of nuance there. And ambiguity. And the message might be blazing red hot obvious, but then again, maybe not. But definitely not an action hero kind of guy.

And we love Fitzgerald. And we love Capote. And we love Maugham.

This was all part of a discussion last night. Before going to sleep. Because when is there ever a better time to talk literature?

News of the day-

you know the shoulder, the one I keep hurting? Welll.........it seems that the answer isn't more wine. It's surgery. Cool, eh?

Really, really bums me out.

Only spin I can put on it is that at least there is a solution and the Dr didn't just gently tell me to fucking deal with it. She actually used the word "gimpy" in describing what can happen if I re-injure it and cause nerve damage. Gotta love a Dr who uses the word gimpy.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.

I see the surgeon next Monday. More to follow.

My current read on this...thing

I have this friend, see. Or at least I thought that I did. Well, maybe not so much.

She was having professional problems. I listened. I offered up what wisdom I had. Then I got the cold shoulder. Seriously cold shoulder. Went from hearing from her via im or email or phone daily, to nothing. Well, two contacts in 3 weeks. Yes, there were holidays in there. But this is also the woman who wanted to look after our cats. Luckily for the cats we had someone else lined up. Because I suspect that they wouldn't have been horribly healthy if she were involved and in her silent, stealth mode.

Now the part of me that I like more says that it's totally her problem, whatever it is. Indeed. But the other part of me thinks that I must've screwed up somewhere. And then there's the denial princess who thinks that there might just be too much general business.

But seriously, from daily chats to nothing? Right. I thought so. Now comes the next step. I don't think I choose to take one. I don't want someone in my life who handles things so ... poorly. And can't even be relied upon to communicate if she has a problem with something. Not interested in reading that many tea leaves. And if she's a flake at this point, there's really not much hope for a future in the friendship. And there you have it.

Moving on.

Kboy cracked open the Maker's Mark last night. We even have a couple of official Maker's Mark glasses. So we had some, and it was good. I only sipped a touch- had overstayed my welcome in Whiskey city earlier in the week, and am trying to be good. And had nasty, and lovely food for lunch- too many calories to count...math hurts sometimes.

And this weekend, boxes await. It is finally time to start with the one kind-of resolution that Kboy and I share. We want to eliminate many of the assorted boxes in the basement. To be replaced in the future by boxes that currently live in Montana. Filled with our stuff. To be eliminated. Basically it has been easier to just shove crap in boxes and forget all about it. But that technique isn't conducive to moving a lot. And we tend to do that. So it's time. I think that I'll tackle books and ceramics first. Then we'll see about the boxes of papers. They are my bete noir. I have an absolute phobia about throwing out papers. See, there are likely very important things in there. Very important. So important that if I throw them out, we will suffer tremendously some day...you get the idea...

And now back to our feature film- work! And after a night of restlessness, courtesy of strained back muscles. And all because I went to the gym. Not part of a New Year's resolution, I remind you.

Suck it up, cowgirl. Take a handful of something and call me in the morning. Which has broken. Just like something somethinnnnng. Call that fool Cat, and you might get esploded real good.

Yesterday was all about the shopping. For new things to fit my shrinking self- tired of jeans that are now pull-ons. Tired of other tatty clothing items. All destined for the dumpster- not interested in sharing them a la the leg warmers. Sorry.

Sharp segue to Kenya. How's that for unhappy? And downright silly. Who throws a shoe, seriously? No, nothing funny there. Not at all. Just inhumanity of humanity. And overwhelming stupidity. Would love to think that it couldn't happen here, but then remember church bombings not too long ago...

Left turn at politics. Because it's where all the cool kids hang out. But not really. Just reporters. Hey, did I share that I got a new Zune for Christmas from work? Yeah, well I got to listen to NPR while working out last night! How fucking cool is that! Answer- not in the least, babycakes. Another nail in the coffin of cool. All Things Considered is the anti-cool.

Now it is time to go. Be well, do good work and keep in touch. And if I EVER quote Garrison again, you have my full permission to bitch slap me to oblivion. Hello oblivion, how are the wife and kids? Pa dump ump.

He says I'm funny and cute

When I'm drunk. Which is certainly more celebratory than saying that I am a mean drunk. But I keep replaying the tapes and thinking, "did I make a total ass out of myself?" I'm told not, but it's probably the dying brain cells in their death throes causing all of the ruckus.

I just remember announcing to all present that I have the prettiest toes in the room. And considering that I was the only girl there, it was likely true. Then I showed them. My toes. In all their red glittery splendor. Thankfully the polish wasn't all chipped and ratty looking- that would be embarrassing. Like exposing my bare feet isn't.... I guess I am lucky not to be more of a hussy- it could've devolved to exposing other...assets...and I would be cringing. Still. I guess feet aren't so bad- it's not the 17th century.

I am wondering if his funny and cute comment is just meant to butter me up...or if he really means it. Boys. Who can read them?

Things I can guarantee

I don't really believe in resolutions- at least not the fly-by-night New Year's kind. Those are almost always doomed to failure- something about being overly ambitious.

But the following list is of things that I can guarantee I will not do next year. Or any future year, for that matter.

1. I will not wear leg warmers. I found a pair from High School (not the musical, but the highly regrettable reality) in a box with some sweaters that I brought back from the storage depot at my Mother's ranch. They will be appropriately disposed of. Unless anyone wants them- any takers?

2. I will not wear gaucho pants. Or any other similarly cropped pants. Makes my overly developed calves look like tree trunks. (thank you track and field- for the calves, I mean) I haven't looked good in those since 5th grade, and even then it was sketchy. I thought I looked good. But in pictures, reality is a little different. But I was in 5th grade, so was a cute kid anyway. Not so much now.

3. I will not wear heels over 2". Old lady back. That's that.

4. I will not attempt to drink 9 gin and tonics in one sitting. That was the last time I thought I was going to die in the bathroom. It was years ago, and I haven't forgotten the pain. Or the 5 voice mails I left on Kboy's cell phone. All about how I was going to die. He was out of our service area. Which is good. He didn't need to be there. It was just my own little "situation" to handle, and there wasn't anything he could do to contribute.

5. I will not break our pillow rule again. We travel with our pillows. It helps with the sleeping in different beds on road trips. At least one thing is constant that way. Our pillows are nice. They are our friends. They were missed during the last road trip.

6. And apparently I will not be forgetting the Bon Jovi lyrics to Dead or Alive anytime soon. They are still echoing in my head. Gotta thank the friends for that one. Oh yeah. Because I am a cowboy. And on a steel horse I ride. Fuck.......meh.

That should do. I can't really think of any other hard and fast rules that I have. I'm sure others will occur to me, but some are far too personal to post on the internet. And others are just plain embarrassing. You all don't need to know all the stupid/silly stuff that I have done and don't care to repeat in this lifetime. That's all.

Be careful tonight, and have fun! Wear a condom. Don't drive angry.

Back but lazy as sin

Yes, I will embrace sloth, my personal favorite of the 7 deadly sins. Just because it is. Love me my sloth.

We are back. And it was fun. Exhausting as hell. Over 2000 miles driven. And we still like eachother. Actually, we are even speaking still. Nicely. I think it's the litmus of a successful relationship. Also a good test run for an unsuccessful one.

Small things- saw the hole in the ground that was my Grandparent's house. Cried a tad, but not as difficult as I feared. No going back now. Looks kind of permanent to me.

Saw the remaining Grandmother- she recognized me, or at least faked it very well. It was hard, but not as hard as I thought.

Played Rock Star- and have the dubious hallmark of being both:
a) the only one of us there with the attitude and vocal chords to very effectively pull off singing Hole.
and b) the only one with the vocal range and age to remember the lyrics and tune of Boston's Foreplay/Long Time.
And thanks to the game, I cannot get Bon Jovi's cowboy song out of my head. And I am NOT happy about that. Fucking steel horse. I ride. Wanted. Dead or Alive....I keep making up my own lyrics, and laughing to myself. Out loud of course. Because that is the kind of wing-nut crazy I am.

The cats appear to be happy to see us- they keep following me from room to room screaming until I sit down. Then they are in the lap. I feel love. It will wear off. Then they will be back to mostly ignoring us.

Got a very large bottle of single malt, and of of Maker's Mark for presents from an astute relative. And some nice beer from another. Gotta get my drink on. Now watch- it will take me years to drink the whiskeys. Because I do that. Hoard and preserve.

We did bring more of our stored crap back. Just part of whittling away at the accumulated boxes of thrift store treasures that we purchased back in school. We just have GOT to get on ebay soon.

And to round up my lazy assed post, ah, to hell with it. I'm done. Time for a nap.

Will be very quiet around here for a while...
going to another place.

Will be back in about a week. Probably with an update, and plenty of steam to let off.

Love to you all, Peace out.

Oh- one more thing to enjoy about the holidays-

I work in a building adjacent to one of the major upscale malls in the area. Hey fun!!!

Added to the list of things I can't seem to do right lately:

sleep without dramatic injury
drink coffee or wine (keep spilling on white clothing...wtf)
eat a meal without cheese in it
leave the cookies alone
give solid career advice
operate the new remote control for our new cable system- where the hell is Comedy Central?
not complain and/or whine about everything
navigate traffic without wishing death and dismemberment upon a select handful of other drivers
deal with the valet parkers at work without wishing death and dismemberment upon them
deal with the crappy Christmas music in the elevators at work without finding myself humming it later- Curse you "I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus!"

And I'm spent.

Dumbest thing of the day-

at 2:30 AM, rolled over funny and partially dislocated my shoulder.

at 2:30 AM, after screaming and crying, popped the arm back securely into the socket, and left the bed in search of pain pills and an ice pack.

4:30 AM, went back to bed for achy, breaky sleep.

No upper body workout at the gym for me for a while. I have it on authority.

There's a reoccuring dream that I have had lately. It revolves around a fireplace. The fireplace is gone now- it became mud about a month ago. If I could, I would've chiseled it out by hand myself and kept it God knows where, but safe and mine. Not an option. To add to the lengthy list of non-options. To be cryptic, the fireplace is key. Or core. It was the center of something complicated. Not just a house, more of a stand-in for the house and what the house represented.

And that's not being very clear. Because I am not in a clarity kind of mood. More of a muddled mess than usual. Not clear. If there were a psychic in the house, she or he would no doubt have trouble sorting the cards. It is the nature of things sometimes, right? Lack of clarity.

And others around me are finding their clarity daily. Yesterday a friend roared like a lion. And I am proud of her. She finally struck back at someone who had been underestimating and oppressing her for over two years. She scored a direct hit, and there is nothing legal that the other person can do. And this makes me happy. I can be happy by proxy.

I don't have any roaring needed at the moment. And it might come as no surprise, but I don't usually hesitate to roar when needed. That could be part of the lack of clarity. Nothing to be pissed about. So is this what is considered peace? I kind of doubt it. I somehow imagine peace as being more substantial. Less of a muddled attitude. Less of a casting about.

And no doubt, again, I am overthinking things. Because that is another game. Up there with the endless speechifying in my head.

And overall this silliness should be put aside, and I need to just get on with it.

I want to shout at them, "Stop talking past me, I am in the room, and I am listening."
But it would be inappropriate.
And I know that the anger that I feel isn't really about them.
It's more of a memory of anger and frustration of yore.
Because people are idiots.
And they fail to realize that the children around them are listening.
And those children probably have a very good idea of what is going on.
And those children may very well have some ideas of what they want and need.
But no one asks.
And it's easier to underestimate their cognitive abilities.
Than it is to have an actual honest discussion about reality.
Protection doesn't work, people.
Neither do lies.
They will come back and bite you in the ass every time.
Guaranfuckingteed.
If not tomorrow, then in twenty years.
Because the young don't necessarily forget.
And the buried anger can and will erupt in strange and uncompromising ways.
Enjoy.
And if anyone wonders why I have no children, re-read the above.
Again and again, until you get it.
Then ask my dentist- she knows.
She told me to my face.
It was the strangest bared-soul conversation I have ever had with a stranger.
It helps that she's Chinese.
It helps that she was telling me the story.
And that the story wasn't about me directly.
But it was my story too.
Kind of a creepy experience while getting my mouth x-rayed.
But there you have it.
Enjoy.
And while I haven't always depended upon the kindness of strangers,
I do expect it.
Because even though everything above is true, for the most part
the unkindness has come from closer to the fold.
And closer to the chest.
And closer to the mind.
Often from inside the skull.
I think that's the other definition of skullduggery.
Or am I thinking of skullfuggery?
Perhaps.
Enjoy.

Now, that is over

I put on our holiday lunch yesterday. For the "Leadership Team" to which I belong. I'm really unclear as to what I am leading. And who I am leading. But I'll stick around- mainly because I like the people and will drink the free hooch and eat the free food. And I report to the big guy who pays the bill. But this leadership team thingy- it is odd. All the privilege, none of the power. Gotta love that.

So for those of you who were wondering- admit it, I know you were- I did not get loaded. Only one drink. Lovely, lovely single malt- from a list of nice single malts. I didn't splurge on the spendiest one- that would be crass. And mama didn't raise no crass.

And now I have to go back and try and muster up enthusiasm for all and sundry, when I am now officially in Christmas break mode. Only I really don't get one of those anymore. And my body has never fully gotten off of the school schedule. Because, once again, I am an idiot and stayed in the system too long. Trained myself well, I did.

Ah well. Tomorrow we get our new tv system. The Tivo finally died. And it has been a black period in our lives. Thus the Twin Peaks discs have been on rotation. Next is the first season of Rome. God knows, I love a touch of ultraviolence. Especially when it includes togas.

I got thinking about this after reading a poem a friend wrote. It was chock full of guilt. And I just started thinking.

About the things that I have never gotten over, and those that I have. And how young I was at the time.

Funny, the really heavy blows, and the ones that I still carry had to do with things that boggled the minds and discombobulated the adults around me. Not the petty incidental crap of everyday disappointment. Just the biggies- death, alcoholism, rejection, loneliness, etc. The kinds of things that I still deal with in one way or another today. The small stuff really didn't matter all that much- I was surprisingly resilient.

I still remember bits and pieces that culminated in larger things- patterns. But the smaller things aren't all that important- just the patterns. Because they were how I learned. And how I behaved. Until I realized that they were patterns, and I could basically change them with some amount of effort. At least some of them. Not necessarily all, because hard wiring is always risky to play with- involves ripping out drywall and lots of other expensive reworking. And there comes a point where I am not interested in hiring a contractor to do the trick, just want to learn to live with it, if possible. Now THERE is your tortured analogy for the day. Just because I care. And want to share my crappy writing with the world.

Ah, but it's overwhelmingly anonymous. Which equals a small piece of liberation. Not that I don't stand behind what I say, it's just ... out there... more so than I usually allow in casual conversation.

And that is enough for today.

Letter to D-man

Ah, I've missed you. But I understand why we don't talk anymore. It's ok, really. Things change.

I have been thinking a lot about you lately. I'm not sure you still read this, which is also ok. But I thought that I would throw a message in a bottle out there.

I have been watching Twin Peaks again. An episode a day. And it reminds me of our walks in the Rattlesnake together. And reminds me of watching them the first time around with you. And our fascination with the Missoula connections.

Did you read that I actually met David Lynch? It was cool. Brief, but cool. The people who were at the reading were a passel of freaks, and I suppose I shouldn't act like I didn't belong. Because you of all people know what's going on inside my head, and how well that word really describes a large portion of my psyche.

I have a friend from work who really reminds me of you, too- another thing that has me thinking about you a lot. She and I work out together- we walk on treadmills and talk. She has the same birthday as you, only a few years later. She has a lot of the same personality traits, and is as scary-smart as you. Only you made me laugh more. I don't think she's quite as funny- something about taking herself kind of seriously and all.

I understood your message in our last conversation- that it was goodbye. I know. I understood. It doesn't mean that I don't think about you though. That's just part of it. Remember- my fixation with ghosts and all. This one is a fixation on the ghost of the best friendship I ever had. If you want to create some kind of odd zombie of that one, you have my number. I will always take your call.

Love you!

C.

For those who want to know- been working out extra hard all week, so am physically damned tired. And drained. But in a good/achy/this is good for me even though I hate it way. And work was hectic until today- prepping for a big thingy for the bossman. Which required some early mornings. And some late nights. Not all by me, but the effect is similar to the cause in some cases.

Other than that, we are good. Very good.

And now it's time for some retribution, my stylee.

I get to tell the Phoenician- yes, I am naming names here, to fuck themselves hard.

We are discussing the invoice, you see. For the event that they screwed me on.

And I am pissed. And I am reliving the pain of being there and dealing with their crap.

And I will give no quarter.

And there you have it.

No- I am not asking for a lot, just a touch of justice, if you will. That's all.

Creeping around the edges is a dream
it involves Barbie dolls- the kind they used to make- a long time ago
red lipstick
the smell of grass on a summer night
and a purple bicycle.

Add in the clean sand in the bottom of an irrigation trough-
fishing
the smell of pine trees on a summer day
and a cobalt blue tea cup.

Combine in a blender and pour into a tall Guiness branded pint glass
it won't foam the same.
Deal with it.
Drink it down.
It goes down smoothly.
Then watch it all recede.
Ah- but what it leaves behind.
Afterimages and residue resembling drool on your chin after a long winter nap on the couch.
Or you can just go watch a pirate movie instead.

If you are reading the news, there is weather here.

We live on a hill.

The sump pump in the basement works fine.

All is well.

When the plane lands I am not home. The recognition is there, but home is not. Home is over a thousand miles away.
When the plane lands it is recognizable and unavoidable.
The mountains lurk in the south, the brown of dead things left outside in the sun. A place where people die with some frequency by just taking a little stroll at the wrong time of day.
The air is warm and makes my eyes burn a little. I predict an allergy.
The sky is almost white with heat. All of the nascent blue has been leached away, leaving just pallid emptiness.
Dust creeps along the edges of everything, from my pores to the cracks in the sidewalk. Empty lots glitter with broken glass and metal. They are also along the edges of everything.
Trees that are really not trees, but sticks with leaves on top line the streets.
It is my personal version of hell. And not to be attempted without good cause.

Getting back on the chain gang

The last week was quiet around here. But busy elsewhere, where I spent what energy that I have back on doing good deeds for a dollar.

And this weekend is snowy, rainy and quiet. Just the way it needs to be.

And yes, I have some shopping done. It won't be a total scary thing in a few weeks.

What I really want I can never have.
Because the opportunity was never there, and time stands still for no one.
Knowing what their best times were.
Knowing who they were inside.
Knowing what the ghosts had of value before they became ghosts.
And value in that context does not mean financial.
What they loved.
What they hated.
Most of all what they were.
And there is no chance.
No Mulligans.
I have to make it all up on my own.
Assigning values and contexts.
Based on history and imagination.
Unsatisfactory at best.

ironically enough

My horoscope for today:

When therapists want to take their patients beyond a psychological barrier, they encourage them to 'get in touch' with their anger. Deep down within, we are all cross about something. Such emotions have their purpose and their value. They can provide us with the motivation that drives us forward and prevents us from getting stuck in a rut. Right now, you are more than a little agitated about something or someone. Understandably so. You hardly need to get in touch with your anger, but if you now 'channel that anger' into a constructive plan of action, you can yet profit immensely from your source of discomfort.


Ah. Dreams and portents. Maybe the blackbirds are on to something. I don't really want to play with their entrails to find out, though...

Not that I usually share like this

I had a strange dream. I am not in the habit of writing about my dreams. Because they basically bore the shit out of others. But this one was different.

I met an angel in my dream. He was the rulekeeper. He said that we (K and I) were angels too. I was the angel of anger. Which is important, because anger gets things done. But it should be tempered with compassion, or it becomes wrath, which is not very angelic. Something about deadly sins there, I suspect. Ask the rulekeeper.

K is the angel of joy. Which was appropriate. He can also stop traffic in my dream. The jerk. I can't. I have "other gifts". Which totally sucks. I would love to stop traffic. Anyway, he is joy. And that poses problems because people don't take joy and laughter seriously enough. But I need him. And that's why we found eachother, despite the fact that we weren't supposed to be together. That's what the rulekeeper said.

I'm still pissed about the traffic thing.

But it was a really cool dream.

And then I had another dream about a huge storm speeding across the valley in home town. Just a wall of black.

My guess- nachos for dinner caused all of this.

Not my words, but they work

At least for the day:

Tied to the tracks and the train's fast coming
Strapped to the wing with the engine running
You say that this wasn't in your plan
Don't mess around with the demolition man

Tied to a chair, and the bomb is ticking
This situation was not of your picking
You say that this wasn't in your plan
Don't mess around with the demolition man

I'm a walking nightmare, an arsenal of doom
I kill conversation as I walk into the room
I'm a three line whip, I'm the sort of thing they ban
I'm a walking disaster, I'm a demolition man

Tied to a chair, and the bomb is ticking
This situation was not of your picking
You say that this wasn't in your plan
Don't mess around with the demolition man

You come to me like a moth to the flame
It's love you need but I don't play that game
'Cause you could be my greatest fan
But I'm nobody's friend, I'm a demolition man

I'm a walking nightmare, an arsenal of doom
I kill conversation as I walk into the room
I'm a three line whip, I'm the sort of thing they ban
I'm a walking disaster, I'm a demolition man

And then there are the most ephemeral and beautiful ones of all. Like butterfly wings. Just don't touch them- they are too fragile for that.

Like the day that I walked from the UC to Rankin Hall on campus in Missoula in the rain. The smell of the dirt by the horticultural fern garden combined with the sound of the rain on my umbrella cued something deep inside. It was that rare form of happiness that transcends place and time, and embeds itself on the soul (if there is such a thing). It's still there, when I take it out and look.

There was the raspberries in the back yard, glowing in the sun, warm, and still kind of cool, because it was still kind of early in the morning (once upon a time, I was a morning person). The feeling of them when I pulled the berries from the bushes, avoiding the prickles most of the time, and the feeling of them between my little teeth, crunchy and squishy all at once. All the while the hose ran in the background, because I was watering the raspberry bushes to "help" Mom. No doubt it was a clever way to get me out of the house.

There was the time spent looking at the pilot light in the basement. Doesn't sound particularly happy. But I was imagining dragons and genies within. And that was wonderful. The colors of the flame didn't translate to anything in reality.

Taking Elsa out of her box for the first time in her new home, placing her on the bed, and hearing her start to purr instantly- in her glorious rumbling purring way. Knowing that she was home. And that she was mine.

Watching the blackbirds flying through the sky against the grey rainclouds and pine trees from my window. What might seem depressing, is really just a stark beauty. Almost like a Kurosawa film- something so simple, but elegant. If I were a Roman, I would be watching with portents in mind. But I'm not. So I'm not.

More of these fill the back spaces and the card catalog. And that makes me much happier to trot them out and share. Not demons. Just different kinds of ghosts. The ones I carry gladly. And I suppose if the other ones are the price to pay, I pay it gladly. I wouldn't trade the sheer joy of it all for anything in the world. Even the sheer sadness of it all.

The latest encounter that I had was over the weekend. I got in touch with a friend from high school. We hadn't talked in probably 10 years. Mainly because the last conversation that we had revealed that she was a big old homophobe. Which doesn't jive with my world. So I quit talking to her. But then things happened. And the world kept turning. And she ran into my mother, who blah, blah, blah.

So where is this going? Well, funny you would ask. Talking to her raised some of the spirits that I thought were pretty handily dispatched. Mainly the oldest of my resident ghosts. Those of me. They skirt around the edges all the time. But the ones from my troubled teen years are buried deepest, and in the darkest forested edges. I don't want to find the bodies. And I don't want to encourage the possession. If you ignore them, they'll go away. Just ask them nicely to stop breaking the crockery.

She had attended our last reunion. And I had no idea how much of a grudge she held against many of our classmates. I considered myself the resident queen of those- thus I avoided the occasion. Figuring that Miss Bitterness doesn't send her regrets, and there are probably a dozen better things to do on that particular weekend. Plus Kboy and I have this arrangement. But she went. And she got a few shots in. I would've enjoyed that. I suppose. Or I would've been sad. Because after all these years, to still keep it all alive...but then what kind of hypocrite am I, anyway? I nurture this crap. Feed it and keep it all tidy and labeled in file folders.

Just like the assortment of ghosts. They all have their homes, places and times. And I typically enjoy visiting with a few of them on a regular basis. Despite my words to the contrary. It's just so comforting. And so much less lonely. And I think that I can understand why exorcisms became relatively common back in the day. Who the hell wants to live with only your own voice in your head? It's cheery to store a legion up there.

Not to worry, my doves. It's all good. Someone, oh, I don't know who- ME, silly, has been stuck in the house for 4 days with a nasty cold, and is starting to fray around the edges a bit. Echoes of the great unemployed days of yore. So if I were to win the lotto, odds are so very good that I would keep the day job. Just for sanity, more than anything else.

But the combined not sleeping (coughing, ain't that a fun substitute?), and the isolation, make me think too much. And the girls in my head all start coming out of the inbetween places. Just to visit. Just to get a little attention.

I think it's time to go back to work and spread some disease.

Been thinking a lot about what gets carried around under the carapace, and what gets jettisoned along the way. I like the idea of having a hard shell, and softness inside. I like the idea of connecting to the Kafkaesque horror of knowing that one good impact, and it's all over. And that there is no hope of belonging or turning back the clock to where it was all normal.

Those pivot points fascinate me. The minute tipping points between before and after. And they are always to be relived. Not often jettisoned. So they go in the book, under the shell.

Joining those moments, I'm pretty sure, are faces. The faces that you get to see when someone really trusts you and lets you in. And if that ended, those are the faces that haunt you. If you aren't lucky, that is. I am not lucky. I see those faces. And I know that I can't ever go back. Mostly I don't want to. Ever. But some times, that certainty seems a tad precarious. Because I am human. Like that needed to be said.

Another thing to carry around, at least for a while are the arguments that can't be relived and won. I hate those almost most of all. Because while I can think on my feet pretty well, and rarely resort to stuttering rage, there are times when I think of the perfect thing much later. And really wish I could rewind the tape and deliver the appropriate coup de grace. So those voices, all internal, clutter up the landscape. Like a minefield. And when they get tripped, reliving those moments is obligatory.

Other ghosts are more benign. They are built on happiness, and have a tinge of nostalgia mixed with sadness. Because those moments and people aren't ever coming back. They just can't. Those are probably the most pernicious and dangerous ones for me. Because while they lack the recriminating quality of the others, they could easily lull me onto the shoals. And there I will be. Stranded with a broken back, belly to the sun, cracked shell, waiting for the end. All the while tasting the memories. And wishing that they never became memories at all- but had remained static. That's pure evil on a half shell, if you ask me. Because I can wallow there all day long. I can get very angry and wrapped up in the resentment that life forced change. I can look with appraising eyes at the philosophy that life is pain, and understand what it's all about on that level. But I want to go back. Still.

And then the reality of it all hits, and it's time to get up and move forward. With a bright shiny piece of sparkly glass in my hand to provide illumination and luck. With a bright funny smart boy at my side to provide strength. With the knowledge that there are no other options filling my heart to provide me with the shield.

So to hell with ghosts for today. Tomorrow is something else entirely. But today. That's enough.

More on ghosts

Kboy wants to make it clear that the following came from a magazine he stole from work. (why this is important, well, not sure. But he wanted to contribute.)

From Guitar World, August, 2007:

GW: Yet another thing about "300 MPH": it has the ghost motif. Almost every White Stripes album has a ghost somewhere in the machine.

JW: Hmmm. I think I'm one of those guys who has a hard time blowing people off. I envy those people who can say, "so and so is a jerk. Forget him." My problem is that I can't forget. If I say, "so and so is a jerk, Forget him," then sit and think about him all the time. That's something I've always tried to figure out. What should I do about that? Those people are ghosts. They just stick around. But I like these ghosts, because they compel me to write about them and try and explore whether I should care or not. It's kind of hard to make a ghost go away....

And there you have it. From another source- another collector of random ghosts.

So there was a woman. By the time I met her, she was dying. I guess she always was, if you want to look at it like that. But she was seriously dying when I met her. We didn't have nearly long enough together. But it's like that, no?

She had been young once. In pictures, she is laughing. Always. A smile in her eyes- the ones that look like mine. She was rounded and healthy. When I knew her she was worn out. She had a broken and hurt ankle. She limped and wore a brace. She was very heavy. She looked like she had been pressed between heavy books- spread out and flattened somehow. She looked tired and in pain. And then she died.

When she laughed, the world was a good place to be. She loved me. I loved her back. When she died everything changed. Everything. And it never was quite right again. It took me years to understand the role she played, and what died with her. And that's what I get to carry around with me.

What I would like to hear from her is a story. All about who she really was. The context that I missed because I was too young to know or care. I would love to know what her favorite color was. I would love to know if she really liked diamonds, or if that was someone else's thing. I would love to know what she would have said about many things. She has assumed mythic proportions in my mind, because of the unanswered questions. I can fill her into a fantasy mythic uber-mother role. Which no doubt does a great disservice to her as a person. But I just don't know the person. Never really did. Never really could. She died.

Who you gonna call?

All I want is a message from the dead. For the ghosts to either say something, finally, or shut the fuck up forever. Because I'm tired. Just tired. Of waiting for them to fade. Of waiting for them to stop mattering. Of the time when I can just get on with it.

And I suspect that the time will never come. That they get to hitch a ride with me for always. And if I ever were to cross Heaven's doorstep, it would be carrying them along. Not alone. But there is no real comfort in that. It's not like they provide a sense of belonging. Like I said, they are maddeningly silent. Which is probably good- people who spend their time talking to dead people don't last long on the outside world. Unless they go the charlatan route. I don't think my ghosts have anything to say that would provide an assist- just nothing...

So, perhaps the speak now or forever hold your peace dialogue makes some sense somewhere. Because waiting for them to open their pie holes is stupid.

Once upon a time

This was a house. People I loved lived there. I was happy there. I wasn't happy there. There was a pool table in the basement. They had candy.

Then most of them died. And the rest moved away. And now it is gone.

Don't tell me it remains in my heart. That is foolish. What remains is nothing.

Ah, today we shall ponder male versus female. Specifics? You want specifics? All right.

When a woman does something out of the ordinary, and nice, she likes recognition. A lot. Perhaps with a pretty bow on top. Just because. I suspect that even though I am a roughly-hewn female in many ways, this is just hardwired in.

When a man does something out of the ordinary, and nice, I don't think he generally gives a rat's ass if he gets more than a "thanks, man." and that is that.

Feeling disgruntled. Just a touch. But I work for a couple of guys. Who are just that. Guys. I need to get over it. And I will. That's all.

Over and out.

Revisiting the pain every time I close my eyes.
The voices of devils in the desert- telling me all the things I don't want to hear
And the things I want to hear.
Offering no middle ground, and no interpretation.
Offering no perspective.
That comes in greener climes, and firmer footing.
Offering nothing but the dry heat and the anger.
The rift causing questions to form that weren't there a week ago.
Questions I am not ready to ponder, much less discuss.
Overall attributing it to fatigue won't really work.
It provided an assist only.
All of it proved for all time that it's impossible to both walk on water
and impossible to travel backwards in time.

Howling at the moon

Summation of last week in a word- difficult.

Today has been mainly spent trying to re-establish my equilibrium. Necessary and also difficult.

Now for a more detailed version of what went down.

I arrived in Phoenix, picked up my car (more on that later), and went to the Phoenician. I had never actually been there before- as an art student, 5 star accommodations are a bit out of reach. But it was lovely that evening. Then I took some of my co-workers (boss included) to one of my favorite pubs from school days. It was a fun and relaxing evening. I wish the rest of the week had been likewise fun and relaxing, but thems the breaks.

I had forgotten one of the key bete noirs of Phoenix and the desert (besides sun + my skin = very bad things) - the pollen count. It kept me awake nights with allergies. Who needs sleep, anyway? We were there to conquer the world. Only I was there to really work.

Now, I am not really complaining that I was there for a purpose. I really am not. Only I would have hoped that the workload would have commiserate rewards. Only, alas, because of the overwhelming incompetence of the events staff with whom I was working, and the organizational pratfalls of others, it was not to be. I got tarred and feathered by residual event mishaps. I owned a couple- but they wouldn't have registered on the radar, if there hadn't been a cumulative effect in action. And that sucks. And that has made me howl at the moon for several days. All prickly and evil inside.

But probably the most difficult part of the trip had nothing to do with work, assorted difficulties, and angry bosses. It had to do with revisiting the scene of the crime, if you will. I hadn't been back since The Boy graduated, got a job, and sprung us from the desert. I got to re-establish contact with the angry, and very unhappy girl who lived there on Ash in a dumpy little apartment without air conditioning. There was so much to sift through that I am still trying to figure it all out. It was sad. It was not so sad. It was confusing in all.

I went to visit my favorite art in a couple of museums. That made things considerably better. It was also when I discovered that someone prior to me had peed in the driver's seat of my car. And the 93 degree heat made it very obvious. And very odious. And just odoriferous. When I returned it, I did get a refund. But it was something to be endured prior.

What I came away with is the realization that I am further along in the battle to feel comfortable in my skin. Most of the generalized anger has been defused, and what remains tends to be more specific and limited. And I don't like the desert. Everything looks dusty and shabby. I don't like the sun. I don't like the evil mountains, where people can die on a hike if they lack water. I don't particularly like who I was. And today, am fighting back to liking who I am.

The plane trip back was delayed for 2 hours, and I sat next to a man who talked continually the whole time back about himself. Funny thing, though- I feel like I gave him a gift of listening to him. He probably didn't notice, but I feel better than if I had shut him down. Besides, what else was I going to do? Sleep? Not likely. That is returning slowly- as I get all of the spinning words out of my head.

Overall, glad as hell to be home. And I hope to put all of the difficulties in tidy little consumable packages- lessons to be learned, mistakes not to be re-made, things I refuse to own, character flaws to remember, and my own personal re-acquaintance with demons of yore.

And then I bought sweaters. And a lovely coat. For very, very cheap. Because I still remember where the deals lie in the Valley of the Sun.

Back in black

And yes. I've been whistling that song all morning. Can't help it. Hope it annoyed the hell out of the people at work. I'm in that kind of mood.

The week was challenging. I'll take more time later to discuss in depth. Just suffice it to say, the Phoenician is a rip off, Phoenix is dry as hell, and Alaska airlines is on my shitlist.

So my little dumplings, it's adios for a while. I will not be blogging from the desert- I don't let this site anywhere near my work computer. Too paranoid by far for that. Something about the rabbit leading the fox to its home. Bad idea, no?

So, will be out of it until Friday. Think happy thoughts, send me luck when you remember, and be good.

Now all I have to do is pick a good book for the airport, and hope that traffic holds up all right.

Ta!

So the thing is that I appear to be actually sick. And I get on a plane to Phoenix tomorrow afternoon. For a week-long business trip thingy. Not for the faint of heart, or the weak of body. But there you have it. The ticket got me off of a jury, so I guess I get to suck it up and just go.

Plenty of fluids today. And a nap. Or two.

Not feeling good. Had food for lunch yesterday that made me sick. Now I will go and whine to the Boy. Because God knows, he can fix it if I whine hard enough. (probably makes him want to cold cock me in the throat, but he is a bona-fide saint)

I feel baaaaadddddd.....

Where I been?

Ah, boys and girls. I have a tale to tell.

Jury duty.

Two glorious days spent at the Superior court of Seattle. Waiting to be rejected. Hoping for said rejection. Because I didn't want to be on the sexual predator case for 4 weeks. And then I didn't want to be on the bookshop shoplifter case for a week. And then I just wanted to go home. And work...because it was all still there in the background.

I buried myself in books. Because I just didn't have the energy to do my usual pan and scan of the crowd. Too many of them. Good cross section, though. Wing dingers mixed in with solid professional types.

Still. I would come home and work for several hours. And it has kind of sapped me. That's all really.

So it's also Halloween. And I have given up, officially. Just can't muster the energy to care. We bought candy. What more do you want? I'll do my best not to invoke the dead at midnight, and call it good if they don't answer in the morning. We'll let them rest. Love them, leave them alone. At least for tonight.

Work is full of Halloween goodness- one of the co-workers is heartily obsessed. Good for her, I say. I was supposed to help, but was unavoidably detained by the state of Washington. The bastards. I had better things to do. Like hang cobwebs. Should've put that on my affidavit. If I tried really hard, I could've been a convincing wing nut. There was one memorable one who either was stupendously brilliant, or really, really crazy. And I loved him for it. Made for some entertaining moments. I'll explain more later- too busy complaining right now. Gotta go to work. And enjoy Halloween by osmosis.

And outside right now- fog. How fitting. And how unusual.

Frantic activity has finally halted.

We had tickets to MUM last night. So went to the concert, which didn't end until close to 2:00. All I can say about the timing, is that when the doors open at 8:00, it's kind of bullshit to wait until 12:00 to start playing. That's all about that.

The music? Well, when I finally stopped being pissy about standing around for 4 hours, it was fun. Silly Icelandic kids! They made me happy.

And now I rest. Because tomorrow I have jury duty. I have to convince them that I'm just too batshit/disgruntled/unhappy about the whole thing to be chosen.

Theme this week- Authors.

Last night it was David Sedaris. And he was lovely. Very different from the earlier reading- more of a raconteur. More of a personality at play. More about him than about much else. But still, lovely.

Larger venue, too- not a basement at a bookstore. No smell of damp. No really crazy people asking questions. They were no doubt in attendance, but they kept their traps shut.

Then the $7 glass of wine gave me a headache. And I went to bed.

Been playing this non-stop

Driving my kitties crazy. They keep looking for the source of the noises.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z3U0udLH974

Nothing quite like watching a bank of fog rolling into my neighborhood. It's like living inside a pearl. Muted and unearthly. Something I loved as a child- it happened so infrequently, I can remember each incident clearly.

When the Finns gush with happiness, you know that all is right in the world.

When the Saints go marching in, something is up.

When the cats are in the cradle and there's a silver spoon around, the song is going to depress you.

If wishes were, indeed, horses then little girls everywhere would have ponies in the common areas of the condos.

If fools were to rush in, at this moment, it probably wouldn't make a damned bit of difference.

And if Johnny can't read, at least he can probably recite song lyrics in a Homeric fashion.

Once again, I can only say that I am in awe of people who pull off the parent act. We had toddlers in the house this weekend. Two of them. Love them. They are noisy. Love them. They are busy. Love them. Glad they went home.

Last night went to a reading by Ursula LeGuin. With friends. It was good. But the chair made my back hurt and I didn't feel like waiting in line for a signed copy of the book so I took off.

And had a magnificent drive home. No traffic. The push of the accelerator under my foot. The lights of the city at night. The buildings towering over the Interstate. The lake with all of the expensive houses on the shoreline. REM singing about ending the world, and being just fine. If you ever doubt, by the way, that they are one of the best bands ever, listen to the drum line of Finest Worksong. And then we'll talk. Or the bass beat to basically any of their songs.

Got home, went to bed. Now it's time to face music again. And so it goes.

Yesterday was a clusterfuck.

That's the only way to describe the numerous trainwrecks that kept happening. And luckily, I kept on top of them, and was only slightly behind. Slightly. And that didn't matter, because the powers that be were feeling lenient. And understanding. Which matters, and I am somewhat grateful. Only somewhat.

But overall, I am establishing a reputation for competence. Which is shocking in a way, if you saw me at my finest. But it is more work than smoke and mirrors, even though they are certainly involved.

Best thing witnessed- the woman at the Kinko's where I got copies made- stapling my presentations....glacially....slowly....staple.....stack....grasp new packet....slowly line up...staple...stack...
It was all I had in me not to vault the counter and take the stapler away and take over. But I called the Boy and whined a bit. So it was all better. And I only felt marginally put-upon for a while.

But seriously- who takes 15 minutes to staple 50 copies? Seriously! I still had to rip them all apart and re-do a couple of pages, but still.

And now, the wind blows, we have children visiting the house, the cats are scared and intrigued all at once, and there is organic milk in my refrigerator.

The hardest thing to stomach is having to ask. Never been good at going hat in hand to anyone.

Been turned down too often before. Makes for bitterness. And the remembered rejection. Especially when the request was not only reasonable, but just.

Then the learning is that justice really plays no part in the world at large. Only certain rooms. With certain people. Otherwise it's a free-for-all.

And narcissism trumps justice every time.

From all angles.

And then there's the follow-through. Gotta complain for a moment about that. The yes answer with the tepid follow-through. Not good for anyone's game. Gotta commit. Gotta enact. Gotta basically act. Or it's the same as saying no.

And now I am tired of contemplating and speaking in riddles. Basically, if you haven't figured it out yet, I am just tired period. A tired period.

Today it ends. A big thing and a small one.

They are starting demolition (and perhaps finishing- don't know how long it will take) on the house that my Grandparents owned. Where I had many of the happiest time growing up. Today. I'm not sure how to take it. I have been in a state of sadness about the whole thing for a very long time. But now, not so much. I know from experience and from talking to my Dad that it's in very bad shape. Knew that. But that doesn't really change things internally.

I sure as hell don't know what it will be like to drive by that corner and not see the place. It's on one of the busiest corners in the home town (very valuable and up till today wasted real estate), and they are doing some very creative and positive changes. But it will be different. And different isn't always easy.

When I was about 8 or 9 they tore down the Motel that the Grandparents ran. That was extremely hard at the time. I still reel away from how it felt, and really don't want to dive too deeply into that place today. (I do still have to go to work). It is all such a morass. Losing them wrapped up in losing the place wrapped up in loss of many other things that occurred during that time period. All deeply felt, and all regrettable. And none of it under my control at the time- which adds to the whole thing- nothing worse than the frustration and helplessness of being a child. And watching things you care about disintegrate without any power to help/change/alter the situation.

And there you have it. Nothing creative. No fun with words. Just perplexing ambiguity, and an overall sense of crankiness. Bet you are all glad that you aren't The Boy. (who today we shall dub, The Poor Boy - I crack myself up...)I wish I could call in, go back to bed and just ignore life for the day. But that's just not gonna happen. And sooner or later I will stop feeling sorry for myself. I promise. Because it is one of those things I really do hate.

I am trying to read the writing on my bones. There are words etched there. They change over time. I get glimpses.

Sideways and through the fog.

Some days the words are the key to happiness. Some days not.

Yesterday they led me astray. And into temptation. But then some of the most hidden ones emerged and brought me home again safe.

Did I say that it was a very foggy day? And a very sideways one at that.

Some days the words ache and cause disillusionment to creep in. Some days not.

And through it all I am under the constant and compelling illusion that I control the words. When in reality the bones control me. As does the blood. But that is a tale for another day. Because what is written in the blood is more than words and less than soul.

Just remember, don't look directly at it- always sideways. Always sideways. And hope for the sanctity of fog.

Fox stands behind my right ear. He smells bad. Combination of rotted meat, dirty fur, and strangely enough dried, crumbled dead leaves. (on the dirty ground)

He nudges me with his wet nose from time to time when he wants me to pay particular attention to something. It's kind of annoying, really.

He whispers to me about things. Never very good advice- more visceral than that. More like the devil on one shoulder. Without the benefit of an angel on the other.

Fox has an empty stare and biting teeth.

Fox is not my friend.

Fox is not my enemy.

Fox just is.

Never could resist putting my fingers in the flame. All the warnings in the world didn't stop me. Never.

When I was 3 I touched the hot element in the oven. It was orange. It was pretty. I remember. Didn't stop me.

When I was older I ran into lit cigarettes with some frequency- it didn't help that I was always moving, and most of the adults in my life smoked. I remember. It didn't stop me.

When I was older still, I stared into kilns as they blew gas flame into the night. Glowing and full of destructive and constructive power. I listened to them roar. They radiated heat in the desert air. I remember. It didn't stop me.

And then there is the metaphorical fires. Many, many of them. Still with them. Still in me. Just keep looking at those flames, and wondering if this time I will get burned. Or if this time I will get away with it, unscathed, and with a belly full of adrenaline. I remember. It hasn't stopped me.

Between the devil and the deep blue sea

And remember, I don't swim for shit.

So. The devil it is.

Because the Leviathan lives in all that water, and there is some truly scary hoodoo, that one.

Some call it the Krakken. (which spellcheck wants to turn into 'overtaken' - you figure that one out).

And others just use these things to scare the crap out of children at night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite. Other things that are scary. Bugs. at night. in bed. biting.

(did you hear that there are bedbugs in hotels now? Viva the loss of DDT!)

And then there is the devil. All devilish and such. I think that my cat channels the devil. But that's a story for another day. Because it isn't really scary. Silly, yes. Scary, no.

Unless you are afraid of cats.

But the choices faced are equally difficult and equally perilous. Like the quests of yore, chronicled by Mallory, et. al. Only no Lancelot O' Pasta. (name of restaurant at the Excalibur casino in Vegas) And no lady lurking in lakes throwing weapons. (some damp tart...)

Devils and deep blue seas...

Exorcisms and submersibles.

Been distracted

Lots of bright shiny things in my path- making me stop and look.

Not that it really matters, but the attention span of my cat. For those in the know, Buddy the cat. Which means something significant.

The office move is settling down. And that is a welcome relief. It was scary, hectic, ugly and stressful. But we have a kick-ass view now, and I am no longer in a dank inner corridor. I don't have an office anymore, but can live with that in exchange with light.

The work out schedule is increased. And that's probably part of the distraction theme of my life right now. Makes me jittery. All of this energy. Popping around under my skin, without the proper focus. I'm working on that.

Other stuff intervening, just can't discuss fully now- just suffice it to say, lots happening in my head. Not anything important, just lots happening in my head.

Bought the Boy an X box yesterday. Either daft, or really nice of me. I suspect, however, that he is in love. Will get the parts that he needs to take it online today, as that was the whole point of this exercise. Online gaming. What will they think of next? Metric allen wrenches? Oh. They have those.

Oh....shiny....gotta go....

We're dropping like flies around here. Not many of my old blog friends around and working it with any frequency.

And I see this internally, too. Just not much to say. Other things taking me away from my need to ramble on...gotta live the life, no? But that said, also lots on the work front to do, and a finite stash of energy.

Then there's the diminishing ability to sit still long enough to think about things to write. Just too damned much energy. And that is probably a good thing. But it is also kind of scary. I can't sit through a movie any more. Just need to keep moving. Need to do stuff. Need of all things, to go to the gym. And that is a very different reality.

Discussion with the trainer the other night focused on a big reality check. That the whole fitness thing needs to continue. Not just past where I lose the weight (and yes, it's still happening), but beyond. Forever. And that is sobering. I don't like to feel locked into something. But don't see this as full of choices. Not anymore.

Then there was the sobering reality of the dentist. Seems that my newly found fondness for sugary coffee (developed since working at the Empire) has caused me to get the first small cavities since high school. Fuckety fuck fuck. So unsweetened milky coffee for me from now on. And less joy in the world.

At least there is the drink. Until someone decides that it is killing me in some way, or I get trotted off to treatment. Either way, I can have a little joy. And a little solace. And a little peace. And a short break from all of this blasted activity.

Now for the gym...

Is it me, or does Courtney Love look like a big bobble-head doll? Too much emaciation.

Things I have seen recently:

At the post office, in line for a long time, because some tool has basically taken up occupancy at the self-serve kiosk, the man in front of me has the darkest skin I've ever seen close up. The pores are so small that the back of his neck has the texture of muslin. It was really lovely. I wanted to touch. But I didn't- because then I would be a crazy lady.

In Fremont, while trying to skirt an enormous crowd during the Red Bull Soapbox Derby, we happened upon a series of hidden stairways through the trees. They were mossy, old, and appeared surprisingly remote. The tree cover was thicker and filtered out the rain. Only letting in a mist. I wished at the time that we weren't in a hurry. I wanted to stop for a while.

At the supermarket, walking through the parking lot towards the door, with filtered sun, there was suddenly a blast of light through the clouds, and the flowers were illuminated in their buckets. The reds positively glowed with an unearthly intensity. There is no way to bring that home.

That's all I want to deal with for now. Because keeping me in a chair lately has been difficult. Spilling over with energy for some reason. Keeps me from sleeping well. Keeps me from sitting in front of the tv (probably a good thing), and keeps me from spending long hours online.

Again, you are welcome.

Big kisses to the one who sent this to me at work today. I think that others might've objected to my raucous laughter permeating their office walls. I say fuck 'em.

http://slog.thestranger.com/2007/09/everybody_needs_to_spew
_sometimes

Autobiographical minute:

One of those all-consuming weeks dedicated to "The Man".

Organizing meetings, attending meetings, staying awake during meetings, eating too much meeting food out of sheer boredom, sitting in meeting chairs for too long, driving to and from meetings, catching up on email not attended to during meetings, fixing crises arising post-meeting email from others, dealing with co-worker lout, finally eating properly and going to the gym, and finally getting an evening to relax and go to bed soon.

That's all.

And it was successful. Because there are times when I do actually rock the house. And the free world. Maybe even smallish parts of the unfree world. Hard to tell. Since they're unfree and all.

Over and out.

Dear broken boys and broken girls,

I've been thinking about you. Because of the solidarity of the tribe. Whether self-inflicted or just victims. Of others' problems and personalities.

For some reason, and I haven't been able to parse it out, we carry it within. You know what I am saying. The pain of the parents. And their parents. And the historical imperative that says that we shall never be healed fully. But we can overcome. There are plenty of stories of these.

Fables of the Reconstruction. Buy the album. It might help convince you. That the healing can happen in increments. Ask around. Be careful where you tread though. Because part of you is broken, you can fall more easily than others. Because there are corrupted wounds and empty spaces, there is also a need to anesthetize. This is dangerous. And foolhardy to ignore.

The ground can still shift alarmingly underfoot, and the air can become chilled and inhospitable without warning. Think of it as an adventure. Think of it as something with a potential positive outcome. And more than anything, have hope that it will be fine someday. Maybe not normal, maybe not horribly happy, but just fine.

Because it's not always possible to turn back time and fix everything. I've tried. And failed so many times. It just happens. Ask around. Again be careful who you ask. Be sure to vet them carefully, as they might have a vested interest in your pain. Always be aware of their motives when you can. Paranoia does have its upside. In that paranoia doubles as self defense. And can be the right thing on occasion.

But it can also be the boundary to getting on with things. So there is a balance there, as well.

Well, boys and girls, I have gone on too long. And not made as much sense as I would like. But it's all done in good humor, and with the best of intentions. Carry on. Drink your milk. And eat your fruits and vegetables. Grow strong. Grow healthy. Grow up.

Love,
me.

Seasons are doing their march forward...or something like that. We put the tshirt sheets on the bed. Meaning serious lethargy in the morning. Because tshirt sheets don't want to let go.

Meaning that it takes me twice the time to wake up and find words.

I'll adjust.

Note to self:

that 16 oz coffee that you chugged before the 2.5 hour meeting seemed like a good idea. But it wasn't.

Fun Fact:

Belgian style beers give me migraine!

How cool is that?!

Ahhhh shit.

Colin McRae and his son, with two friends died in a helicopter accident yesterday.

For those who don't know who he was, do a quick Google search- he was amazing. His son was just a little guy. Crap.

I finally am starting to get it.
I see where I've been with moments of clarity, and understand how it all came about.

I no longer play with matches at the gas pump
I no longer have the full-on urge to self-immolate.
I no longer have the need to dive so deeply into someone else's reality and lose my own.
I have more stubbornness than is probably good for me.
I am surviving.

Things I have lost- partial list.

Absolute faith that it'll all be just fine and that my parents will fix anything.
Absolute faith in anything, really.
the ability to subsume myself in any relationship.
blind obsession.
ultimate narcissism.
obliviousness of my own actions and how they effect others.
that feeling of being freshly in love and the accompanying rush.
partial skin on my back.
clavicles that could cut paper.

Do I miss these things?

not sure really, haven't fully processed it all.
Don't know that I want to spare the time and manpower to get the job done.

Same venue...different day

Crowded with families. One table- three intensely concentrating petite Asian women are having what appears to be a very serious conversation. One table- a large white woman with poofy blond hair is laughing and talking about eating here often. One table- six likely virgins are playing with their "Magic- the Gathering" cards. One of these could pose as a Hassidic Jew, as he has the bowler, the long white sleeved shirt, the black suspenders and pants, and the beard. But he lacks the side locks, and somehow I'm not sure Hassidic Jews are known for their affection for "Magic- the Gathering." I could be tragically wrong.
At the end of the Magical table a round man is studying obtrusively for something that only he finds important. He is complaining to a woman near him about the noise of the Magic table. Which begs the question- if you're so damned busy studying, and need quiet, wouldn't the library 15 steps away be a better choice than the food court on a Saturday afternoon? Idiot?
An Indian man walks by with the red caste symbol on his head, leading a small girl by the hands. She is hanging back, obviously wanting to stay where they were.
At the large chess game, two young boys in baseball uniforms are playing their fathers, while onlookers offer suggestions.
At the table behind them two older men are playing timed chess. They are quiet, and no one offers suggestions or commentary.

All on one walkby to the store.

Yesterday at lunch at the mall south of here.

Among the food court restaurants from many countries, and surprisingly good food.

A table under the skylight.

Two old men. With hats and jackets from 40 years ago. Playing cards. The cards were bent and dull- the arc of fingernails. The game wasn't recognizable. They spoke in tongues. Of some kind or other. Just not immediately recognizable either.

But I suspect it was slavic in nature. Just because.

And I think that they probably have memories of apple trees in bloom in the old country and the thighs of young peasant women. And the smell of the soil after it rained. And the smell of the machinists shop. And the smell of the ocean while crossing. And the smell of cabbage in the apartment hallway in the new place.

What I've been reading

There is a forbidden blog out there in bloggoland. It's all about workplace. And even big cheeses at the company read it. But no one admits to reading it- and certainly not on company equipment on company network airspace. Bad form, that- stupid really.

But I read. Because I just can't leave well enough alone. And lately the discussion has been the company get together recently.

What gets me in a huff is the clubbishness of it all. That as one of the new employees, there is some status to be gained. That people doing my kind of job are definitely not top drawer. Funny that. The same people who lack respect for me and my job, are the first ones to come whining to me when they need something. No, no bitterness at all. (well, maybe some).

It's the biggest thing that will bite me in the ass there. The hierarchy, and my inability to either understand or respect it. Seriously. Just do not get it in a fundamental manner. Always escapes me- as I don't attribute it as a cause or an effect. Which is stupid on my part. Because it is a preoccupation of many, and really does have legs. I have GOT to get it into my skull- that many, many people are absolutely obsessed with the standing, and where they fall. That it is important to them, and by the very nature of the beast should be important to me.

Here's where the MT background is not an advantage. Growing up in a place where the richest folks wear Carhartts stained with cow shit, and drive 30 year old trucks didn't prepare me for this.

On a nice note, however, yesterday I drove to work next to a guy driving a DeLorean. I love him. But only if he did it with full irony intact.

Scenes from a wedding

The bride was a tad unhappy that her table decorations were hijacked by an enthusiastic relative. But it did provide us with ongoing pleasure and a standing joke.

At each place setting was a little card with a picture of the bride and groom, a plastic gem (resembling D & D dice), and a little quote on the back. Most were biblical, thus making the gem not D & D dice in the least, but some were funny as hell.

Here are the best (because yes, I had to collect them and bring them home):

"May there be an Angel that will always sprinkle the spice into S & R's shake! ...and the wiggle in their dance!" (shudder....)

"May the 'Peek-a-Boo' Angle always mind his own business."

and the best for last:

"When the Tickle Angel slips by to visit I hope she leaves you one pink and one blue 'Headache'!"

We had a lot of fun finding definitions of the Tickle Angel that probably would leave the author of the quotes cranky and bewildered. And I really want to give my friends a pink and a blue t shirt with Tickle Angel on the front. But I know that they wouldn't wear them, so I won't bother.

Ah Kentucky.

More thinking about this one

The idea of death was with me yesterday all day after I fired off my diatribe on disrespect. Basically I was thinking of what makes people stand in line to see a dead body. What makes them want to tear apart the mistress of a foolish man because his ex-wife died. What makes them think that their actions in these cases matter in the least. Because they do not. They are not involved in the dead person's life/world/reality in any way. Because the dead person is DEAD.

And there you have it. Starfuckers to the last. Which is probably harsh, but I'm calling it as I sees it today. Not to say that I'm above it, either. I got up at 4:00AM and watched the Princess get planted. I cried. It wasn't what I see as my finest moment, either.

I have an aversion to the self-serving nature of this kind of thing. That somehow it pulls me out of the mundane to be able to tell everyone that I was there. That I saw this happen. That somehow, even tertiarily I was involved. When in reality this is not respect. Respect is giving the family privacy. Respect is reserved for those who actually loved and cared for the dead person. Respect is reserved for those who actually knew the person. The rest of us can basically opt for sadness, regret that someone is gone who we admired from afar, and that's basically it if you want to remain classy about it. But this kind of sick fascination with these dead folks, as though there is some sense of implied ownership? That's not in any way, shape or form respectful.

There is nothing to be proud of to have bullied the Royal Family into some kind of massive theatrical display. Just as there is nothing to be proud of to have a handkerchief with Lincoln's blood on it (or Louis XVI, or Marie Antoinette, et al.). Basically it's akin to tourism- the collection of mementos of someone famous. And it's kind of icky.

Now. That's what I spent time pondering yesterday. The physical part of the phenomenon. The spiritual/mental side of things is something entirely different. Perhaps I'll think about it today. Or maybe not- the sun is shining and I want to go play.

Yup, it's me the disrespectful one.

I just gotta say it. Because someone anonymously accused me of being disrespectful. And I'll admit it up front. In fact, it would probably be good to put it in the masthead of the site. Because damn straight! Disrespect is us!

Let me explain. I don't waste a hell of a lot of time and energy proselytizing about how bloody wonderful the dead are. That seems to be a problem for some. Bummer. They're DEAD, get over it. Saying nice things doesn't bring them back. Saying mean things doesn't bring them back. And neither makes your time or my time living any longer. So I choose not to waste time coloring everything in pretty pastel colors. Fuck that shit.

Too much time wasted in regret. Too much time wasted being gentle on the feelings of others, all the while slamming them in private. Too much time wasted lying to ourselves and others. Fuck that shit.

If that bums you out, and if it makes you all sad, and if you think I'm a big meany, total bummer. Because that's the lay of the land hereabouts, and I'm not planning on overhauling my character to please some anonymous commenter. Fuck that shit too.

Heh. Guess who woke up not particularly cheerful today? Well, actually, I'm pretty much ok. Just not very respectful. Which is no surprise, I'm sure, to you who know me.

So the man who sang and wore a cape is dead.

Are we destined to chew on that one for a decade? And trot it out annually and have celebratory fountains in parks and have concerts featuring creepy old pop stars?

Are we destined to see the old guy on magazine covers as we re-ponder all of the assorted scandals and highlights of his life?

Ah, no. That is all reserved for the other one. The one whose fine ass he grabbed one time, and got slammed in the press. All because no doubt, there were plenty of editors who would've loved to have copped a feel. But never got the chance to hug the little hoochy mama.

All this death worship- maybe we are indeed Egyptians at heart still.

What I didn't do for a living

For some reason it appears that in Louisville it's ok to wear underwear in a bar and collect a paycheck. Probably a larger one than I get, btw. But I'm guessing that there aren't really great benefits, and the shoes hurt one hell of a lot more. And there's probably also one hell of a short shelf life for the girls who go this route. With their pretty little bottoms on display, and dead eyes...

When not slinging drinks and expensive colored fruity shots in silly containers, they get to dance. Dance for us all! With their pretty little bottoms on display, and dead eyes.

And the hungry boys watch.

And the scary boys think things I don't want to know about.

Did they plan to get these jobs when they were little? Was this all part of fulfilling some kind of dream?

Is my sadness and angst about the whole thing inappropriate? Do the dead eyes lie?

Playing the George Thoroughgood game

On Saturday we went for a walk together. And decided to do lunch.

We saw the unfortunate street fellow who had been beating the shit out of an ashtray the night before. That day he was just making strange hand gestures and speaking in tongues. Nothing malevolent about it. Just move along.

We then went to the Makers Mark bar and had shots. One bourbon, one scotch, and then shortly later, one beer. I loves me Makers Mark. I have decided. But I liked the Laphroaig 10 year better. Reminded me of a warm wool sweater. But hell, this is one instance of When in Rome, that I will embrace.

It was probably the best part of the trip. Just being together and seeing parts of the town. Knowing that we won't be back soon, and won't see much of the place at all- but still seeing something. Not understanding the context, but that's ok. The big mystery- why the Thomas Jefferson statue at the courthouse? Wikepedia didn't answer the mystery. And yes, we returned directly to the hotel to consult the Wikepedia oracle.

And yes, it is a Michael Graves building- the Humana building. I spotted it, and declared it such. And others disagreed. In their faces. I didn't blow tens of thousands of dollars on the Art History degree for nothing, chumpy! I knows me my Michael Graves architecture. Not that I like it all that much, just never doubt the eye. Ditto the Calder sculpture. Heh.

When in Louisville, if you have the budget, stay at the art museum hotel. Only problem with the amazing room was the lack of refrigerator for our stuff- only had a mini bar.

But they did have a very unusual mint soap in the shower. Must be experienced to be described properly. But suffice it to say, brisk, tingly, and well, brisk.

I'll post photos later.

Now I know where Girls Gone Wild comes from.

And I really don't quite know what to say. Literally speechless about elements of the trip. Which is probably good.

Very fun overall. Just... not sure how to interpret being rubbed upon by single boy/men. While Kbot watched and laughed at my discomfort. Probably just not drunk enough. But still... I don't remember being that nonchalant about the whole game back in the day. Guess I was just too damned serious for my own good. Never had it in me to dance on a stage with my girlfriends to EXTREMELY LOUD CRAPPY MUSIC. And the saddest thing- I was saving that small percentage of my hearing for the White Stripes concert. Fuck.

I don't remember girls from MT being quite that... uninhibited. But that probably has changed. I am old, remember. And no doubt the age of some of the participants mothers. Eek. But still.

All were blond, or some variation. All were showing knockers galore. All were just naughty girls. And then there was me. Hee hee. Kbot and I were just amazed.

Some seriously skeevy dudes in residence, as well. Including a trio of what had to be severely gay guys who were hiding out at the titty bar to throw their jarhead buddies off the track. They were doing an awful lot of back rubbing and touching eachother to be straight. I'm just saying.

So skeevy that there was an actual attendant in the men's room- no doubt to keep the shall we say, occupancy, moving along.

Overall, the thought, "Well, I NEVER!" kept repeating itself in my head. And I tried to ignore it. Because I refuse to become my grandmother. But that doesn't mean that I went totally Roman. I would like to think of it as more of an anthropology experience. Watching from the fringes, and trying to understand where my youth went...

And wishing that they would just turn the FUCKING LOUD, CRAPPY MUSIC down.

And Kbot kept repeating that they needed to clean the fucking beer lines. Gak.

So I'm not the only old one. Hah.

Postscript: I think it necessary to explain- in this instance I was wearing Kbot's gray tshirt (there was a luggage mishap involving cuticle oil and my clothing....sigh...), my comfy jeans and my Converse slipons, topped with a black sweater. Very sexy, no? No. Just a touch out of place.