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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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"?

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?

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.)

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.)

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.)

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.

DYLAN HANEY, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND DECENT WILL YOU PLEASE BLOG!

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.)

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.)

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
44. I remember everything about our relationship.
No, my love, you do not. Neither do I. None of us do. We all forget, often because we want to, sometimes just because we do. But you remember all the important things, and all the things you can use against me, and for that I love you.
Tomorrow, the conclusion of "45 Things She Wishes You Knew."

On Saturday night, I saw a girl get struck by a car. I couldn't tell you anything about the car except that it was dark. I bolted to the girl; the first person to her, sitting there in the middle of State. Her boyfriend grabbed her other arm and we lifted her from the pavement. I directed them to the wall in front of the Union and sat her down. A crowd of strangers were gathered around us, cell phones in most of their hands, calling an ambulance, calling the police, shouting at each other to get the license plate number. Another car stopped and told us the plate number. She was bleeding from a cut above her right eye and crimson marred her white shirt. Her fingers tinged with blood and spreading it to her shoulder, she crossed herself; it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

It took some coaxing, but using my best lifeguard voice I got her to lie down. "I'm not trying to minimize this, but it's a head wound and they bleed profusely; so, don't worry about the blood." She asked if her tooth was chipped and I said yes. Later she asked if anyone could see it lying in the street.She never lost consciousness, but she was starting to go into shock. I talked to her and told she was going to be okay. Some frat boys bought napkins from their house, the one next to the Union, and we started to clean her up. She walked to the wall with our assistance; so, there was no major spinal damage. I didn't check for broken bones, but she didn't mention anything specifically hurting. She asked why someone would do such a thing - "He looked right at me" - but I told her that she'd done nothing wrong and that she was going to be okay.

The Fire Department and the police came. They took her to the U of M hospital. The boyfriend was stunned; I told him not to worry about the car, just to tell her she was going to be all right. "And take care of yourself, man." I hadn't seen the car hit her; I'd reacted once I heard the thud, though I did see her white shirt suspended in the air for less than a moment, above the hood and off to one side. Then, I just ran full out into traffic. Thank God I didn't have to think. I hadn't seen the car before it hit her and I didn't see the driver; so, after he took my name, the police officer didn't need anything from me. He told us that they had the car, though. I was kind of freaked out Saturday night, but I'm cool now. I just kept seeing her doing it over and over: She crossed herself. She crossed herself. She crossed herself.

I'd like to be against a war with Iraq, but I'm just not capable of that kind of moral cowardice.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
42. It's cheating as soon as you're doing something with her that you wouldn't want me to see, hear, read...
and
43. For the record: I'd rather you break up with me than cheat.
I cannot agree with this strongly enough. If you are with someone, you are with them to the romantic/sexual exclusion of all others. Period. I don't care if you're dating the worst person in the world, as long as you haven't broken up with her, you will conduct yourself with complete fidelity. In a surprise move, Brad ripped the Band-Aid off; he broke up with Missy on Monday. On Sunday, I told him, "I mean, I don't know if you're even interested in looking for another girl, even a rebound girl, but you will not do anything until you've talked to Missy and it's over. I don't care how dead your relationship is, until there has been a formal declaration, you are still with her." I despise anyone who has ever cheated on their boyfriend or girlfriend. It is far better to dump a girl hard than to cheat on her just a little bit. And if you do cheat, whether or not to confess is your business and depends on your relationship, but I hope your conscience eats you alive. There is no higher virtue than loyalty, and infidelity is one of the gravest forms of disloyalty.

Lindsay does not approve of my purchase of Avril Lavigne's Let Go. This would bother me more if Linz weren't a devoted fan of (snicker snicker) Aerosmith.

The second season of Enterprise got under way Wednesday night. The good continues to outweigh the bad. I am deeply concerned about this December's tenth feature film, Star Trek: Nemesis.

Yeah, okay, I fixed the nickname problem, by who in the hell do they think they are to reset my information like that?

I'm thinking about changing the name of this blog to "Ev Is A Useless Fucker." Yea? Nay?

Okay, good news, The Secret Base is once again functional... but when the FUCK did I change my profile from "Mike Wilson" to "The Last Angry Man"?!? The assholes who run Blogger are worthless sacks of camel droppings. Fucking useless son-of-bitches. I mean it when I say a pox upon their heads. Terminal? No. But I want those Epsilons good and sick for a long fucking time; maybe a nice bout of the clap or some kind of festering boils.

A pox on the heads of the morons behind Blogger! A pox, you hear me, a pox!

Oh, and guess what? The email address for Blogger support is no longer functional. You receive a reply directing you to the help section of the webpage. There, once you have identified your type of problem, it tells you to use the email address for Blogger support. Fuck the Blogger people, they are Epsilons of the worst kind.

Some folks have been experiencing this error since last Friday, and they still can't publish. I know no one can read this, at least not right now, but I'd appreciate suggestions for a new host. I like the format of Blogger, but not being able to publish entirely defeats the purpose of having a blog; so, The Secret Base may have to move. Damn it.

It's not even fucking worth it to try "45 Things" or anything else right now.

Other blogs are working, but neither of mine. I feel so special. Perfection in performance is a ridiculous fantasy, but this malfunction is becoming almost routine. The only part of this that makes me angry is that the error message contains a link to a troubleshooting page, but my error is not among those for which help is provided. The assholes who run Blogger can go fuck themselves. Don't offer to help people and then do nothing; just say you can't help. Just be honest, you worthless collections of bile.

I had an atrocious time at work last night. I hated the bitch I was working with. The entire time was spend listening to her witless prattle about needing to get laid. It was honestly worse than any possible caricature of the most boorish frat boy. She was, perhaps, the most base human being I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. I will do everything in my power to never again work with her again. If I have to, I may just try to get fired to get out of it.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
41. Even nice girls like hushed dirty talk in public.
I would not know where to begin. I am a funny guy, but I cannot tell ribald jokes. They just don't work for me. Same principle here; so, I just don't think I could make that work, even were it what she wanted.

This morning, I once again dwelled upon the fact that you can have known someone for years, and then in one moment you realize that everything you've ever said to each other isn't a lie, but it's just no longer true.

Blogger is non-functional. Again. Joy. But, at least it's letting me post, if not publish; so, I'll write this now and post it once possible.

Dan got dumped hard in August and Brad is about to break up with Missy (about friggin' time). Hmm, like celebrity deaths, the disintegration of couples seems to be a grouped phenomenon. So, last night Brad kept me up until 2:30 trying to work up the fortitude to do it; I fully support this decision, I'm just annoyed that it will take a few more nights of his agonizingly slow decision-making process before he's ready. And Dan and I will watch his old tapes of Mobile Suit Zeta Gundam; ah, sweet anime, lessens the pain.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
40. I love holding your bum in the palms of my hands.
Um, okay. Fantastic, as long as it isn't a PDA.

I forgot that I have to work tonight; so, no trivia night at Conor's for me. *sigh* But, at least tomorrow's a sleep in day, meaning I only have to wake up in time to watch Hamtaro!

I was going to pull my air conditioner out of my window and rearrange my room (and I may yet), but now I'm feeling tired and beat up from the Flounders. I've played all three days this week, and last night I had a broomball game at midnight (followed by work this morning at 8:00). My hands are all cut up and both elbows are bashed to hell. My right shoulder has some discolored bruises, there is a painful scrape on my right shin, and my lip is a little puffy. I love violent sports.

After the game last night, I was so excited about our victory that I called Linz. We talked for forty minute and I laughed the entire time. It was truly excellent.

If things go according to plan, I'll be going to Monday trivia at Conor's with Zach , Sarah, and Katie. For seemingly no reason, I keep seeing this girl I know, Veronica Capellos, everywhere. Seriously, I've seen her at least three times this week. And Brad Schnieder, too. I've run into him almost every day since the weekend. It's beginning to creep me out.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
39. A lady should always be greeted with kisses.
I would if I could, I would if I could. If you'll forgive me, now I'm going to dreamily remember what her lips felt like when she kissed me....

Remember kids, if you see something you don't like on the internet (yes, they do have the internet on computers now), just resist the temptation to look at it. Of course, if I'm doing something that somebody doesn't like, it would be unreasonable to ask to ask them to simply not look at it. Better to ask me to stop doing what they don't like. Wacky.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
38. It's best to consult your gal pals for gift ideas.
Ha ha! Wrong! Radio Free Wilson, the ska and punk mix CDs I compiled and burned for her before she moved to Berkeley, was an entirely male-conceived idea. Okay, so a mix tape is not anything new, but no gal pals were consulted. And, man oh man, you should have seen her reaction; one of the greatest moments of my life. For a more typical guy and a more typical girl, though, consulting probably isn't a bad idea.

I've woken up no later than 8:30 for the past six days. The only hard part is a two-hour drowsy spell from 10pm-midnight. After midnight, I gt my second wind and it's hard to go to sleep before 2 or 2:30.

I hate writing birthday cards. Lindsay really liked my card, but I don't remember exactly what I said. Yeah, I know the main thrust of it, but it would be nice to have a transcript as reference material. And it's frustrating when there's been tension, and you're not completely over it. Because whatever that tension is, it's just contemporary dingo's kidneys, whereas you want the card to last forever. I want every card I write to be dated, to very much reflect the exact moment in which it was written, but to still be endearing in twenty years. (I say twenty years even though I know these things get thrown away; however, I save them because whatever my mind knows gets trumped by my intuitive assumption that everyone else saves them as well.)

Anything I could say of any consequence about today's anniversary I said in The Newsletter. God bless America.

Yesterday was Lindsay's birthday. The card was very well-received, as was the phone call. When I mean to be, I can be rather adept.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
Tuesday's...
36. Celebrating our anniversary, even it it's only been a few months, earns major bonus points.
I remember the day I met Lindsay; I remember the date. I remember the terrible night we saw Hannibal and she eviscerated me. I mentioned the anniversary of our meeting and she seemed surprised I remembered. I remember everything.

Today's...
37. I love it when you're sweaty.
Man, she must love me all the time then, because I'm the bastard who helped invent Sweating Like A Wilson.

I attended a truly great party at David's new apartment on Saturday night. It was the perfect atmosphere, the perfect number of people, within that number the perfect number of people I already knew, the perfect amount of drinking. A grand time standing around and talking to people I don't see very often. Aided by Bacchus, a number of them were extrememly happy to see me, which is a boost to the ol' ego. Man oh man, it was fun.

Also this weekend, I was told that the smoking of some good pot reminder the smoker of me. It was explained that the quality of the pot spoke to my well known insistance on quality. Nevertheless, I think this is the very first time I have even been associated with pot to anyone anywhere in any way.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
35. I like it when you tell me what you're thinking, even if you don't know yourself.
The last time I told her what was on my mind, it got my in trouble. I was staring off into space and she asked me, "What?" Before I even thought about it, I turned to her and said, "I'm trying to figure out what I did wrong." An intense and meaningful discussion followed. Now, that it not to say that the above is not true. Maybe then it was time we discussed some things, her departure being very near at that point. I like this one.

The July and August issues of The Newsletter have finally been mailed out. (I am a firm believer in "better late than never.") Excellent progress has been made on the new website and it should be launching shortly. (Maybe we should have a vastly inflated IPO?) The envelopes are all ready for September's first issue, Vol. IV, No. 1 - which will be mailed out on Monday come Hell or high water - to be followed two weeks later by an issue marking The Newsletter's first birthday.

Tomorrow, I get to recert for new Lifeguard and CPR cards. I don't know why, but lately I've had this great sense that things are starting to come together; the dark bastard remains silent, which is his way of pouting. "I have great faith in my own invincibility." Anything repeated often enough eventually becomes the truth. All this, and my shameful infatuation with Avril Lavigne continues.

I'm back from DC. The drive was actually really fun. I start to get bored when I drive anywhere by myself, but since I had to minimally concentrate on the truck ahead of me, I was alert and engaged the entire time. I wish I'd brought more than eight CDs, though. I actually talked to people on the plane home, a first for me. Not a life-altering experience, but noteworthy nevertheless.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
34. Discussion of ex-gf's and ex-bf's should be avoided at all times.
I disagree. Why? Because I want to know everything. I just do, it's how I am. This isn't about jealousy or inadequacy, just curiosity. I want to know about Marrying Mike and what made him so precious to her. For good or for ill, you can tell a lot about a person by his associates. So, by knowing something about the guys she has dated, I could learn more about her. Of course, for my part the closest thing I've ever had to a girlfriend is Psycho Hose Beast. However, if you ask I'll tell you everything I know about her. It isn't a "knowledge is power" ego trip, I just like knowing things. And I'm secure enough to not freak out... too much.

My third day of training for ye olde new employment. Today was kind of weird, in that we were introduced to the facilities we'll be running by way of a scavenger (face) hunt. This was entertaining, but not necessarily effective, as the competative nature of the hunt encouraged us to cut corners wherever possible. And boy howdy did we ever. Nevertheless, it did lend itself to the odd experience of fitting six people into a car by having three guys sit in the backseat with a girl distributed between all three of their laps; over three journeys, I got her head twice and her legs once.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
33. If I'm not feeling loved, I will start looking....
Even though we're not together, I shower her with attention and affection; so, no worries there. At this point in her life, being with a guy isn't very important to Linz. But, what will I do when that changes? Though I am fighting to truly be beyond jealousy, I know it will devastate me the first time she talks about a guy that way. Or, what's worse, if I find out she does feel that way about another fellow but was unwilling to tell me. Of course, these speculations are completely unfair to her, as they are born purely out of my own anxieties and insecurities.

I had a dream this morning, which is very rare for me as I'm quite a deep sleeper. I was a combination of Michael Keaton and Erik Estrada, and I was wearing overalls and a white shirt. I was standing in a field with my wife, a dark-haired woman whose face I could not see. She was doing cartwheels in front of our house and was suddenly shot through the neck. I ran to our front door, but could not open it. Then, the man on our porch shot me. I had not seen him as I'd run to the door, even though he was the one who shot my wife. He was a ratty beachcomber type, with a white button shirt, short shorts, sandals, and a beard like Jesus. He walked in through the garage and the police, who had suddenly arrived, could not shoot him. They shot and shot, but always missed, and he killed a couple of them. He had a very unconcerned look on his face. I then consciously decided, as the omniscient narrator, that unless they are Clint Eastwood, I hate these types of unstoppable killers. So, I had the actor Eric Begosian shoot him in the back of the head. I liked having that kind of control over a dream, instead of just helplessly letting it happen.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
32. I want to be the best thing that ever happened to you--and for you to recognize this.
(Before I begin, a caveat: I am one undeservedly fortunate bastard. I am an American, from an upper-middle class, well-educated background [I am at least the fourth consecutive generation to attend college]. I was born in the late 20th century, a time of unmatched prosperity and potential. I am smart, and I am loved. These things did not "happen" to me, they are who I am. Similarly, my beloved brother did not happen to me. I have no memory of a time before David; so, from my perspective there was not a time before David. He is a fact of my being, an integral part of who I am for whom I am grateful to God each and every day, even if he doesn't believe in Him. That said....)
She is, and I do, but in honoring her wishes I cannot tell her so. I cannot even describe her to you. How do I articulate the majesty in her eyes? The glorious mischief in her smile? The heaven and hell in her voice? How do you describe the greatest thing to even happen to you? How do I live with the cruelty, unintended though it was, of her sending me this list? How do I make people realize that in all the earth there is none so lucky as I? She is the best thing that ever happened to me, and so I wait. I wait, and I remember the words of Alfred Bester, the first line of chapter one of The Stars My Destination, "He was one hundred and seventy days dying and not yet dead."

I will be helping my sister move to Washington, D.C. from Friday until the following Wednesday. It should be a glorious adventure.

My life and my philosophical orientation are such that the most pressing problem in my life was that I was fast running out of clean socks. Now, I'm knee deep (pun intended) in clean socks. Sweet. I missed This American Life today, but I'll be at work when it's rebroadcast tomorrow; so, I'll have no choice but to sit down and listen to it. I love that show, but it's so hard to make myself sit down and just listen to a radio show. And This American Life is so good that I really want to pay attention; so, I can't really do anything else, thus making it even harder to make myself set aside the time. Ah, NPR, why dost thou vex me so?

But, the socks dilema solved, now I face the problem of establishing a dialogue with California. I'm worried that a girl at work likes me. Most of me hopes that it's just out of control egotism, but a small part of me doesn't. It's the small part that has me worried.

Although I have received several requests (and by that I mean a grand total of one request) for the addition of a commenting feature, I will not be doing so. Having seen the way it slows down others pages (i.e. Skeeter's taking two and a half minutes to load), we're not going to muck around with that kind of fancy gadget. We would, however, very much like to muck around with the keyboard player from The Gadjits (insert leering here).

I played a game each of Art Truck and DDR today. I still blow chunks at Art Truck, but come Thanksgiving I'm going to dance dance circles around Linz. Because nothing says love like a mercless shalacking.

Linz called last night while the Mountain was over. On Wednesday night I didn't have anything to do; so, of course, both of them were available yesterday. Lousy irony.

Know what I hate? The fucking gamer sitting two computers down. Yes, he's got the volume turned down, but I can still hear that maddeningly repetative video game music and clash of comically proportioned swords. Rassum frassum, no good so-and-so.

Welcome to Axis Chemicals. I'm Jack Napier. "We've been ratted out here, boys."

The Order of Things, III
I am many things. Among them, I am a) sarcastic, b) insensitive, and c) not actually a bad person, despite appearances. I'm also many other things, but these three are germaine to the present discussion. I'm often sarcastic, too often when I shouldn't be. I'm also insensitive, and by that I mean I'm regrettably oblivious to how my actions may affect others. For this, I am sorry. I am working to be more aware of how my words will be seen by others, but there's still a long way to go. This is how I am. If you can't accept this, you'd best find another blog with which to waste your time because this one will continue to be a minefield for the indefinite future. Now, I'm not sorry that I'm sarcastic. I love sarcasm. Yet, sometimes I'm sarcastic when I shouldn't be i.e. I'm insensitive to how my sarcasm will be received. Nuts. Again, I'm working on it; so, bear with me. Or don't. It's your dime, after all. But, I really do want to do right by my friends. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, and I'm happy to tell you that with the flow of traffic, I'm making excellent time. This blog, as stated to the left of your screen, is about people. If you know me, some day it might be about you. I am trying to be more considerate and I'm not trying to hurt anybody (or rather, if I'm trying to hurt you, you'll know), but this is my blog and it reflects what I think and if it can't be that, then it will simply cease to be. Read at your own risk, since I sure as hell am writing at mine.

MxPx's Ten Years And Running is amazing. The only thing I don't like about MxPx is that they're only two years older than I am, yet they've been a band for ten years. And they're great. (Really, I love that about them, I'm just envious.)

The worst thing about fighting with a friend is you cannot really fight. You know each other so well that you are able to inflict real damage, but neither of you really lets loose, since, after all, this is your friend you're talking about. Somebody you love. It's really fucking frustrating, especially when you've been cut very very deeply, even more deeply than they intended or realize, and you can't bring yourself to mount more than a token counterattack. And then an armistice is signed and it's just over. No, I do not at all recommend fighting with a friend. The experience is highly unsatisfactory.

The Order of Things, II
Hey, remember the last time I put a gun to your head and forced you to read my blog? Everyone reading this is doing so of his or her own volition. If you do not like what you are reading, here are some suggested courses of action: a) just stop reading my blog, genius; b) mutteringly call me an asshole; c) let me know that you think I'm a douchebag (my email address is mpw@umich.edu); d) let it slide, since it's not like you care what I think anyway. If you don't like me, if you don't consider me a friend, then I fail to see why you'd care what I have to say. If I don't like you, you can bet your bottom dollar that I do not care what you think about me. Not my friend = your opinions don't matter to me. The same principle should hold true for you. If you don't like me, then why would anything I say bother you? Tell me to take a long walk off a short pier if you like, but by Jove, don't let me tell you what to think. If you agree with me, great. If I can persuade you to see things my way, fantastic. But if you don't like me, just ignore me. Have enough faith in yourself to tell me to go bugger myself when we disagree. And if you do not have that kind of faith in yourself, then you deserve whatever you get. If you don't like me but my opinions are still upsetting to you, maybe you don't like yourself much either.

The University's Macs have all been changed over to the OS X operating system/interface. No, sir, I don't like it. Not one damn bit. And now, to the Post Office! Away!

Yesterday was a lot of fun; nevertheless, it was undoubtedly the worst Warped Tour I've experienced.

I stayed at home overnight, and had breakfast this morning with Mom at Bob Evan's. We talked about Dad's descent into madness and she seemed intrigued by my theory that it began after his father died. Grandpa Wilson was a madman, may he rest in peace, and since his death his second son (my dad) has grown to be more and more like him. We resolved nothing, but still, it's always nice when Mom and I can share a moment.

The war seems to be over, but I don't believe things can ever be the same between my adversary and me. I'm really quite upset about that.

It's going to be a busy week; so blogging may be erractic. Thus, "45 Things" will not return until next Monday, August 26.

The Order of Things, I
When I began The Secret Base of the Rebel Black Dot Society, inspired by my dear friend Julie, I revealed its existence to but a small group of people. These were the people whom I hoped would be interested in what I chose to say. I did not reveal its existence to most people, as I had no intention that they would ever read it. Others were excluded by necessity; for instance, Lindsay knows I have a blog, and as I have not invited her to read it, she correctly assumed that there were things therein that I preferred she not know. I hoped, and still do, that some strangers would wander in from the wilds of the Internet and find my writings intriguing. This is a concession to vanity of which I am not the least bit ashamed. But I considered the possibility that persons known to me whom I had not invited would visit the Secret Base to be remote at best. Even when the Secret Base was linked to Julie's blog, I didn't think anyone I knew would read it. I honestly didn't think they'd be interested. Had a known that certain persons were reading, I would not have changed a word, even though I never anticipated they would be reading. Next time in "The Order of Things," we will discuss the whys and wherefores of when you shouldn't give a hill of beans about what I say.

Left over from last week, The Bourne Identity was good and the 1962 Gregory Peck-Robert Mitchum Cape Fear is vastly superior to the 1991 Nick Nolte-Robert DeNiro Cape Fear.

Welcome to the second day of The Base of the Dot. I'd say "Welcome to the second exciting day," but as we discussed, personal opinions are a terrible thing. Good thing our friendly NYC-based Thought Police are here to make sure we are all good little conformists. Anything else I'd say would be sure to be tainted by personal bias; so, good day to you all and have another day. (Again, I'd say "Have a good day," but, you know.)

Oh, yeah, so it looks like I won't be going to New York in the Fall.

Hey, good news everyone! Due to the fact that I hurt somebody's feelings, this blog will no longer be about what I think and feel, but rather about nothing at all, as this is the only way to give no offense. Whew, thank my lucky stars I've been shown the error of my ways. Heaven forbid I should have kept writing what I felt in my blog.

I guess the first place to start shaping up my act would be the title: The Secret Base of the Rebel Black Dot Society. Well, "Secret" has clearly got to go, as it implies that this blog doesn't belong to everyone, when obivously it should reflect the broad opinion of the whole group, not that of one lone crackpot. "Rebel," now that won't do at all. What kind of a world would we live in if someone felt strongly enough about something to rebel? It gives me nightmares just thinking about it. "Black" is either racist or insane. If by "Black" I mean "of or relating to African-Americans," then I really should use the proper term, African-Americans. Or, if it was meant as dark, cynical, or not optimistic, well, than that indicates a mental health illness, as the only reasonable way to live is to love everyone and embrace all ideas as equal. And a "Society," well, that just screams exclusionary. No no, I'm afraid that cannot stand. Submissions for a new, friendlier name to this blog are welcome. Please email them to mpw@umich.edu. Thank you. Until then, please regard this site as The Base of the Dot.

My friend Lindsay is swell. In fact she [Censored: Personal Opinions Are Not Allowed.]. Hmm, no go? Well, I guess that's fair. If I am allowed to express positive opinions, I'll only become full of myself and eventually think I can express negative, or at the least uncomplimentary, opinions.

I saw The Bourne Identity last night. I'd tell you what I though of it, but, you know, we can't have that.

Hmmm, weddings. I had a great time at Sarah von Linsowe's. Okay, I had a great time after Sarah von Linsowe's wedding, when Linz and I went to Conor's still decked out in our fancy clothes. (My God, she was stunning in that dress.) At the reception, we sat with and talked to the Knags, which is always fun. Emma invited me to her wedding in December, but I have serious doubts that I'll get a real invitation. And you know, that doesn't bother me, because Emma and I haven't been close since high school and this Brandon kid she's marrying, I don't know him from Adam.. I don't think there is much danger of being invited to Laura Johnson's wedding, but one can never be too careful. I need to keep a low profile.

Lindsay and her sister, Megan, came over last night. We played DDR and pool at Pete's, but Megan was a party pooper all night; she was tired and in a bad mood. In my experience, though, she's almost always in a bad mood. So, my guess is that surly is just her standard m.o. Still, always great to see Linz.

And now the wisdom of 18th century intellectual John Dryden: "Beware the fury of a patient man."

I had an absolutely amazing time last night with Linz, Zach Nie!, and the Professor. After trivia night and three rounds at Conor O'Neill's, we feasted on chili fries at the Fleetwood... where we encountered the king of the burnouts and lord high chancellor of wasted potential, Jared DeLine. Then, we hit Pinball Pete's for a little Dance Dance Revolution; after I beat Zach and she beat Jon, I defeated Lindsay to remain BTW DDR champion. A good time was had by all. Sweet merciful crap, I miss having her around. This week is an entirely unforeseen gift from Fate; I cannot let it go to waste. So, though I already miss him, perhaps it is fortunate that David is back in Grand Blanc as this will make it easier for me to let Lindsay monopolize my time. Here's hoping, anyway.

Call me a fool, call me a hopeless romantic (or, you know, just a Sports Night fanatic), but I'm Dan Rydell and she's Rebecca Wells, and I'm settling in for a long period of wall demolition.

And now for something completely different: Royal Tenenbaum's epitaph from The Royal Tenenbaums (may we all have such bravado): "Died tragically rescuing his family from the wreckage of a destroyed sinking battleship."

There are a lot of headstones in Wes Anderson's movies. Odd, that.

Lindsay's back in Michigan. Her grandmother's very ill; so, her parents flew her back last night. I'm glad she's back, but to my credit as a human being, I really wish it were under different circumstances i.e. her grandmother wasn't dying. Still, her return has thrown me for a loop. I spent all of June longing for the trip in July, and since I've been back I've been steeling myself to accept the harsh reality that I probably wouldn't see her until Thanksgiving or Christmas. Now, ever fickle Fate has intervened, and I am grateful. (Of course, the dark bastard demands his due. So, it must also be said that next week I shall once again grapple with the Anteaus of separation.)

I apologize, I know I've been whining. For that, dear reader, I am sorry. You deserve better. I am suspending "45 Things" for the duration. (Yes, I'm sure you're crushed. "Whatever will we do?") Fear not, for next Monday, excepting any delay caused by her grandmother's demise, The Secret Base's one and only special department shall come roaring back with No. 32, the straw that may break the camel's back.

In the meantime I leave you with Eloise Fisher's epitaph from Rushmore (the original source is unknown to me): "The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

I just left the CCRB for maybe the last time as an employee of the University of Michigan Department of Recreational Sports. I've worked for Rec Sports since the Fall of 1997. Classes and professors came and went, but through all my time here in Ann Arbor, I've always had the constant of going to work. I've been a lifeguard for eight years, five of them for Rec Sports. I'm still working a few shifts at the IM for the next couple of weeks, but inescapably something I've been a part of for a very long and tumultuous time in my life is coming to an end. And, as sentimental as I am, endings make me melancholic. It's like it's just now finally dawning on me that I really am leaving Ann Arbor.

There is only one sure thing about the future, and that is death.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
31. Surprises, especially gifts for moi = more loving.
Yes, Radio Free Wilson was very well received. I combed through my CD collection before Lindsay left and compiled ten discs of the best of what I've got. Five discs of ska, five discs of punk. About seventy minutes to a disc, that's a fuck of a lot of music. She was genuinely touched. Almost despite myself, I do in fact know what I'm doing.

The next "45 Things" is the single best/worst item of the entire list. Please forgive me if my emotion overcomes my eloquence.

You guys would tell me if I was pathetic, right?

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
30. I need to hear how you feel about me. Often. Tell me now.
She really doesn't want to know. Honest. Our friendship is contingent on no frank and honest discussion of this topic. While in San Francisco, on the night of the day of the Warped Tour, we were out with Dave Frantom and some of his friends at a bar called The North Star. Listening to me talk to this girl, Kim, Lindsay turned to me and said, "You must be getting drunk because you're being very forthcoming." This was after five of my eventual seven Guinnesses; I was not drunk. Most of the time, I'm willing be be forthcoming, people just don't want to hear it. In any event, were I allowed to, I would tell her how I feel every time we spoke; I would be shameless. Of course, I'm not allowed.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: scariest thing on the internet.

Man oh man oh man, what a great show last night. I'll never understand the bar scene, the drinking and smoking and miggling with strangers. If you want to feel alive, go find yourself a show and a pit. That, my friends, is ecstacy.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
29. You're sexy when you're shaving, fixing things, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, driving, eating a peach, holding a baby.
Check, check, check, check, note to self: start eating peaches, check. Not that I hold babies or fix things on a regular basis, but, you know, I have done both those things. I guess this ties back to the fact that girls want a man. One who to some degree is an archetype. That's fair, since we expect girls to possess certain characteristics, like domesticity and a flair for make-up. At the same time, in a very accusatory way I've been called the most infuriatingly male man in the world. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

It's on my schedule to swim today, but I'm going to wuss out as I still feel tired from last night. If I have to be old and slow, damn it I'm going to use that to my advantage. Going back to Less Than Jake, Goodbye Blue and White is a great compilation.

The "director's edition" of Star Trek II is now out on DVD. Nothing says villainy quite like Ricardo Montalban and a fake chest. The next (and last?) Next Generation movie, Star Trek: Nemesis is set for a December 13 release. I'm as anxious as I am excited.

David and I are going to see Less Than Jake tonight, Super Wilson Bros. style. This is great, not only because Jake puts on a great show, but I saw them in March, and normally there's a bigger gap between shows. Kick ass.

The Plate's back in town. Joy. We could have been great friends, he and I, if he weren't so deathly afraid of confrontation. But, I can't be friends with someone for whom I have no respect. Nevertheless, I can't just blow him off because I need him for The Newsletter (new, way better website coming soon!). Of course, the nice thing about not being able to be friends with someone for whom I have no respect is if I don't respect you I have no problem lying to your face. So, I don't think he has any idea I don't like him.

I told you I was a monster.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
28. I'm in heaven when you hold my hand.
From a certain point of view, Lindsay including this on a list she sent to me could be construed as cruel. For the most part, I do not subscribe to that point of view, but let's move on. This item is exactly how I think all the time. I die every time I see her getting ready for bed, I delight in the furrow of her brow as she reads a recipe, I love the sight of her pouting behind her sunglasses. I remember every embrace, every meeting, every moment, and each is more precious to me than all the tea in China. I was in heaven when she kissed me, even though it was her way of saying goodbye.

Everyone in my email address book has a nickname. Lindsay's, based on her infatuation with Mike Herrera, the lead singer and bass player of MxPx, in "Lindsay Herrera." Although I changed her nickname to Lindsay Herrera as soon as I got back from Berkeley, she only noticed it recently and commented in a recent email. So, I signed my next email "the future Mr. Parker Posey" to which she responded that I'd probably have better luck, from an age point of view, pursuing Natalie Portman. Two rebuttals: a) David already has dibs on Ms. Portman and b) I am only eleven years younger than Ms. Posey. I view an eleven year age difference as the least of the obstacles on the way to winning Ms. Posey's heart.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
27. I want to be Madonna.
That's the saddest thing I've ever read.

Since Saturday, I've been devouring Lucinda Rosenfeld's What She Saw... and will finish it tonight. It's been absolutely fabulous and I recommend it most highly to all participants in the early 21st century dating scene. Well, actually, I don't have a workable definition for "the early 21st century dating scene" (Would I be a member? I'm not actively seeking to meet new people or pick up girls in a bar.); so, let me revise my statement and recommend it to all those who, in one way or another, are seeking love/romance/sex/happiness in another person in the early 21st century. For all those interested in the Middle Kingdom, I recommend the book I finished on Saturday, Patrick Tyler's A Great Wall.

Signs. Wow. Shyamalan's best movie to date.

In comics news, I could not be happier with the current run of The Flash, and I'm very much looking forward to the post-Kevin Smith run of Green Arrow. I'm nervous in the face of a new creative team behind Nightwing, but in all honesty that book hasn't been the same since the end of McDaniel's run (which is odd because he was just the penciller; it's had the same writer throughout). A new "all-star" team is taking over Batman. I have no faith in them whatsoever. *sigh*

I still can't believe I was twenty before I got into comics.

I've "socialized" twice this week, and the inescapable conclusion is that both times I would have been happier in my room by myself. On Monday, Brad's vapid birthday fiesta; yesterday, after the Animania plenary meeting, I accepted an open invitation to go see Austin Powers in Goldmember. Oh my stars and garters, it was terrible. I mean, The Spy Who Shagged Me was uninspired, but at least it was funny. I counted carefully, and I laughed four times during all of Goldmember. Sweet merciful crap, it was as bad as Shrek. So, unfortunately, I now have to classify Mike Myers as a hack and, what's worse, a has-been. He used to be hilarious; now he's just pathetic. Rich, but pathetic.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
26. When in doubt, go with the shirt the color of your eyes.
You mean the crappy band T-shirt the color of my eyes? Sure, fine, I guess this is reasonable advice. For me, though, a better rule is that black is always appropriate. (In all fairness, I suppose it wouldn't be easy to come up with forty-five meaningful and passibly original statements on relationships.)

And now, a message from the dark bastard who resides in the back of my head: Lindsay's new friends, fellow incoming grad student Chris and his sister Erin (she befriended them on her admissions tour), are moving into their apartment in Berkeley this weekend. I suppose my usefulness has thus come to an end. She now has more than one set of drinking buddies, and someone with whom she can look forward to the Fall semester. After a pair of long and lovely phone cenversations this week, I anticipate that we won't be hearing from her for quite some time.

Now, before anybody fires off a heartfelt message of consolation (presumptuous fucker, aren't I?), let it be known that voicing dark bastard's concerns has the curious effect of nullifying them. Articulation dispells the black humors. Also, I have now officially classified jealousy in the same catagory as worry: it is an utterly useless emotion. To clarify, concern is good. Concern will make sure that what needs to get done gets done, that all your ducks are in a row. Worry, though, is a damned cancer. It'll eat you alive, break your spirit, and give you nothing. It is useless. Cut it out with a (metaphorical) knife. There's no way to ease yourself out of worring; you've got to stop cold turkey. Jealousy's the same way. "Jealousy is a waste of time," to quote the great Darwyn Cooke. Now, it will take a strong act of will before jealousy is gone, and friendship jealousy will be a harder dragon to slay than relationship/sexual jealousy, but at least now I'm fighting the right enemy. My sincerest thanks to Skeeter for helping to open my eyes.

I'm reading Patrick Tyler's A Great Wall: Six Presidents and China, An Investigative History. Previously, the Carter Administration normalized relations with the People's Republic of China and currently, the Reagan Administration is wrangling with its conflicting desires to befriend China as a counterbalance to the Soviet Union and remain loyal to its long-standing friends on Taiwan. I understand that the Cold War dominated the entire geopolitical scene from the end fo the Second World War to the fall of Communism, but it's still shocking to read how broadly and completely everything always came back to the Soviets. The Berlin Wall fell when I was nine, and by the time I was twelve the Soviet Union had dissolved; so, much as I might consciously resist the notion, the collapse of the Soviet Union has always seemed pretty much a foregone conclusion. It's fascinating to read about the motives of men who thought that the USSR would stand forever, and might even defeat the United States. Odd, that.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
25. I'm unimpressed with a man who doesn't take the lead.
Be a man. Not an asshole caricature, but a man. A noted feminist I highly respect once said, "The reason I don't like men is I've never met one." Don't be a frat boy, don't be a wimp. Don't keep it all inside, don't fall to pieces. Be a rock, not cold an unfeeling, but an archor for her in an often cruel world. Be a man, and to paraphras Kipling, yours is the Earth and all that's in it.