Tuesday, December 31, 2002

She's gone again, but something in the way she hugged me last night makes it hurt not as much as previous partings.

The show was a triumph. As with last year's big Christmas show, I really liked Tommy's Frogs, but I thought we were the best band of the night. There were also two personal victories: a) I nailed the horn part to "Dude, Weak," a feat of which I did not think myself capable when I woke up yesterday morning. b) Lindsay, Skeeter the Nano-Human, Saturday Night Latham, and The Watergirl were all in attendence.

Real Can of Yams! Look for the new album, CODENAME: Koala, sometime in the indefinite future, maybe... well, if it ever comes out, it will be on Blue Tree Whacking Records.

Monday, December 30, 2002

There's nothing like reading In Pharaoh's Army with From Russia With Love on in the background. Now I'm going to ruin it with a shave and shower. Still, what an idyllic early afternoon.
Tonight! Live on Stage!
The Flint Local 432!
Be there or curse yourself with regret for a thousand thousand nights!

The Old Hats! Good As Monday! MuZal! Ben Frick! Real Can of Yams! And direct from Coe, Iowa*, Tommy's Frogs! More rock 'n' roll than you can shake two sticks at!

*It should be noted of course that Tommy's Frogs is from the town of towns Grand Blanc and that there is no Coe, Iowa.

Sunday, December 29, 2002

I am of the opinion that M&M will, in fact, not be fired. This is very unfortunate, and I sincerely hope that I am wrong, but I've got this sense that though things are bad, the Fords, in their infinite wisdom, want to give them another year, based on the potential of Joey Harrington and the many excuses the media (yes, that's right, I'm using the media as a catch-all bogeyman) have floated for the Lions' awful performance lo these last two seasons. Such as: the Lions did win 50% more games this season than last and, prior to losing their last eight games, they were 3-5, not an entirely unacceptable record for a team with a rookie quarterback.

Based on his middle name, I'm contemplating whether I should continue to dismiss Lindsay's boyfriend as Lindsay's boyfriend or refer to him as Leroy (not the cool Lee Roy, but the namby-pamby le Roi, which I was informed is the proper pronunciation). His Leroy versus my Patrick; except for the fact that he's sleeping with Lindsay, I've got this kid whipped seven ways from Sunday.
Yesterday was one of those amazing, luminous days, the days that you remember forever, the days that make life worth living. Lunch at Kruse & Muer, Emma's weird wedding, bowling between the ceremony and the reception, staying at the reception until they kicked us out, enjoying ourselves despite the dreadfulness of the GB/Flinttown social scene, and ending up, as so many nights should and do, with late night eats at Angelo's; these things were great, but the real majesty was in the company: Skeeter, Saturday Night Latham, Boof Daddy, Steve Reed (who's never needed a nickname), and Lindsay. I've tried to explain to people, Lindsay included, why Grand Blanc is so great, but I think a better way is to show them. The real magic of Grand Blanc is not in the place (treasure though I do every inch of the drive from Hill Road down Saginaw Street), but in the people: the Blue Tree Whacking gang, the old high school crew. With the lovely exception of Lindsay, all of my dearest friends grew up here.

Tomorrow, worlds collide. For the first time, friends from outside BTW are coming to one of my shows. Historically, I have been against mixing friends, but I never otherwise feel alive in quite the same way as I do on stage, and I want all of my friends to see that part of my life. I am a difficult person to get along with - I am vain and defensive, arrogant and awkward - but up there all I feel is joy, and I want these people, who mean so much to me even though I never do enough to show them, to know that part of me. Also, new friends will be thrown into the mix; fantastic singer/songwriter The Watergirl, an online friend with much potential, will be there. Tomorrow, my friends, tomorrow has the makings of glory.

In the little time I've seen him in the last few days, the Bald Mountain and I have watched episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Two of my favorite things together in the same room; Lord above, I am more blessed than I deserve.

Friday, December 27, 2002

Yesterday: RCY practice, Lindsay came up and we hung out, and Skeeter and I painted the town red (and made a new friend, Doug).

Today: I haven't seen the Mountain all day (he's had The Old Hats and Tommy's Frogs practice), but as I type he's on his way home to pick me up for RCY practice. After that, maybe Dad and I wil go see Star Trek: Nemesis. Shockingly, he has yet to see it. If not that, I don't know how I'll spend my evening, since Skeeter and I decisively proved that there is absolutely nothing to do in Grand Blanc except stay in. (If I ever again find myself at the Grand Blanc Inn, someone please shoot me in the back of the fucking head.)

Tomorrow: Emma's wedding and subsidiary activities. Should occupy the entire day. Good times, good times.

Thursday, December 26, 2002

There are, shall we say, issues with the quality and utility of Dad's computer. So, blogging may be erratic. Yesterday was amazing, even with the Trivial Pursuit game that wouldn't end... but eventually did (shades of Alberto Fedrigatti v. Pete Sampras?). RCY practice this morning; sweet fancy Moses, we kick ass! We worked on two completely new songs for the show, and an old Murky Transport Disaster clasic that's never been performed live. Lindsay came up this afternoon and we had a lovely time hanging out. For some reason, she was really insistant that I was weird on the phone Monday, but I'm really sure that I wasn't; she's quite the lunatic.

Live on Stage! Monday, December 30!
The Flint Local 432
Be there or "I beat your face!"

Mom and Lisa are watching The Royal Tenenbaums; so, I must be off.

Tuesday, December 24, 2002

Sometimes I'm appalled at how poorly Lindsay knows me. Yesterday, she was pissed off at me for thinking I'm not going to make any friends in Boston. "Why don't you think you'll make any friends?" Because I'm a freak. Because I'm weird. Because my first two years at U of M were the loneliest of my whole life and I didn't make a single original friend (not a hold-over from high school) until junior year. For Pete's sake, I'm going to make friends, it's just going to take some fucking time! So if I want to laugh about that because I think it's funny, there's no reason she should get mad at me. Sweet merciful Magilla, this is the whole problem. This is why I can't give her up, because I know her so much better than she knows me. Aside from the fact that she's just not attracted to me, she's so certain we'd be terrible together. How can she know that when she doesn't even know me? I'm constantly surprising her, because instead of trying to know me, she's comfortable in her little world of assumptions. She's brilliant, but at the same time she's incredibly daft. So frustrating.... If I'm whining, I apologize.

I had a nice, long talk with Mom last night. She really really hates my tattoo. It's not like David's earring (and at times, earrings) or Dad's mustache, both of which she dislikes; she really hates my tattoo. "It's ugly." Mom, I think it's beautiful. I didn't get it to spite you. No, not even a little. She's the dearest woman, but she really does wish we were all more normal.

The Mountain's nowhere to be found. Steeze sez jump and he asks, "How high?" Still, at least they're having fun. Lisa, my sister, is flying in this afternoon. Washington to Detroit to Flint-Bishop. Seriously, who flies into Bishop? Only her and Scottie J, apparently.

This is one of those moments when I choose to be a small, petty man. I'm going to go be depressed about how much sex Lindsay and her boyfriend are going to have in Mexico.
Live on stage! The Flint Local 432!
Monday, December 30, 2002
(we'll probably go on 9pm-ish)
Be there, or as David would say, "I beat your face!"
Everyone will enjoy this show. If you don't love Real Can of Yams live, then you just don't like fun. If you come and don't have fun during our set, I'll let you punch me in the stomach... with a running start!

Seriously, if you are in the State of Michigan, you have to come to this show. Dylweed and his lovely wife Kristy are excused because they are stuck in Utah; similarly, the Evil Princess can't leave Vermont. These are valid reasons to miss the show. Anything else is bullshit, and I fucking hate you if you don't come. (*Wink*) Really, though, you owe it to yourself to come. Shit, man, even Linz will be there, and she hates being in Michigan.

Monday, December 23, 2002

Woe is me, I have not been found worthy to be selected as The Watergirl's Christmas boyfriend. After a devastating blow such as this, the only reasonable course of action is to turn my anger on the world at large. That's right, I'm borrowing a page from Hank Scorpio's playbook and unleashing the fury of Operation: Arcturus! Be not surprised the day after Christmas when the headline of your newspaper reads: SUPERVILLAIN SEIZES EAST COAST.

"Oh, my God. He blew up the 59th Street Bridge."
"Maybe it collapsed on its own."
"We can't take that chance."
"Oh, you always say that. I want to take a chance!"

In an email she sent before leaving California, Lindsay said, "Point is, we haven't talked in too long." The anti-Lindsay campaign hasn't been going so well because I was pretty aware of all the things I don't like about her when I fell for her. I could really use a good cry. I wish I could just fucking break down and cry. It's not that I have a problem with crying, that I think men shouldn't cry, I want to cry. I encourage crying, people often need that release. But the last time I cried was at Grandpa Little's wake when I just couldn't walk away from the casket. The first and last time I cried over a girl was junior year of high school and I was fucking sixteen. The tears just won't come. After our one and only date, I was perfectly happy to hate her, to write her off as a manipulative bitch. Why did she try so hard to befriend me the following summer? Reconciliation was her idea, she made the first moves. A part of me wishes she'd just left well enough alone.

My aunt and uncle in Austin, my dad's sister and brother-in-law, gave me a subscription to the National Review for Christmas. The gift card, which came to the house in Ann Arbor, included the tag line "The conservative's magazine." Jesucristo, just because I vote Republican doesn't make me a conservative. I'm pro-choice. I don't worship at the church of tax cuts. I'm in favor of an adventurous, interventionalist foreign policy. I will oppose prayer in school with my dying breath. I support gun control. I don't believe America is in moral decay. Gaah, the Wilsons drive me crazy. Seriously, every one of them is a lunatic. My dad is far and away the most normal of his brothers and sister. Do you have any idea how sad that is? Uncle Lin's a Libertarian; the last time I saw him, he was carrying a gun on his person. I've never seen Uncle Skeezy without a beer in his hand; his name's Harold, his friends call him Hal, Skeezy's a childhood nickname that won't die. Aunt Meg and Uncle Fred don't have any kids (with the exception of Coach and his wife, I don't trust people who've been married for twenty-plus years and don't have kids), and as time passes their conservativism is beginning to look a lot more like Lin's anarchism. Of course, maybe I should just be thankful I don't have any cousins on that side. Grandma Wilson's old and increasingly senile, but back when she had all her marbles she was nutty as a fruitcake. Grandpa Wilson, may he rest in peace, was a crazy man; when I was a little kid, I honestly thought he had red eyes.

Dan Rydell on Sally Sasser: "I say she has no reflection!"

Sunday, December 22, 2002

Red dragon tattoo
Is just about on me
I got it for you
So now do you want me?
With nothing to lose
Will you be my honey?
In you I confide
Red dragon tattoo
I'm fit to be dyed
Am I fit to have you?

--Fountains of Wayne, "Red Dragon Tattoo" from Utopia Parkway
If you've heard Fountains of Wayne and you don't at least like them, you just don't like rock 'n' roll.
I've done a very uncharacteristic thing. I've submitted my name to The Watergirl's Christmas boyfriend search. A delightfully odd venture to begin with, made all the more surreal as I had already cited an excellent reason why I should not submit my name for consideration. Nonetheless, I was forced to live according to what I preach and so had to file an application: every opportunity should be seized, no matter how small, unless you can satisfactorially answer the question Why not? I couldn't, so here we are. As I've been known to say on occasion, "This is an odd play for the Trade Federation."

It's been a pleasantly quiet, solitary day. Still, immediately after Risk I shall be happy to get back to Grand Blanc. Great Caesar's ghost, Christmas is Wednesday! Man, that's wild. (For those of you keeping score at home, we've now recovered everything lost in last night's missing post, though the original suicide post was better.)
I think the single saddest thing about the last two seasons for my beloved Lions, and there have been many sad things about my Lions over the last two dreadful years, is that I've gotten used to them. Now I expect them to lose. It no longer upsets me. Sigh, the sad consolation of lowered expectations.

On Suicide In high school, I thought about suicide. I never gave serious consideration to ending my own life, I just thought about suicide from every angle I could in order to clearly divine my opinions on the matter. As far as I was made aware, none of my friends contemplated suicide. The first person I knew who had truly dwelled on that line of thinking was The Plate; he spend the Summer of 2001 alone in Pittsburgh and was very lonely. Bachelorette No. 3 told me that she was very close to jumping off of South Quad this Fall. I've tried to be supportive and encourage them both to stop and reconsider, but I'm just not capable of being sympathetic. I can't empathize, I can't put myself in their shoes. The reasons I could never commit suicide:
a) In a way, each of us is the beginning and the end of the universe. I obviously didn't experience anything that happened before I was born, and I won't be aware of anything that happens after I'm dead. Everything I've ever learned about the universe I've learned in relation to my own existence. I could not bring myself to bring to an end the entire universe.
b) It's just about the most selfish thing a person can do. Yes, it's your life, but think about the pain and guilt your absence, if not your actual death, will cause. Were anyone I know to commit suicide, I know that I'd blame myself, that I'd convince myself there were things I could have done and didn't, even if there wasn't anything I could have done. I'm a jerk, but I'm not capable of being that selfish.
c) If I die in a fiery wreck on the drive back to Grand Blanc, I'll shortly thereafter find myself in either Heaven or Hell. I'm not entirely certain sure which. However, if I hang myself, I have absolute conviction that I'll spend eternity in Perdition's flames. I have many odd theological ideas and theories, but in this area I am old school: suicide is a mortal sin from which there can be no redemption.

At the same time, I don't believe committing suicide should be against the law. Each of us has the inalienable right to life. Does that not mean you should then also have control, cruel fate (disease, accident, et al.) permitting, over when and how that life should end? Committing suicide is incredibly, incredibly dumb, but that doesn't mean it should be illegal.

Moving On The Bald Mountain gave me his keys and asked me to retrive from his apartment his attache case, which he had forgotten on Thursday. Man, my brother's just got style. Not only is he the only guy I know who can pull off a purple four-button suit, but he's got a real McCoy attache case. Every trendy chump has a satchel, but it takes a special man to have an attache case. Shaven head, earring, those too cool black-framed glasses, the cat's got style and he's got it in spades.
I'm in a mood neither to sleep nor to write in my journal; so, here's some of what was lost. I love it when I'm wrong; I had a fine time at Justinandemily's Christmas party. Not a good time, but not a bad time, which I had been expecting. When I arrived, I met Justin's brother and sister-in-law, Josh & Lisa. I've seen pictures of Josh before, but in the flesh it was freaky how much he looked like Justin. Almost like they're brothers.... Aside from Josh & Lisa and our hosts, Justin & Emily, the other attendees were Brian & Alyssa (I like them, the're fans of The Aquabats!), Orin & Jenni, Alber & SSG, and Marquina & Z, newly returned from several years living in LA. I was naturally isolated in the group both as the only person not attending with my significant other and as the only person not living with my significant other. Orin has recently given Jenni her long-anticipated engagement ring, and the rock was gawked at and talked about at length. It was more than a little weird. Among the BTW crew, Guy Zach Nie! is unique in having a steady girlfriend, the amazing Sarah. I am alone in the Ann Arbor group in being alone; they have common experiences and interests that I just do not share. With the passing of time, I feel more and more disconnected from them. In the interests of honesty, though, I can't say I particularly regret this.

Among the GBHS reunion crew at Emma's wedding next weekend, I'll be in the minority being single, but not an overwhelmed minority. With all the criss-crossing hostility between Skeeter, Justin, LJ, and me, there is great potential for this to be very awkward. Adding to the fun, Lindsay will be there, which provides the opportunity for things to be just plain strange. Still though, it will be a blast; Emma will be unimaginably happy and Emma's happiness has always been highly infectious.
I just lost a really good post. And yet this test worked. I used the exact same procedure for both. I honestly don't know what I could have done to lose the first one. Well, fuck, that's a kick in the teeth. I'll try to recover it later, or failing that, replace it in the morning. Son of a bitch....

Saturday, December 21, 2002

I'm in trouble here, kids, but I think it's going to be okay. The Mountain and I were up until 4:30 in the morning talking. We don't talk enough. But then when we do it's all the more sweet; so, as he'd say, it's all gravy. A preview of things to come: later on tonight, after the debacle at J&E's, the long-in-coming discussion of suicide and why I'm against it.

Friday, December 20, 2002

Now's the perfect time to work on In Search of the Perfect Lesbian; so, why don't I feel any desire to do so? Margaret, Pete, Kari, Mary (or Friday), Parker, Katie: these are all scared, hurt people, caught between certainty that love is a lie and there isn't anyone for them, and the hope that they are just kids and their whole lives are ahead of them. It's about pain and mistakes, misery as a virtue, and the lies you can make yourself believe if you want to. Of course, maybe I'm just a hack; I like creating whole worlds in my head, but the blank page intimidates me to no end. Hell. A girl named Tuesday? Mary Peppard, Friday Peppard, or Tuesday Peppard? Margaret Dykehouse and Kari Putterman. How untalented am I? My story is called In Search of the Perfect Lesbian and my main character's named Dykehouse. H-A-C-K. Hack.
I'm sorry about yesterday's post. I overreacted. But Dad's racist asshole friend Mr. Legacy was here and the first thing Mom did when she walked through the door was go apeshit over my hair. It's been years since she's reacted so negatively to one of us dying our hair. But over dinner (meatloaf! huzah!) things got better, and I'm giving in to the pacifying effect of how beautiful the house is with all the Christmas stuff up.

Thursday, December 19, 2002

I've been home five minutes and I already want to leave. What in the Sam Hill happened to the great time I had over Thanksgiving? Save me, Jeebus.

Wednesday, December 18, 2002

Neutral Man and I had lunch at Mongolian to celebrate the end of his finals (and to celebrate me not having any finals). As always, I used waaaaay too much cayane pepper. Why do I always do this to myself? Of course, what's the point of going to Mongolian if I'm not going to use waaaaay too much cayane pepper? My tummy isn't going to like me for the rest of the day, but he'll get over it. My hair is bleached, my tummy is overly full, and soon I'm going to dye. I'm a happy Last Angry Man. (And I've got a twenty-four hour crush on our waitress, because she was spunky and had hair shorter than mine.)
Field Note (from the ongoing sociological experiment that is me): If you walk around town with your cheeks puffed up full of air (like a pufferfish!), people will look at you most strangely.

Strange Coincidences How much does what happens to you as a little kid determine who you become? a) When the Mountain and I were little (say, first and fourth grades, respectively), we would get our hair buzzed in the Summer. The rest of the year, Mom just took us to Debbie (our lifelong barber) whenever she felt we needed haircuts. But in the Summer, we got to demand buzzes and boy howdy did we! My Uncle Jim, probably my favorite uncle, nicknamed us Buzzy (me) and Baldy (David). Today, I keep my hair buzzed and the Bald Mountain, obviously, shaves his head. Jim Little: the Nostradamus of Kettering, Ohio? b) Also when we were little, the Mountain and I owned two California Raisins figures. We each picked one to be our own; his had a microphone and mine played sax. Years later, in first Murky Transport Disaster and now Real Can of Yams, he sings and I play the saxophone (or as we've dubbed it, the hacksophone). Creepy, no? At the very least, uncanny.

Tuesday, December 17, 2002

I really hope Senators Nichols and Frist have the nerve to take down Senator Lott. Remember this: no one hates people like Lott worse than moderate Republicans like me, because they make us look bad, and because they've hijacked our party. Liberals should actually rejoice in Lott's obvious racism, as it could be used to the detriment of the entire GOP leadership; make him a liability to W. the way Gingrich was to Bob Dole. (GBers: remember when Dole came to GBHS during the '96 campaign? Man, that was hilarious.)

"Bob Dole hates carrots!! Bob Dole will scream unless he gets a cookie!! Don't spank Bob Dole!!"

Monday, December 16, 2002

Woo hoo! BTW Day lives! Last year, the gang and I celebrated the first ever Blue Tree Whacking Day, a day of merriment and antix (I want to spell antics properly, but I've been outvoted; so, in the context of BTW, I have to use the approved misspelling). To learn more about Blue Tree Whacking, visit www.bluetreewhacking.com. Oh, wait, you can't! Because Steeze hasn't fixed it yet! Anyway, I'll reference BTW and hyperlink to the site once it's back up and running... Kevin! Activities included a pilgrimage to Toledo to see the traveling Star Wars museum exhibit, Good E. Bag Wednesday Super Special Christmas Edition, and The Hour That Nobody Wanted 3. This year, the Star Wars exhibit has moved on, nobody is willing to do The Hour That Nobody Wanted in the cold again, and January 2 is a Thursday, so no Good E. Bag Wednesday. (In theory, we could celebrate BTW Day on New Year's Day, a Wednesday, but that's a day for watching twelve or more hours of college football, one final feast before the eight month famine until next season.) Fortunately, the Bald Mountain, our wise parliamentarian, has ruled that we may have a one-time only, special exception Good E. Bag Thursday, or as I like to call it, Good E. Bag "Wednesday." Christmas, Emma's wedding, the rock show, and BTW Day: life is good.

More on that front: last night the Flying Dutchman was walking around the house chanting, "Al Bore no more in 2004!" With former Vice President Gore's decision not to seek the Democratic nomination for president, the 2004 elections have gotten interesting again. Between the war on terror and the midterm elections, President Bush looks like a formidable opponent; but now, the Democrats are no longer burdened by having a clear-cut frontrunner. The primary thing Gore had going for him was that he won the nation-wide popular vote in 2000; however, after 9/11 the American people have neither patience nor tolerance for assertions that Bush is not the rightful president. And lest we forget, Gore somehow managed to lose the 2000 election to a pre-9/11 W., a man widely believed to be an imbecile, even by some of us who voted for him. The debacle in Floida aside, Gore lost the election. He was the sitting vice president to a personally popular president and had sat in office during an incredibly long period of robust economic growth, and yet his race against the Shrub was so close that one state decided the outcome. His campaign was lackluster at best, a mishmash of robotic speeches, indecypherable themes, and horrid public swallowings of his fascist wife's face. With Clinton's record to run on, an inanimate carbon rod should have been able to beat W. by a margin that resembled Reagan-Mondale ('84) more than Kennedy-Nixon ('60). The inevitable conclusion is that Al Gore's just a loser.

So, the Democrats may be better off without him. At the very least, now there will be a fight for the nomination, and that might actually result in something the Democrats haven't had in decades: new ideas. As I see it, the two leading contenders are Senator John Kerry (Mass.) and Senator Joe Lieberman (Conn.). Kerry represents the left wing of the party, Lieberman very much the right. Some have forwarded the name of Senator John Edwards (N.C.), but I believe him to be too young and too ambitious to risk a potentially disastrous campaign so early in his career. It is interesting to note that no one has successfully run from the Senate since JFK in 1960. LBJ stopped off at the Naval Observatory before ascending to the White House; though he hadn't held elective office in eight years prior to his inauguration, Nixon had most recently been Vice President, too. Ford and G. Bush were V.P.s, previously serving in the House (both of them) and almost every possible appointed position in government (Bush). Carter, Reagan, Clinton, and G.W. Bush were all governors. Does this bode ill for Mr.s Kerry and Lieberman? Probably. But, hey, there are two years until the next election, and in December 1998 who had ever heard of George W. Bush?

Saturday, December 14, 2002

Another Saturday surrendered to Animania. I should appreciate them more, though, as there are only four more left for me. I love this club and I like being Veep, but sometimes it seems as if we have a screening every other Saturday.

And now to convince everyone to come to see Real Can of Yams on December 30, here's "Riot Grrl." This song was inspired by Skeeter, but is in no way about her.
"Riot Grrl"
words by M. Wilson; music by K. Stermer
(verse 1)
I want a girl with spikey hair
I want a girl who doesn't care
I want a girl who tells mean jokes
I want a girl who never smokes
I want a girl who likes cheese fries
I want a girl with giant eyes
I want a girl with a rad tattoo
I want a girl who says, "I hate you"

I want a riot grrl!
Little bity girl with big black boots
I want a riot grrl!
Raging in the pit she's oh so cute
I want a riot grrl!
Pissed off at the world for all its lies
I want a riot grrl!
She's so damn sick of phony guys

(verse 2)
I want a girl who likes the absurd
I want a girl who flips the bird
I want a girl who likes to skank
I want a girl who's not a skank
I want a girl who likes ska shows
I want a girl who really knows
What it's like to love a band
How much it means to shake their hands


You'll see her at the punk rock show
Kamikaze diving into the front row
The chaos and the music, it's ecstacy
That's how I know she's the girl for me
Even when you snarl your lips are soft
You looked happiest when you're pissed off
Please don't waste your time with other guys
Come on, riot grrl, we'll find cool dyes


(verse 3)
I want a girl rocks all night
I want a girl who likes to fight
I want a girl whose dreams are grand
I want a girl who's in a band
I want a girl who speaks her mind
I want a girl whose love is blind
I want a girl with a wicked smile
I want a girl who loves denial


Nemesis was good. The final battle was perhaps a little too much like Star Trek VI, but I'll let it slide since it was so satisfying. Other parts I'm not so sure about, but overall I'm pleased.

Friday, December 13, 2002

Today, there is no time. Once again, no good deed goes unpunished. I've been awake since 7:15am, and by my count I've only committed two of the seven deadly sins: gluttony and pride (for only thinking I'd committed gluttony). Yesterday: envy, lust, and pride.

Not to be a guy, but it's been too damn long since I've had my hand inside a girl's shirt. Aw, crap. That's three: lust.

Thursday, December 12, 2002

There's a laundry list of items for today's blog; so, we're doing this the way Dan Rydell does Major League Soccer scores, as quickly as possible and with the suggestion, "Make the nets bigger."

REAL CAN OF YAMS! If you are reading this, you are invited to rock your ass off with Real Can of Yams on Monday, December 30, at The Flint Local 432. We're a really good live act, dedicated to showmanship and the proposition that your fun must be paramount. Plus, some other good bands will be there, like the Bald Mountain's side project The Old Hats and GB superband Tommy's Frogs, the night's headliners. Email me for directions or if you're willing to come to Ann Arbor, I'll give you a ride. Seriously.

I use aftershave and Old Spice is my brand. My dad uses and both grandpas used Old Spice, so until recently it never even occured to me to try another aftershave. However, recently I was told I'm too young for Old Spice; so, not that I'm necessarily going to change, but does anybody have any recommendations? (Yeah, I know, if I'm going to be asking these sorts of questions, I really should add a commenting feature. I'm mulling it over.)

My Whole Life Is Here. I've lived in Ann Arbor for five years. I know so many people here sometimes it feels like high school. On Tuesday night, after an Animania postering mission, Snarky treated his roommate El Presidente, their mutual roommate Slim, Latrice, and me to dinner at Pizza House. A good time was had by all. As soon as we arived, we saw two of our fellow Animania staff members out on a clandestine date; a surprise to the others, I'd known about the affair through Bachelorette No.3. So, not only can I not enter a restaurant without seeing someone I know, it's hard to see anyone I know without it becoming fodder for some kind of gossip. Adding to this, our table was visited by Nancy (whose last name I will certainly misspell, so I shan't even make the attempt), a GBHS alumna. She posed the odd question, "Do you still like Grand Blanc?" Yesterday, I addressed a several day-old craving for a burger by having lunch at the Brown Jug. Of course, halfway through my meal who should be seated at the table next to mine but fellow lifeguard Jodi the Crazy Girl, who reminded me that I still owe her dinner. (As as aside, the debt will be settled Friday night, but don't bother asking why I owe her dinner because I honestly don't have a clue.) I cannot enter a restaurant without seeing someone I know. Given the pervasive loneliness that will define my life in a scant few months, I suppose I should be grateful for this familiarity and camraderie. Still, I miss my anonymity.

I'm crushing pretty hard on a girl right now, but I know I can't do anything about it; so, I think it's actually helping. On a related note, from now until she arrives, I'm going to try to adopt an anti-Lindsay stance. I'm going to try to hold in mind all the things I don't like about her, like all the unfounded assumptions she makes about me. That she adores her boyfriend's guitar playing, but I'm "trying to still be in high school" because of RCY. The greatest plan know to Mankind? I have my doubts, but none of my other schemes have propered; so, I can't see the harm in making a go at this one.

Tomorrow is Star Trek: Nemesis. This close to it, I'm not apprehensive about this plot element or excited about that plot element, I'm just giddy because tomorrow there's a new Star Trek movie! Yippy! The Bald Mountain, Neutral Man, the Flying Dutchman, and I are going tomorrow evening... maybe the Plate, too; anybody else is welcome to come. If nothing else, at least Nemesis won't have space-hippies like Insurrection.

Wednesday, December 11, 2002

Three years ago today, Grandpa Wilson died. Ten months later, Grandpa Little followed him. I'd always said, with perhaps a bit too much pride, that I was very fortunate not to have had any deaths in my family. Those whom gods would destroy they first make proud. Howard Linton Wilson, Senior 1919-1999.
I apologize for the shoddy workmanship of yesterday's main post. I chose not to read over my carelessly typed work, and thus came off as an illiterate baboon. You deserve better, dear friends, all three of you.

Tuesday, December 10, 2002

Ha ha! Blogger tried to fuck me, but I remembered how to circumvent the problem. Take that, you nonsentient, inanimate server!
On height... Dude, you aren't 6'0". Give it up. In our society, height is equated with status. This is by no means an absolute rule (Tom Cruise is a noteable exception), but we have a great and abiding respect for height. Many of us would like to be taller, as we equate being taller with being better. I am prone to this myself; as a child, Dr. DiGi projected my adult height at 6'2", and I've always wished that I hadn't stopped growing at 6'0". Nevertheless, I've never pretended to be taller than I am, unlike the majority of my contemporaries (note: this mostly refers to males); as in, most guys overestimate their height. Any guy 5'9" or taller claims to be 6'0". I'm looking at the top of this guy's head and he's telling a girl he's 6'0". When I point out that I'm almost precisely 6'0", he tells me that I must have grown since I was last measured because I must be like, 6'1" or 6'2" (by most people's reckoning, there is no longer inch than the one between 6'0" and 6'1"). In fact, being measured about every six months, I have for years been 5'11 7/8". So, no, most guys who claim to be 6'0" are not. I'm not trying to push myself as superior because I live life near the exalted 6'0" altitude, I just wish guys would stop lying about their height. (And for the record, the Bald Mountain, for all his Mountainesque nature is "only" 6'2", not 6'4" as most "6'0"" guys assert.) And if you try to tell me my height in centimeters, we won't speak ever again.

Monday, December 9, 2002

Also, now I'm clean shaven so I once again feel pretty.
I'm a jerk, but that doesn't mean I'm not a nice guy. I want to do the right thing, and I try to help people. Thus, here's my dilema: I can't stand Bachelorette No. 3. I want to ditch her, but it's hard because all she ever talks about is how depressed she is since all of her other friends have ditched her. And now she thinks she has clinical depression, and talks about how she almost commited suicide in October. I begin to think that her friends have a valid point, but I'd also feel like a heel if I ditched her, too. The only viable option I can discern is to avoid her. Let her natural preoccupation with school keep her busy, and just coincidentally already have plans whenever she's free. Of course, she'd eventually catch on, so the real way to play it is to hang out with her (whenever unavoidable), but always for a finite amount of time. "Jess, hey, this has been cool, and I'm glad I can be here for you in your never-ending time of need, but Brado and I are going to clean the gutters at the house so I have to go."

My sincerest thanks to The Watergirl for Can't Stop the Love Sled. If you haven't heard it, you're missing out. Receiving a package - "worst wrapping ever" - was unexpected; so, my joy was doubled due to the suprise nature of the generous gift.

In other music news...REAL CAN OF YAMS Live on stage, Monday, December 30th, 2002 at The Flint Local 432! The Bald Mountain, K. Steeze, the fabulous Liz Ele, John "the damn, dirt lefty" Duffy, and The Last Angry Man bringing you that genuine Yam-tastic sound just in time for the new year! The Local's easy to find and you've got nothing better to do since it isn't New Year's Eve; so, be there or be square!
I found myself awake at four in the morning both Friday and Saturday nights, for the first time in quite a while. Much fun was had, both at Friday's cocktail party at Macho Grande (where I bullied Neutral Man into actually talking to a girl instead of just staring at her from across the room) and Saturday's screening of Die Another Day.

More later, but for now let me just say that I didn't have time to shave on my way out the door this morning, and now I feel icky.

Saturday, December 7, 2002

My pursuit of Lindsay is unbidden, and I know she'd rather I gave up on her ever loving me and just concentrated my efforts of being her friend. Some would say that makes me pathetic, the unwanted pursuit. I don't really feel myself on solid enough ground to say it's not, but obviously I'd prefer to not be pathetic. Opinions?

The Bald Mountain and I saw The Yeomen of the Guard this afternoon. Yeomen is a Gilbert & Sullivan comic opera; it was presented by UMGASS, the University of Michigan Gilbert and Sullivan Society. The UMGASS people are lunatics, but I really like the play so in this instance I'm glad the inmates are running the asylum. As expected, EPM was her usual brilliant self as the old maid Dame Carruthers.

Friday, December 6, 2002

Talking to Lindsay last night, I discovered that California schools have a retarded three-week "semester" between New Year's Day and the start of the real second semester. So, if you don't take classes, you get a month off from late December to late January; the downside is that the second semester doesn't let out until the end of May, even later than Narwhal Day (May 23). I asked her what she's doing in January. She said, "You don't want to hear it, but Jake and I are going to Mexico." It is actually the first part of that statement which is bothering me. I don't like it, but her boyfriend (whom I'm going to dehumanize in the manner of Curly's Wife) is a very important part of her life (dark bastard: way more important that I've ever been). So, though she calls me her best friend, I'm shut out from probably the single most important thing in her life. She is doing it to protect me, because she knows that the idea of him causes me physical pain; Lindsay cares about me and doesn't want to see me hurt in any way. Nevertheless, by protecting me she's excluding me. As a consequence, I'm not going to know how important he is to her. I won't even know about the marriage until I get a wedding invitation.

Thursday, December 5, 2002

Dylweed, if you call me EminEminEm again, the next time I see you I will have no choice but to beat the living crap out of you in front of your beautiful wife, and nobody needs that kind of embarrassment. I still love you, man, but this has to stop.
I've decided that possibly my favorite thing in the whole world is the Donald Rumsfeld WAR MACHINE, formerly known as the Department of Defense. What more can you ask for in a WAR MACHINE than Rummy? He's perfect. And by that I mean absolutely horrifying. He scares the bejeezus out of Americans, so just think how mind-numbingly terrifying he must be to our enemies. The man's an utterly conscienceless killer. Just point the Donald Rumsfeld WAR MACHINE at what you want killed and he'll neutralize it as secretly and ruthlessly as possible. Also, we should revive the concept of war bonds. What better investment opportunity is there in these troubled times that the Donald Rumsfeld WAR MACHINE? The value of each bond actually goes up with increaced uncertainty!

Also in that vein, I'm going to start marketing a line of WWRD? bracelets, bumper stickers, and other merchandise. WWRD?: What Would Rummy Do? (Hint: the answer is always evade the question by charming the press with your unsinkable ego and razor-sharp wit.)

I've decided that since I don't have the first clue how to go about giving up on Lindsay, I'm not going to try. If one day I realize I'm no longer in love with her, I'll burn that bridge when I come to it. But until then, winning her is my aim and being her best friend is my sorrow. However, I think it's important for her for me to be looking for someone else. I'm not looking for love, just someone with whom to share my loneliness. What I need right now is a frivolous infatuation. Any takers?

And by the way, you're all skankoids.

Wednesday, December 4, 2002

There are only thirty-seven people in the whole world, and they all know one another. Also, everybody has made out with everybody else, except me. That there, my friends, is a kick in the teeth. To quote the worldy and erudite Skeeter, "Why are they all such skankoids?"

Tuesday, December 3, 2002

About the wedding, Linz said, "I get to meet the elusive Julie S." What the hell does that mean? It'll be neat, though, the only two girls I've ever loved in the same room. Also, if we're going to compare Julies, mine being Skeeter and hers SSG, I'm going to feel so embarrassed for Linz.
First in high school and then in college, I was surrounded by the best thing in the whole world: girls. Lots and lots of girls. Smart girls. Pretty girls. Funny girls (though few and far between). Girls so kind you were afraid to talk to them because you knew your intentions weren't entirely honorable. Girls so beautiful they could launch a thousand ships. Soon, so very soon, this will no longer be the case, as I'm leaving this college town for the larger world. Loneliness and isolation are to be my only companions. I cannot and will not "pick up women" in bars, and I hate the idea of idiotic "office romance." I've spectacularly failed to interest girls in the target rich environment of my youth, and now I enter the wastelend that is adulthood. Sweet fancy Moses, I'm going to be a virgin at thirty.

On the plus side, tonight I'm going to see The Mighty Mighty Bosstones alone. Sure, it sucks to go to a show by yourself, but David has a class or something that he just can't miss, and I'm glad that Neutral Man has a class and The Plate hasn't called me (as a consequence, I haven't called him). As for Guy Zach Nie! or K. Steeze, who's back in town for the annual December BTW madness, I just didn't think to ask them in time. But it's okay, since nobody else loves the Bosstones like I do, and I can feel all 8 Mile driving into Detroit alone. (It should be noted that I grew up in the 313. Yes, this is just a technicality and Grand Blanc has not been part of the 313 area code for several years, but I can truthfully say that I grew up in the 313 and let people take away from that what they will.)

Neutral Man is a buddy of mine, but not my friend. I realized this last week, when I tried to talk to him. He was once again trying to reassure himself that breaking up with Miss Missy was the right thing to do. I've patiently listened to this same speech for months now. I tried to tell him how I was feeling, more to vent than seek his counsel, but he blew me off and went back into the same tired conversational loop about Missy. So, screw him. Also, Bachelorette No. 3 is becoming a real drag. Yes, she has genuine problems, but why can't she bitch about them to this new boyfriend she's so excited about? Once, just once, I'd like to have a conversation with her that didn't degenerate into what's gone wrong in her life that particular day. I'm a bad person because I'm sick of listening to Neutral Man and Bachelorette No. 3's problems, but I'm a good person because I listened to her whine for an hour and a half last night and I keep telling him he did the right thing with Missy (he did) and that he'll be fine once he's back on the dating scene (after all, he's good looking and inoffensively bland, just what girls say they like). As Major Kira once said (yes, I'm quoting Star Trek, so fuck you), "You can't judge a person by what they think. Or even by what they say. You can only judge a person by what they do." I hate listenig to them whine, but yet I do listen and try to help. Score one for me on the side of the angels.

Thanksgiving was exquisite. My mom finally figured out how to keep the turkey moist, thereby overcoming the only weakness in an otherwise divine Thanksgiving dinner. I ate so much I wanted to puke. And then I had pie. I did the same thing with leftovers Friday night, and Saturday I had way too much lasagna. I didn't get to see Skeeter or the high school gang at Little Joe's, though, dammit. I did get to play Risk until 4:30 in the morning with the BTW gang, though.

Three Coincidences Surrounding Lindsay
a) Friday at Conor O'Neill's, she told me about my new name, Wedding Mike. This is how her Berkeley friends know me, because we're going together to Emma's wedding. Her old boyfriend, Marrying Mike (I gave him that name when she said that if he hadn't dumped her she would have married him), is now known as Hockey Mike (since he works in the front office of the Carolina Hurricanes) to avoid confusion with me as Wedding Mike.

b) The feature "10 Things You Don't know About Women" from the most recent issue of Esquire, written by Cheryl Hines, an actor on Curb Your Enthusiasm: "8. More often than not, we use an adjective before your name when we talk to our friends about you, as in Squishy Steve, Flaccid Frank, Freakshow Charlie, or Perfect Paul. Makes you wonder, huh?"

c) Lindsay loves Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Wedding Mike, signing off.

Tuesday, November 26, 2002

I'm finalizing plans for new tattoos, but I don't want any where they wouldn't be seen, which conflicts with my need for an actual adult job. Curses! I guess I've got to get off my butt and finish In Search of the Perfect Lesbian, so I can become a novelist, and pitch some ideas to Oni Press, so I can become a comic book writer (I'd pitch directly to DC, because I do want to write superhero comics, too, not just character driven indies, but they don't accept unsolicited admissions).
On Friendship...
In Lindsay's mind, I've never been in direct competition with Jake. I was never in competition, because to her I was never even in the game; which, to be honest, I've always felt was unfair to me, that I was never even considered as potential boyfriend material. Anyway, despite the fact that I'm not in direct competition with this kid (some econ major toolbox at Sacramento State... Sac State? So much for Lindsay's professed snobbishness about education), at this moment in time being her friend feels a lot like a consolation prize, and there is nothing in the world I hate more than pity.

On Life "After" Lindsay...
I never had a shot with Bachelorette No. 3 because she's racist. Her parents immigrated from Taiwan and she only likes Chinese guys. And she won't date a Chinese guy if he doesn't speak Mandarin at least somewhat fluently. I found out Bachelorette No. 2 is a Trekkie, a major plus, but I only found out because we were discussing how she really wants to ask this other guy to go see Nemesis with her as their first date. And I don't even like Bachelorete No. 1; I'm only "attracted" to her because she seems to be attracted to me. She's creative, but I hate her ideas. Last night, the Mountain asked me if I'd kissed EPM. Now, admittedly, at a party in September I did have my hand on her ass for over an hour (in two or three little stretches), and later when I sat down on a couch she stratled me, but it was a weird night all around and there was nothing remotely going on. I know how much it would hurt him if I ever kissed her and he knows I never would; so, it was really weird for me that he asked that. Of course, given how odd I've been behaving lately, his concern seems much more reasonable.

One day, I'll regain my perspective, but not today. Today, I need to vent: I would be a good boyfriend. One day, I would have made a devoted husband and an extraordinary father. In light of that, it's so disheartening that none of those things will ever come to pass, and that it'll be up to my sister and brother to make my mom into the perfect grandmother she'd be.

On Friendship...
I say what I'm about to say not out of a lack of self-confidence or a surplus of self-pity, but out of honest confusion: I don't understand why I have any friends. I'm moody, I'm mean, I'm inconsistent, I've got a terrible temper, I'm arrogant, and I'm judgmental. On the plus side, I'm smart, I'm funny, I'm loyal, I'm helpful, I'm wise, and I've got all the right opinions. (That last one's a joke... well, half a joke/half half-serious.) But, it seems like an awful lot to put up with. And yet, I've got friends. I've got a lot of friends. Speaking of true friends, I actually think I have more than most people. I don't get it, but there are a number of people out there who absolutely adore me. Sickos to be sure, but they genuinely like me. I used to doubt this, but then I realized that I was too much to put up with for these people to be pretending; so, they really love me. Who knew. The only thing I'm missing is a girlfriend. By way of contrast, then there's Lindsay. She's had a string of boyfriends who haven't deserved her, but she has very few friends. All her old boyfriends are "useless fuckers," and she already doubts she'll stay in touch with her Berkeley classmates once they all move on. Her undergrad years at UNC were full of lovers and acquaintances, but no real friends. Obviously, I'm biased, but I just can't figure this out: how a person (either or both of us) can be so successful in one area, and such an abject failure in the other.

Monday, November 25, 2002

I write the dark bastard as if he's English only because he seems much more cruel that way, there being no more vicious and malicious people on the face of the Earth than the sons and daughters of merry old England.

Sorry, Dylweed, God won't be up for reelection until A.D. 3000. You'll still be a valuable part of the Star Chamber Council during The Revolution and later under The Empire, though.

As I was logging in at the Blogger page, one of the 10 Most recently Updated Blogs was the Watergirl's. Even more crazy is the fact that two minute's earlier, I'd been at her page reading the weekend's posts. With so many folks blogging, what are the chances that I'd be logging in during the precious few seconds when someone I "know" has just published? Neat!

Friday, November 22, 2002

I've been so terribly unfair to her. She never asked for me to fall in love with her, she never asked for our friendship to be an emotional minefield. She's called me her best friend, and yet she felt compelled to keep her boyfriend hidden from me for months. What a monster I've been.

I hate everything that's happening right now, yet I cannot help but be excited to see her next week.
I'm actually feeling pretty good today, but I'm still going to give the dark bastard his due. The dark bastard, for those of you who may not know, is the name I've given to all my insecurities, self-loathing, and doubt. He's an integral part of me, but I like to refer to him as if he is a separate person. Because the dark bastard is consistent; when I'm happy he tries to bring me down, and when I'm sad he indulges me. This is the only part of the Lost Post that I was happy to see go, but the dark bastard is just going to keep pestering me until I publish it.

And now a word from the dark bastard...
I'm not talking about hope, possibility, or any other unquantifiable measurement here, I'm talking about cold, hard logic. Hope is the lies we tell ourselves when we don't like the truth; logic is uncaring, but at least it's honest. Logically, Wilson is going to die alone. In his life, three girls have liked him. One he liked only as a friend, another he didn't like at all, and though he liked the third and she liked him, they never liked one another silumtaneously. He has liked many girls, with varying degrees of affection. The fat fuck's loved two of them: Skeeter and Linz. Though both considered him a dear friend, neither had the slightest romantic interest in 'im. So, it logically follows that any girl Wilson loves will not love him. Here, two options persent themselves: a) in order to find romance, he must lower his standards and fake affection for a girl he doesn't love, or b) he lives and dies alone. And the bloke's too proud to lower his standards, so, logically, he will die alone. The best part is, though, that he knows this, and yet the wanker will continue to pursue Linz and then the next girl after her and the next girl after her and I'll laugh my fucking head off the whole time. Why? Because of hope. Cruel, taunting hope.

I've been having a very frank dialogue with Lindsay this week. "The thing is, I don't love you the way you want, and so I wouldn't ever be able to make you happy that way." How do I give her up? She's so certain it wouldn't work, but I'm so certain it would.

Thursday, November 21, 2002

All the folks I work with think I'm weird. Thank God at least one thing is still right with the world.
I've come to a conclusion: life is unfair, but that doesn't mean you have to accept that. Life will be unfair whether or not you accept its inherent unfairness; so, why take it lying down? Life's unfair, so fuck life. Rant and rail against each little unfairness if you like; it'll be just as unfair if you stay quiet, but at least this way you'll have gotten a good yell out of the deal. Life will always be unfair, but that doesn't mean you have to just grab your socks and take it.

Monday, November 18, 2002

I have just lost the greatest post in the history of the Secret Base. It was personal and it was poetic, I worked on it for over an hour. I tried to post it, but Internet Explorer kept telling me that there was no post, in defiance of the pages of text ahead of me. So, I tried the Post & Publish button, and most of it simply disappeared. Maybe the reading of it isn't so important as the writing. Maybe it is enough that I got some things off my chest. Maybe Ev and the other assholes who invented this fucking blogspot sytem will burn in a special section of Hell.

I had been working on that post all weekend, gathering my thoughts, refining the phrasing in my head, so that for one day at least my blog would have something of significance to say. Clearly, this was a mistake. I shall never again be so foolhardy as to prepare anything for my blog. Back to whatever stikes my fancy in the moment, a sure route to banality and boredom. So, my beloved readers, I am sorry, I tried to give you more, but I was thwarted. I would say that it was meant to be, but fate is for cowards and weaklings.
The election of Rep. Nancy Pelosi as minority leader of the House is the first sign of life from the Democrats in ten years. In 1992, they realized that candidates like Michael Dukakis against centrist Republicans like George Bush; so, positioning themselves in the center via Bill Clinton, a smooth-talking young governor from the right-wing of the party, they were able to recapture the White House after twelve years of Reagan-Bush. In the intervening decade, the Grand Old Party has taken advantage of the generally rightward shift in attitudes to paint itself as the party of the center, and intimidating the Democrats into being Faux Republicans. With unreconstructed liberal Nancy Pelosi now in the party's leadeship, the Democrats are now in a strong position to make a stand on the political left. This is a gamble, especially given Presiden George W. Bush's popularity. However, by playing it safe, by not standing up for truly different ideas, they have already allowed the Republicans to seize complete control of Capitol Hill as well as the White House. I would have thought that a beating like that of two weeks ago would have had the Democrats cowering in fear; it is an uncharacteristic show of backbone for them to take a stand like this. Though I vote Republican, there is a part of me that truly relishes the battle to come. Nancy Peolis is a risk, and it may end very badly for them, but at least it shows that they are trying to get off the mat, and it's always nice to see a man realize he's not yet done.

As the Chinese Communist Party goes through the motions of installing a new group of "leaders," we should all take a moment to reflect on how fortunate we are that in the power struggle of the early '90s, between Tiananmen in '89 and Deng Xiaoping's death in '97, the moderate forces of Jiang Zemin were able to triumph over the hardliners of Li Peng. In a struggle we never saw, and about which most Westerners and Chinese alike will never know, the reason of Deng trumped the radicalism of Mao, and the one-fifth of the human race that is the Chinese were allowed to continue their Long March toward the hope of a brighter tomorrow.

On Friday,
Nancy Pelosi! Li Peng! A beautiful girl in the rain! Saturday's wedding! Old friends! New uncertainties! Seeing and not being seen by all the right people! All this and a special message from the dark bastard, coming up next! You're watching Sports Night on CSC, so stick around.

Wednesday, November 13, 2002

Thanks to the good people at Amazon.com, I received my preordered copy of Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones in yesterday's mail. Woo hoo! It was the best thing that could have happened to me. Tonight, power pop with the authority himself, Kiel Phelgey, and tomorrow Super Wilson Bros. action after I hang out with Bachelorette No.3. Except for the huge hole in my chest where my heart used to be, things are looking up.

Hang in there, Skeeter. Just like MTM, you're going to make it after all.

Tuesday, November 12, 2002

"There's a hole in my heart as deep as a well
For that poor little boy trapped half way to Hell."

Thank heavens for The Simpsons.
David and I are going to see Fountains of Wayne in Detroit on Wednesday, and then on Thursday he wants to go to Conor's. Not that he's going to drink anything, but it's good he wants to get used to it so we can go back on trivia night with Zach Nie! and the gang. I love Conor O'Neill's, but it's always a little weird for me to be there with somebody besides Linz, since we have a table there. I hope we'll get to share it over Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I talked to Bachelorette No.3 last night and she really is just as weird as she appears to be. I'm tired of being sad all the time, but I don't know how to fix it. Even before I found out Linz is Jake's girlfriend, things had started to fall apart. I haven't been to trivia night with Zach Nie! in forever, The Newsletter is completely off-schedule, and I'm not even consistently playing with the Flounders. I'm sick of it, which means it's time to get angry. Anger can't help me with Linz, but by Jove, it can fix the rest! Tomorrow, I'm going to kick the crap out of some middle-aged men, I'm going to finish The Newsletter with or without The Plate and Neutral Man, and I'm going to finally buy a damn Fountains of Wayne CD. So what if Justinandemily didn't return my call this past weekend, it's time to let my friends know that they're important to me and I want to see them; or, like Alber & SSG, just cut them out of my life as completely as possible. I going to give Skeeter a call and just shoot the shit. I'm going to have a damned good time on Saturday at the wedding and I'm going to have fun hanging out with Bachelorette No.3 on Thursday. Why now? Because it is never too late. Never. "He was one hundred and seventy days dying and not yet dead."

Hi, I'm Mike Wilson. My full name is Michael Patrick Wilson. I'm The Last Angry Man.

Monday, November 11, 2002

Listen to Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.: Armistice Day is sacred.
One week tonight since the fire in my eyes dimmed. One week since the world lost so much of its color. (Sorry for the melodrama.)

I'm really starting to worry about how much I want to kiss someone. Currently, I have three potentials, Bachelorettes Nos. 1, 2, and 3. Bachelorette No. 1 seems the most interested, but I am not; there's just something all wrong about her. Bachelorette No. 2 calls me Michael, which slays me, but we move in very different social circles. Things could go either way with Bachelorette No. 3; we could date or just be good friends. I don't trust myself, because I'm afraid that what I really want is for us to be friends but that I'm not thinking clearly at the moment so I'll try to make us more than friends. And underlying it all is the question of how I could possibly date anyone feeling as I do about Lindsay. (All of this presupposes that any of the three Bachelorettes would be receptive to my advances, a feat of great hubris on my part.) I will marry Lindsay or die in the attempt. But that could take years; what am I to do in the meantime? Should I wait for her with monkish devotion? Could I casually date, always knowing that it is not the girl I'm with I truly want? Would that be horridly unfair to any girl I'm seeing? Or, is it acceptable to enter and continue a relationship with no intention of it ever being anything but impermanent? I will not have any part in being with someone merely as a distraction. But, if I genuinely like someone, is it permissible to act on those feeling, even though my unrequitted feelings for Lindsay are so much stronger? Would it be kosher to just set Lindsay aside and carry on acting on my other impulses? These are questions I have been gently grappling with all these long months while Lindsay hid him from me. Now brought into sharp focus by her status as Jake's girlfriend.

Saturday, November 9, 2002

A little while back, I said something very insensitive about Emma and Bran. For this, I have apologized and I have made a sincere effort to be more considerate. However, Emma's nickname, Ham 'n' Eggs, is based on her soon-to-be-maiden name, Emma Knag. Soon, she will be Emma Blinkenberg. So, I want to start calling her Mrs. Blinky; he's already, technically, Mr. Blinky. My question is: is this offensive to either of them?
I'm actually feeling a lot better, because I've been dividing my time between too-quickly tearing through the Sports Night box set and thinking about all the sex Lindsay and Jake are having. (I have no evidence that they are having sex, but they're dating seriously enough for Linz to risk telling me; so, instead of being anxious about it, I've just accepted that fact that in a probability so high it is essentially a certainty, they are.) And I've been trying to speak more rapidly, in quick Sorkin-esque sentences, dashing between topics at breakneck speed. My thinking goes like this: I have almost convinced myself that jealousy is a waste of time. There are some kinks in the system, but that's to be expected. So, anyway, Lindsay feels the same way about me as she did before Jake came along. She feels about the same way about me as she did once he'd come along, but before she felt their relationship serious enough to merit telling me. She loves me as one of her best friends in all the world, but she does not now and never has felt the same way about me as I feel about her. Just because she likes Jake in a way she's never liked me doesn't mean she has in any way stopped liking me. It's killing me that she feels about him as she's never felt about me (it makes me feel very small), but not as much as it should because I'm learning that jealousy is a waste of time.

So, I'm trying to build up an immunity to the thought of them having sex, and they only way to do that is to expose myself to it. It's not easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is. I should be fine seeing her over Thanksgiving, but it's going to ruin me seeing her dressed up for Emma and Bran's wedding after Christmas.

Friday, November 8, 2002

People are a funny lot. The case in point: cheer up notes. Who writes them. Who doesn't. Who sends a non-cheer up note. It's fascinating.

"Jealousy is a waste of time." From Catwoman: Selina's Big Score, written and drawn by Darwyn Cooke. And my thanks to Skeeter, who taught me the real meaning of Christmas... I mean, that jealousy and love are antithetical ideas.

Thursday, November 7, 2002

Last night, the Bald Mountararat and I were able to watch Enterprise together for the first time this season. (A Three Musketeers to whomever can tell me from what pop culture item the nickname variation Bald Mountararat is derived.) Enterprise rules, but I'm still terribly apprehensive about the forthcoming Star Trek: Nemesis.

I need a girl, I need a drink, I need something to take my mind off Linz. Except all I see in any girl is that she can't possibly measure up to her, and I've never been able to get drunk. One of these days, the Mountain and I need to go to Conor's anyway, because now that he's twenty-one we can, damn it. My Sports Night DVDs arrived yesterday; now I own the entire series, not just the half-the-show, out-of-order episodes I'd taped off (shudder shudder) Comedy Central. I'm Dan Rydell and Linz is Rebecca Wells; I just don't think it is within me to respond to this situation by being "wonderful" as Danny did. Curse you, Aaron Sorkin!

I still feel like I've been impaled, but sadly that is a lot better than yesterday.

Wednesday, November 6, 2002

Though I both vote Republican and believe absolutely in my own righteousness, I'm still amazed every time we win any election. Sweet fancy Moses (stolen from Get Fuzzy), what happened? I haven't felt like this since that wonderful day in 1994 when the "Republican Revolution" left Todd Plants stupified and outraged. (In Mr. Riek's Honors English 10, Nicky the Greek and I were teasing him by called him a liberal, at which point he grabbed a dictionary and asked, "What's wrong with being a liberal?" Good times, good times.) In '96, Bob Dole, a good man who refers to himself only in the third person for reasons known only to him, lost to Slick Willy; in '98, we lost ground due to our own stupidity but held on to both houses; in 2000, we got the presidency, but only through the most embarrassing moment our democracy has suffered in quite some time, and then shortly lost the Senate to that weasel Daschle. (Seriously, Daschle? I can only assume he's as dissatisfying to most Democrats as Trent Lott is to all moderate Republicans.) But, I think a lot of the credit for this victory must be ascribed to Democratic ineptitude. Even though most of the illegal activity occured during the Clinton Administration, they should have been able to hang us with the corporate accountability scandal; yet, they did not. Bless them for being afraid to actually be Democrats; because if they're not Democrats they are Faux Republicans, and if they are Faux Republicans, you might as well give the President the real Republicans he asked for. And W, wow. He barnstrormed America and America liked it. I would have thought that the popularity he derived from 9/11 would have faded by now. The thing is, it might have; it might be that the American people genuinely like George W. Bush. I'm told that if you even meet the man, you like him. He's just likable. Clinton was a master persuader, that if you even met him within minutes he'd have you thinking his way; perhaps Bush has a similar power, only he doesn't win you over, he just wins your trust. Today, I feel much better about the 2004 presidential campaign than I ever have before.

On a similar note... take that, Walter Mondale! I miss Paul Wellstone; I disagreed with him about everything, but at least he was the guilty conscience of the Democratic Party.

The three worst words in the English language: Lindsay and Jake.

Tuesday, November 5, 2002

Once on a Marching Band trip, I decided to sit by myself on the way home to see if anyone would miss me. I stared out the window and quietly sang "The Minstrel Boy" over and over again. When we got back to school, Ham 'n' Eggs asked me if I was okay, and said Skeeter told her I looked as if I'd been impaled. I remember that story because right now I do feel as if I've been impaled. I looked into my eyes last night just before I went to bed and again this morning; I can't put my finger on what exactly it is, but something that should be there isn't.

She emailed me last night. The time stamp puts it at about the time I fell asleep. "are you ok?" It's nice to know the world still has it's sick fucking sense of humor.
"Jealousy is a waste of time." His name is Jake. It's been going on since July, shortly after I left, and she didn't tell me. She said because I'm important to her. The dark bastard says it's kind of her to lie.

Monday, November 4, 2002

Scott Latham has the single worst haircut in the history of Mankind. It was great seing him this weekend, but every time I looked at him I had to stifle a laugh. He's grown his hair out and bleached it, leaving a stringing, dried out, sickly-looking mass on top of his head. He had with him a hat that when worn made him look like the fuckface singer from Puddle of Mudd. Great Caesar's ghost, it was the most pathetic I've even seen a human being look in the whole of my life. I felt really sorry for him.

El Presidente has asked permission to create a link between his blog and The Secret Base. That's fine, unless I start getting a lot of asshole vegans in here.

DO NOT see the IMAX version of Attack of the Clones! The movie was cut from nearly two and a half hours in length to two hours. It was butchered. Honestly, I was really hurt by how disappointing it was.

(I apologize for the inelegence of today's posts. Something's off, but I'm not certain what.)

Friday, November 1, 2002

I had lunch with Mr. Chevy Celebrity today. As usual when I'm getting to know someone, I made him do most of the talking. I'm not at all angry or frustrated with myself, just bemused. I love the sound of my own voice so much, why do I do that? I highly recommend Kabob Palace if you're looking for someplace to eat.

Hyperlinks: I do not have a problem with anyone linking to this page. Whomever wishes to is welcome to read this blog. Just be aware that this is my blog, not yours. I am an abrasive person; so, if you don't like what you read, either stop reading or strike back. Don't ask me to censor myself because you're insecure. Everybody saw Spider-Man, right? "With great power comes great responsibility." By no means do I have great power, but with any power comes a proportional level of responsibility. Don't use the power of the hyperlink if you can't use it responsibily. Other than that, link 'til the cows come home for all I care.
It's All Saints Day, by the way. A holy day of obligation.
I had my first Jell-O shot yesterday! I didn't want it, but as soon as I got to the party Mary (Catwoman), our lovely hostess, bushwhacked me and shoved it into my hand. I would have refused, except she's an adorable drunk; all smiles and stumbling, and concerned that you're having a good time, too. Britta's (Butterfly) costume was amazing, sparkling and translucent, but I was not able to speak to her for long. (Yes, these are all people that I work with, because those are the only people I knew at this party.) Wiz (Shower) looked great, with a shower curtain, simulated water, and a soap dish all attached to his person; now that's a Halloween costume! Anyway, as I was talking to Britta, and making a sincere effort to not let my eyes drop down from her face, Chris (tourist in Hawai'i) struck up a conversation. The things he says are vapid, but that's not what really bothers me. The cadance of his voice is annoying, too, but it's the tone that cuts through my like a knife. "Sorry, kid. It's the laughter of children, it cuts through me like a dentist drill." I honestly cannot stand to hear the man talk. It drives me insane. So, I pulled my patented high school move and fled. No goodbyes to anyone, just a few brisk steps and I was out the door. I was only there about an hour and would have liked to have stayed, but circumstances were quite out of my control.

What can I be next year? A superhero? A punk? A mod? President Lex Luthor? A milk crate? So many possibilities. Jumpin' Jack Pratt, I love Halloween. Holy shit, that's it! I can go as Jack Pratt! Sure, nobody from outside Grand Blanc would get the reference, but who the hell cares what they think? Sweet! Last night, several girls commented that I made a great Elwood Blues because I bear a resemblence to Dan Aykroyd. Maybe they've never seen Dan Aykroyd. (Nobody would know who I am, but a great costume would be Superman villain Manchester Black.)

I'm glad I decided not to add a commenting feature to the ol' Secret Base. From watching other blogs, they seem to malfunction all the time; more importantly, this is my blog. If you want to say something, start your own. Right now, I really really want to link to the funniest thing on the Internet. But I can't because a friend asked me not to. Rassom frassom friendship. It doesn't help you guys, but please know that I just had a good belly laugh thinking about it; so, at least one person's day has been made a little better. But if I can't link you to the funniest thing on the Internet (must... resist... temptation... Skeeter... will... kill me), I can at least link you to something funny on the Internet. Try this, and read Get Fuzzy every day.

Wednesday, October 30, 2002

Tomorrow will be my first Halloween since 1996. My senior year in high school, my beloved brother and I went trick-or-treating as pallbearers, carrying a small shoebox casket bearing the epitaph of a dear departed fish. Man, those were the days. The year before we went as the McKenzie brothers, Bob and Doug. I don't know why we started doing joint costumes, when all through our youths we'd been independent. Maybe because we know the end was nigh. Maybe because we were finally old enough to realize that everything is more fun with your best friend. Probably both. After that year, David never again trick-or-treated, and though I wouldn't have criticized him if he had, I was very honored by that decision. This year, I'm going classic. Next year, I'm going for the gusto.

Tuesday, October 29, 2002

Though I am loathe to admit it, it is possible for an intelligent person to have a well-reasoned position that disagrees with my own. There are days I wish I could find such a person. Alas, I have not, instead finding myself continually confronted with ignorance and stupidity. Even otherwise intelligent individuals fail to defend their own positions, yet even after those positions have been intellectually undermined they defend them as "rational." And then there are those charming folks who, once defeated, label me a "conservative." Yes, Jackass T-shirt, red hair, and pro-choice, I'm the conservative poster boy.

I know that I shouldn't let it bother me, but once in a while it inevitably does. I'm surrounded by idiots.

Monday, October 28, 2002

The only thing I'm in the mood to write about is comics, and Lord knows this blog is dorky enough without yet another fanboy post. I'll try to have something interesting to say tomorrow. Or maybe later today, as getting the snot knocked out of one by the Flounders tends to make one magnificent.

How can I so terribly miss a girl who says, "Ready, Freddy"?

Friday, October 25, 2002

I woke up this morning feeling worse than I've felt in years. This is mostly bad, but a little good. Good because it served as a reminder that I haven't really been sick in years. I haven't been bed-ridden with the flu since high school. Bad because my eyes hurt (I think I caught that from Skeeter... from NYC... over the phone), I was nauseous, and it felt like there was a Less Than Jake circle pit raging in my stomach. I got up at seven and felt like that until noon. Not even Why Do They Rock So Hard? helped; it was amazing as always, but I still felt terrible. Then, I had a banana and the color of the whole world changed. In an instant. Even now, I still feel like I could take on the whole Empire myself. Thanks, magic banana!

My ring is just a little too big for my ring finger and just a little too small for my middle finger. Saints be praised, that's my biggest problem at the moment.

I really need to sit down and make out my Christmas list. I mean, it's only two months until Christmas; in years gone by, Mom would have already finished her shopping by now. I'm really excited about being able to celebrate Halloween again, but I only know of one party and I'd rather hold my breath until I pass out and bang my head on a table than go. Oh, well, at least it will be fun wearing my costume to work that evening.

I really want to see Jackass: The Movie this weekend. With any luck, it will be at the cheapy theater over Thanksgiving and I can take Linz to see it. How can you not love a girl who appreciates Jackass?

Tuesday, October 22, 2002

Dylan sent me a very touching email the other day. You know what I like (one among many things) about Dylan? He told me I'd never get away with it, but even when I did he'd didn't have a problem with me. He's a good kid in a way I'll never be. And he lets me call him Dylweed, which I find infinitely amusing.

I think I've figured out my Neutral Man/rock show problem. Music matters to me, but it doesn't to him. He owns Creed because he liked them for a while. He owns Dave Matthews Band because he liked them for a while. He just bought a whole bunch of ska CDs at a used record store, but it won't last. His room is near the bathroom; so, I go by there many times in a day. Rarely do I hear music emanating from behind the door. My problem is not that I'm an "authentic" ska kid and Neutral Man's a poser, my problem is that I'm a music lover and NM's a poser. Glad I got that figured out. Now, if only I could dissuade Lindsay from liking Matchbox Twenty...

Weekend Round-up: CJN went well on Saturday, even considering the intrastaff tension. El Presidente's holier-than-thou Vegan arrogance was in check, and I had several nice non-anime discussions. (That's not the aforementioned intrastaff tension, just a small but nagging personal issue.) The Flying Dutchman's sister Amanda was in town for the weekend. As their last name is Lindemulder, I found it amusing to nickname her "Linda." Hee hee. I used a rake to fish Pothead Jay's tire iron out from under the back porch. It was fun because I got to play around in the dirt and leaves, and because using the rake was an ingenious idea.

I had a chance to call Lindsay last night, but I didn't. And for the life of me I'm not sure why. I've got theories, but then again I've always got theories.

(If there are spelling errors in the above posts, it's only because I didn't feel like proofreading.)

Saturday, October 19, 2002

I had Mongolian last night courtesy of the parents! It was, as always, amazing. I apologize to all of you for shaming myself; I could not finish my third bowl. I don't know what's happened to me, but I vow to keep eating too much pizza and get a lot less exercise until I'm back in championship condition and can once again down three or four bowls with room left for dessert.

Last time I was there was in the Spring with Linz. I really need to find more excuses to go to Mongolian; six months is too long an interval.

Thursday, October 17, 2002

I found a blog this morning called "PLA"! I was so excited until I visited the site. "Politics, Law, and Autism"? Everyone knows that PLA stands for People's Liberation Army. Gaaah, damn you, you misappropriating bastard!

Is anyone honestly surprised about North Korea? Only an idiot. I like the North Koreans, though, because at least they're consistent. They're just evil little fuckers: Hacking captured U.S. troops to pieces with axes in view of the DMZ. Kidnapping innocent Japanese and holding them for decades. Sneaking commando teams into South Korea. Conducting missile tests that fly directly over downtown Tokyo. The North Koreans know who they are; the North Koreans are evil and they very rarely apologize for this. I hate the DPRK, but at least I respect their position. Now, why are we so much more belligerent towards Iraq than North Korea? Because of South Korea. Both Koreas, North and South, have always argued that the North must be treated as a special case. Okay, I can see that; after all, Korea isn't some tin pot dictatorship like Iraq, but the last unfinished battle of the Cold War. So, we'll give the South Koreans time to talk some sense into Kim Jong Il. I really like the Koreans and do not want to see war on their peninsula, but depending on how things go in Iraq, I would say that there is a fair chance that if reelected in 2004 President Bush will turn his attention (and Rummy's war machine) against the DPRK. I pray the Koreas can reach an understanding before then.

(The official name of North Korea is, in true Communist style, the Democratic People's Republic of Korea or DPRK. South Korea is simply the Republic of Korea or ROK.)

Wednesday, October 16, 2002

I've been a useless fucker. No reason but a low-level malaise. I was grocery shopping on Saturday night (yes, my life is that exciting) when I let a college-aged girl cut in front of me. She had five or six items precariously balanced in her arms and I had an entire cart; so, I was committing a small kindness. Then I let two little high school dorks with a frozen pizza in front of me for the same reason. The girl was on her cell phone and the boys were talking about the crap on the front pages of the tabloids. She turned to them and snapped, "You're yelling. Could you not yell?" A girl on a cell phone in line at the supermarket felt justified in correcting someone else for their rude behavior? At that moment, the world turned upside down. For a little while, I was upset with myself for doing a favor to such a cold bitch, but I stopped when I realized I had no way of knowing she was cruel when I let her cut. And that's that. To their credit, once she insulted them, the boys apologized and tried not to incur her wrath again. And when she snapped at them, they weren't being that loud.

My mother wants to read The Newsletter. No good can come of this.

Ever since he and Miss Missy broke up, Neutral Man's been very enthusiastic about going to rock shows. He came to Reel Big Fish on Thursday with the Bald Mountain, Guy Zach Nie!, the Plate, and I, though of course he didn't dance. I've got to tell you, I just don't get it and it's really bugging me. Why is he there? He has no desire to go into the pit. He wouldn't be happy in the pit. If you aren't going to dance, why fork over the cash to go see a band live? If you're only there to stand around and hear the songs, you can do that at home. As I told the Guy and the Plate on Thursday, I sort of wish he wasn't there. Maybe that's incredibly selfish of me, which is a distinct possibility. But these shows are important to me, and I don't like the feeling that I'm aiding and abetting - what? - a poser? But I'm not sure that's what I'm feeling. Maybe he's just looking for a connection since he the break up, and what can be wrong with that? I'm trying not to let him know it's bothering me because I feel bad that it's bothering me. Maybe I should stop trying to figure it out and just let him stand on the balcony while the rest of us kill each other in the pit.

I tried to explain this to Linz, but to no avail. She got hung up on the fact that Neutral Man doesn't go in the pit. M: "Well, he doesn't go in the pit, but I'm not surprised since he's not a really physical guy." L: "I'm not very physical." M: "No, but you do go into the pit. And you played sports. I've never heard [Neutral Man] mention that he's ever played any sports." L: "Really?" (In all fairness though, at the time of this conversation she was running on two hours of sleep.)

I want to dress up for Halloween, but I only know of one party and I really do not want to go to it. Sure, I'd see Justinemily, whom I haven't seen in months, but I'd also see Alber & SSG and Orin & Jenni, the hosts. I don't mind Jenni except that the few times I've seen her without Orin (whom I can do without), she was with SSG; so, she has terrible taste in people. Last year, I attended their party, but things were different as Lindsay was there, Neutral Man and Miss Missy were there, and I was more inclined to put up with Alber (who perpetrated one of his last acts of defiance by not dressing up as a T-Bird to SSG's Pink Lady). I may be all dressed up with nowhere to go, but of course to do that I'll have to decide on a costume.

Wednesday, October 9, 2002

I had a great time at work last night, though. "I'll fucking show you incidental."
I'm so fucking tired. And I'm fighting with the Mountain. He's going to the RBF show solo because of work. He said, "I want to work on Thursday." Of course, I exploded. Jesus, if he'd only learn to use the English language to, oh, I don't know, say what he means, we'd argue significantly less. But he speaks in such broad and totally inaccurate terms that it's impossible to get a bead on what he's saying, and then he get mads at people (especially me) for not understanding him. Language is about nuance, hoser. What he meant to say was, "I have to drive to the show alone since I can't get out of work." That would have garnered a completely different reaction. But, I've spent years trying to explain that to him and I'm fucking done. At least for today, I'm too fucking tired to try and translate for him.

God, I need to call California tonight. I'm so fucking tired.

Tuesday, October 8, 2002

Gal Zach Nie! wrote a column for The Newsletter. I'm of two minds about it. On the one hand, I hated every word of it and thought the "reasoning" behind it was infantile at best. On the other, we've always said we want to encourage a variety of ideas and the only reason I'd reject it is because I violently disagree with it. So, unless Neutral Man and the Plate both object (the Editorial Staff is a democracy!), we're going to publish an idiot's ideas on Iraq. It will be, undoubtedly, the stupidest piece we've every published, even dumber than "Words of Wisdumb." I wouldn't be in this position if it weren't for the highly overrated moral high ground.

Neutral Man saw his ex-girlfriend yesterday. So, now he's "in emotional turmoil." Oy.

Monday, October 7, 2002

On Friday, W.A.P. noticed my tattoo. "Is that new?" "Uh, since May." I think someone is circulating a template for tattoo discovery conversations. The first question: "Is that new?" There is variation here, as some folks preface "Is that new?" with "Is that real?," but everyone asks about the recentness of the ink. It was cute for a while, but it's been five months now. Anyway, W.A.P. adhered to the template by asking what it stood for. I told him I just like the design, that I think it's pretty. As with most people, he seemed confused by this. (Why is it so hard for people to accept that I find a skull-and-crossbones pretty? Narrow-minded so-and-sos....) Then I told him that many people think it makes me a pirate; so, I humor them - and in this instance him - by squinting my left eye, bending my right arm in front of me, and doing my best pirate, "Arrrrh." Par for the course, he accepted this statement as meaning I wanted the tattoo because I think I'm a pirate. This miscomprehension would annoy me, except that people readily accept it; so, it shuts them up and they then leave me alone, which is really my only goal in these conversations.

I think Neutral Man may have gained access to The Secret Base. I didn't see him at all on Friday, yet yesterday he called my new backpack Big Red. I didn't ask him if he reads this, and I can't be certain he does as Big Red is a pretty obvious name for my bag. Curious. The Secret Base was recently compared to a snooty, exclusive night club, in that if you have to ask where it is, you'll never know. I can't really disagree with that. God knows how many (if any) random folks have wondered into here, but for the most part I do want to keep out the riff raff (which is a highly subjective term). Still, the only person I actively do not want to read this is Lindsay, and she has said she will respect my desire for privacy.

I IMed with Skeeter on Saturday night (I was at home with access to Dad's crappy computer) and had an absolutely enchanting time. She expressed regret that we talk so infrequently. While I'd love to talk more, too, I still found the remark odd as that's always been the pattern of our friendship, at least since the end of high school with its regimented schedule (i.e. enforced hang-out time). If you have not had the pleasure of Skeeter's acquaintance, you really are missing out on an amazing girl.

Friday, October 4, 2002

This morning, my beloved backpack finally bit the dust. I'm not sad, though, because it gave the last full measure of devotion; nine years on campaign, all the great battles of all the important fronts of my life. "LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION"

Now I'm breaking in its replacement, Big Red (or maybe, after Captain Marvel, the Big Red Cheese).

Thursday, October 3, 2002

Mike Cammalleri was an ice hockey player for the University of Michigan. Mr. Cammalleri decided to forego his senior year of eligibility to play in the NHL. This week, he was cut from the roster of the Los Angeles Kings and sent down to the minors. This is considered a major disappointment for him, and as he won't be playing in the NHL (and not receiving the salary that is the reward for such a position) it could be said that he would have been better off staying at Michigan for his senior season. Ha ha! Fuck Mike Cammalleri. I hope his season is a disaster; I'd like him to suffer a career-ending injury (like, say, both his knees implode) and end up a sad sack of a pathetic has-been with no college degree working at a gas station. If you play all four years at Michigan, you have earned perpetual loyalty. I don't care what team you play for, if you kept the faith, I'll cheer for you forever. By the same token, if you turn your back of us, the Wolverine faithful, you can go fuck yourself. We wash our hands of you, and I personally hope for nothing but fiasco and debacle 'til the end of your days. Fuck you, Mike Cammalleri, I hope you fail.

In other news, yesterday's episode of Enterprise handled the Romulans about as well as one could have hoped. This is not to say that I'm not still gravely concerned about the complete mishandling of the Klingons, but credit where credit is due, so far they haven't mucked up the renegade sons of Vulcan.

Oh, yeah, and my hands are all cut up from the Flounders; so, I've got several Band-Aids on and feel like I could take on the whole Empire myself.

Wednesday, October 2, 2002

From the world of music...
Ugh, I've got that crappy new song from crappy Good Charlotte stuck in my head. I hate Good Charlotte. They're just awful. Rassum frassum no talent posers. I caught sweet Canadian jailbait pop sensation Avril Lavigne last night on Letterman, performing "Sk8er Boi"*. Yeah, Dave could have comatose aardvarks as guests and only one grainy camera and The Late Show would still be a million times better than The Tonight Show. Leno fans fucking suck. They are Epsilons. (*Note: I am not a fan of purposeful misspelling - with the hypocritical exception of "sez" - but in the interest of accuracy, the song is titled "Sk8er Boi," not "Skater Boy" as it should be.)

A band to whom you should all listen: The Mighty Mighty Bosstones.
"In his favorite bar, in his favorite seat,
I saw the Devil, wingtip shoes on his feet,
Porkpie hat on his head, he was digging the beat,
And the band ripped like demons when he screamed, 'Turn up the heat!'"

("Devil's Night Out" from Devil's Night Out.)

Lindsay called me last night. She'd been crying and I could tell she would again before the night was out. I've never understood cryers. In no way am I trying to make light of anyone's crying, I simply do not understand. I've never been a cryer. I've cried, but it's never been a default reaction to anything. It confuses me to no end. Lindsay tries to be so fierce... and then boom, waterworks. I don't understand. I want to, but understanding will be a long time coming, if ever.

Tuesday, October 1, 2002

I received an email from Jon Britton asking me for my address so he could formally invite me to he and Jaime's wedding. Booth has moved (an intracity move only) and invited the whole gang up for a "Beer and Liquor Party." I've nothing significant to say, but I find it highly amusing - and sometimes disconcerting - how little some people change and how massively others reinvent themselves.

Do any of us ever truly know who we are? (Jumpin' Jack Pratt, that sounded pretentious as all hell. "Aw, crap, now the bugger's asking 'What does it all mean?' questions." "This can't fucking end well. I hate this 'quest for meaning' shite.")
Every time I try to give people the benefit of the doubt, I wonder why. It's not like a single one of these experiments has ever proven me wrong. I'm trying to be fair to people, and I'm really staring to regret that. Case in point: last night after The Daily Show, the Flying Dutchman and I watched Leno's opening monologue. Sweet merciful crap! The man was doing Clinton intern "jokes"! (Clinton intern jokes? Somebody get this man a calendar!) Ugh. So, the Dutchman's prestige took another direct hit, since after this horror he still had the nerve to say, "Okay, there may have only been two good laughs," an overestimation, I assure you, "but that's still two more than we would have had watching Letterman." The kid may very well have to be downgraded from "respectable" to "another worthless friend of Brad." I swear, except for me, the kid's friends are a sorry lot. I'm no prize, but these kids are pathetic.

It is hot and humid on this the first day of October. It's the kind of day when I'd skip class if I still had any. But I don't; so, that simple pleasure is denied me.

I left a message at Lindsay's last night. It's been nearly two weeks since we talked, and we've been playing phone tag the entire time. It's infuriating. (Potential nicknames for Linz: George Bernard Shaw, or George; Edna, since St. Vincent Millay is her favorite poet; Tiger, as she also loves Blake; Palindrome Girl, since she said it had to be lucky to be 22 in 2002.)

Monday, September 30, 2002

Dylan, I guess I could wait, but I want it now! "It can flash-fry a buffalo in forty seconds." "Forty seconds? But I want it now!"

Um, ooo... brain fart. I forgot what I was going to post. Yep, I'm an idiot.

It has come to my attention that the Flying Dutchman* does not enjoy the film Rushmore and lists the Dave Matthews Band among his five favorite bands. Hmmm, bad things may have to happen to him. (*Based on Friday's identification of Jim and Dan as "the Plate" and "the Pikachu Tamer," and inspired by The Watergirl's blog, I am experimenting with using nicknames as primary identifiers. For example, "the Bald Mountain" for David and "K. Steeze" universally in place of Kevin Stermer, etc. This is not being done to protect anyone's anonymity - the Flying Dutchman is Mike Lindemulder - but because I like nicknames.)

Friday, September 27, 2002

Although they are not what the once were and I hate their whoring out to MTV, it must be said that "Rock Show" by Blink-182 is still a good song. Poppy, but Blink's always been poppy. And I love the line "I fell in love with the girl at the rock show" because it makes me think happy thoughts about Linz (instead of crappy, dwelling on how terribly I miss her thoughts).

Here's the chain of thoughts that lead to that comment: Tonight, the Plate, the Pikachu Tamer, and I are going to see Mustard Plug at St. Andrew's Hall in beautiful Detroit, Michigan. Both previous Plug shows I've attended I did so with Linz (both at Ann Arbor's Blind Pig). The first ska show Lindsay ever attended was a Plus show at the Pig by my invitation. And although I did not know her at the time I wrote the line, one of the lyrics of the Real Can of Yams song "Riot Grrl" is "Raging in the pit she's oh so cute" and this is perfectly true about the lovely Ms. Shaw. Elsewhere, she is never magnificent in quite the same way as when she's crushed between sweaty punks in a hopping pit. So, Plug tonight, Plug with Linz, Linz at the rock show, "I fell in love with the girl at the rock show."

It's no "Josie," but "Rock Show" proves that there is still something worth saving in Blink-182.

Thursday, September 26, 2002


Okay, here it is folks, your guide to understanding the Crisis on Infinite Earths and why it matters. I can tell you this: DC Comics has an incredibly complex post-Crisis continuity. However, had there never been the Crisis, DC continuity - pre-Crisis plus the intervening seventeen years - would be indecipherable to any newcomer. In large measure then, I owe my love of comics to the Crisis on Infinite Earths. (Yes, one day I hope to do an entire Newsletter column about being a fanboy.)

Wednesday, September 25, 2002

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
45. You should know all this and more without my telling you.
Yeah, I know, I thought the ending sucked, too. I understand that it's hard to come up with forty-five new yet true statements about relationships, but if you can't do forty-five there's no shame in stopping at a lower number.

The Newsletter is in crisis. Not a cool crisis like the Crisis on Infinite Earths, but a crisis nonetheless. I think I have to fire Brad. We'd retain his column (pathetic drivel though it is), but as far as being an editor, the kid is fucking worthless. He's my friend and I don't want to kick him when he's already down about Missy, but it's unfair to us for him to not pull his weight. We're asking him to do things he's unwiling to do, but we're only asking because he told us he was willing to do them. No, there's no other way.

(I'll probably go back when I have more time and find a cool link for the Crisis; so, look back for that later today or tomorrow.)