Being home for the weekend means AOL, the most obvious advantage of which is AIM. IMed with Lindsay last night for something like three and a half hours. We had a fight (?) or something, though she denied it. ("... I am not an unhappy camper.") Frustrating, because she only writes/says "No, fuck it" when she's pissed. Still, always good to talk to her.

Oh no, Mom's friends Linda and Gary just arrived. Imagine SSG as a childless spinster, only crazy and overly affectionate toward her cats, and you've got Linda. I detest her. She's insane, stupid, and utterly superficial; I cannot fathom what Mom sees in her. To be honest, I think less of my mom because of Linda. She's my mom and I love her, but I just don't understand her. As soon as dinner's over, I need to get out of here. It had to be this weekend, didn't it?

David believes my continued affection for Lindsay is flawed. Abandoned by my greatest ally in this, my hour of need. Woe is me.

I can't write for long, because I've got to finish my column for The Newsletter. But, let me say this: if you're feeling lonely and disconnected, and as if your only friends are thousands of miles away, take heart: They may be distant, but they are there for you. And like the Pontiac Button, when all else fails, they'll be there for you.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
8. Most of the time when I fantasize, it's about you.
This is what makes the abuse that much more perplexing: They really do like us. And if she really does like you, take care of her, because what you've got is rare and special. Of course, given that I acquired this list from Lindsay, and it's quite obvious this one doesn't apply, I'm loathe to dwell on it for long.

I'll be in Grand Blanc for the weekend, lying under the Camero helping Dad. I really don't mind, if for no other reason than I want to get the damn thing runnning again so Mom can use the garage during the Winter.

Well, the Blue Tree Whacking (separate link) Blog is up and running. Neato!

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
7. "Fine" is never an appropriate response when I ask you how I look.
See, No. 3 was bullshit. But, the debate between big lies and little lies is a discussion for another occasion. This rule is absolutely true! Why? Because girls are incredibly insecure about how they look. Need a girl to rip a man's heart out in five seconds or less? Sure, no problem. That kind of confidence comes easy. But, partially as a result of societal bombardment from a very young age, girls never think they look good enough. (There are exceptions, and watch out for them, largely because they will result in time-trials to see who can rip your heart out most efficiently.) So, yes, lie. Lie. By all means, lie. "Fine" is the honest answer; girls rarely ever want honesty.

Linz is making friends out in California. I hate to admit it, but a part of me feels threatened by this. I wish I were a better man, but I'm not. I'm not going to compound that failure by then lying to make myself seem more pure. I wish I could expres this more clearly, because I really do want her to have a life out there, and to have friends and be happy. But, the dark bastard in the back of my head knows what I don't want to know: The sooner she has friends, the sooner she has guy friends, the sooner she likes one of them, the sooner she has a boyfriend, the sooner some other bastard is touching her and I'm not, the sooner my world becomes a much darker place. Oh, well, at least tonight david and I are watching Star Trek II.

What the fuck? It just took me five minutes to get blogger working. Anyway, it's the dog days of Summer and I find myself spending all of my time in my little air conditioned cocoon of a room. This wouldn't be a problem, except I have things to do and they aren't getting done. For instance, I was going to start a Blue Tree Whacking blog this morning, but didn't have time. I'll do it after work, but it pisses me off when I sabotage my own schedule.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
(Tuesday's) 5. I'm convinced I'm pregnant and obsess about it for a minimum of 24 to 48 hours before my period, even when I have no rational reason to think so.
Great. Fantastic. Knock yourself out. I'm not going near this issue with a ten-foot pole.

6. I love it when you hug me from behind and whisper in my ear.
I can do that! I am, beneath my cynical exterior, a hopeless romantic. It is because of this that I have been forced to develop an armor of cynicism. I can't be the guy who willingly takes her to the hottest club, and I'll never be the boyfriend all her girlfriends wish they had, but this kind of stuff, this is right up my alley. This is my bag, and nobody can do it better.

Brad's computer sucks!

With the 'rents this weekend, I saw Minority Report. I didn't really want to, but not enough to make the required fuss to avoid seeing it. The most positive thing I can say about it is this: It was better than A.I. Also saw a preview of the upcoming Daredevil movie. I like the character, but why do they have Affleck wearing skin-tight leather? And where is Bullseye's mask?

Julie wants me to add a commenting feature. I haven't yet decided either way, beyond any potential technical hurtles. I just fail to see any compelling reason. I mean, can't people just email me? At least as far as I'm aware, nobody reads this except a few friends. Of course, there could be an army of strangers reading this with no way of contacting me. (My email address is mpw@umich.edu. If you're a stalker, I'm a pudgy male with a foul-temperment; so, go stalk somebody easier and more rewarding.)

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
4. You are cute in raglan-sleeved T-shirts (two-toned baseball undershirts).
Okay, yes, some of these are just stupid. Which is one of Lindsay's problems. Not that she's stupid, far from it, in fact she's possibly more book-smart than I am, but that she refuses to cut herself off from the insipid aspects of our society even when they drive her nuts (i.e. her sadly continuing friendship with SSG). Besides, I think this rule would only apply to buff, studly guys anyway, not middle-aged bastards like me.

I can't get over how great this weekend was.

Last night, Real Can of Yams played the best show we've ever played. It was beyond fucking awesome. Holy shit.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
3. I will leave if you lie.
I absolutely agree with this one. The only problem is, girls don't. Girls do not want the truth. Girls never want the truth. In my experience, they will scream all day about how they are owed the truth, and then rip your fucking head off if you give it to them. Girls, universally, suffer from extreme cognitive dissonance; they only want the "truth" that conforms to what they already believe. Guys do the same thing, but in relationships girls are by far the greater abusers of the truth. At the same time, many girls shouldn't put up with the crap they get from their lameass boyfriends, but then again it's their fault for dating those jerks when so many great guys are dateless wonders. So, my sympathies are limited. (How about that? This explanation turned out to be much angrier than I thought it would. It must have struck a nerve.)

(I'm normally going to keep "45 Things" confined to the weekdays, but I didn't get a chance to blog yesterday and I didn't want you to have to go without. You know, because you all check this page at least once every half hour.)

High fives all around, kids, because today it's hot 'n' muggy. There has been a request for some background as to the "45 Things She Wishes You Knew." I am a fan of lists. I like reading them and I love making them. "45 Things" is a list written by Lisa Jones for (I know, I know) Men's Health, "45 Things She Wishes You Knew: Universal truths that all men should--but don't--understand." I have read the list, but you shouldn't, at least not until you read them day by day here at The Secret Base.

This list came to my attention in an email from Lindsay: "i know how you love advice. and these are definitely true." I don't agree with every item on the list, but I do like the overall list. So, instead of just giving the quote, we will now quote and discuss. I will tell you which quotes I agree with, which I do not, and why. In the interest of full disclosure, it should be noted that my appreciation of this list is undeniably enhanced by its coming to my through Lindsay; it would be a lie to say otherwise. It should also be noted that awesome though she is, Linz in far from perfect. Her most distressing flaw is that she does not know herself as well as she thinks she does, made all the more annoying in that she thinks she knows you better than you know yourself (see how I just contradicted myself? We share that in common). We disagree about many things, but as always, I have faith in the eventual triumph of my overwhelming correctness. So, without further ado, "45 Things."

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
2. Real men drive a stick shift.
My father has driven a stick shift as long as I can remember. He's an asshole, but he's also my model for what defines a man. Affirming how he's lived or refutting him, Rick is the scale by which all is measured. In this case, I've always felt inferior to people that can drive a stick shift. Additionally, Lindsay's car has a manual transmission; so, I can see this one appealing to her.

1. Saying "I love you" immediately before, during, or following sex doesn't count.
I disagree, but then, I don't think you should have sex with someone unless you really, truly do love them. Love, not just like enough to date for a few months. I know that many people disagree, and are rather inclined to surrender themselves to the moment, wherein they may say and do all sorts of things that they don't mean. "I love you," in a romantic context, are the three most dangerous words in the English language. Especially in those moments that we all endure, when we believe that love is a lie.

Work sucks! I understand and love the capitalist premise upon which our system is built, but every once in a while it just chaps my ass! For instance, having to be at work on time. On Monday night, I was having a fabulous time with Steeze, Jon, Zach, and Sarah and feeling not at all tired. But, once my clock read 2:00 AM, I suddenly dreaded having to wake up at 7:00 AM; so, I was forced to kick them out even though we all (well, Jon, Kevin, and me; Zach was drunk-tired and Sarah wanted to put him to bed) wanted to keep hanging out. Dammit. However, so resistent were Jon and Kevin that once we encountered Eddie the Bat in the basement, they wanted to hunt it down. Normally we run away from the Bat, which given the risk of rabies seems quite a reasonable reaction to me. Armed with Lisa's and my old tennis rackets (I last played when? 1995?), they sauntered dowstairs to do battle with the beast. I have to admit there was a lot less girlish yelling and anonymous thumping than I'd anticipated. After a few minutes I ventured down to see if they'd survived. Disappointingly, the Bat had fled when they confronted it, and instead of slaying it, they'd been trying to find it. Why were they so insistent on facing Eddie? Because there wasn't a good reason not to (in their estimation), and that's the Blue Tree Whacking code: Why not? (Note: we don't have an actual code.)

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
1. Saying "I love you" immediately before, during, or following sex doesn't count.

In three weeks, I'm flying out to Berkeley. It will be the first time I've been to California. Oh, the things we do for love...

Note to self: If you don't know a person, stay the hell away from their blog. What in blazes is a "shoulder valkyrie"?

A most excellent weekend: had a fight with David, talked to Lindsay, Animania ate Saturday, went to Mass (for the second consecutive week!), and saw Attack of the Clones. And now a question: Which of the following terms most accurately desribes my devotion to Star Wars?

a) Endearing

b) Amusing

c) Creepy

d) Sad

Please email an answer to mpw@umich.edu. Thank you. Watch out for the Art Truck!

Today's one of those days when God damn, my sideburns kick ass!

Soundtrack of Today: MxPx, "Here With Me" from The Ever Passing Moment.

Thanks to Skeeter's friend Hilary for coining the term: I'm suffering from morosis. The only cure is in California, never to return...

I'm so jealous of Julie. I wish I could be a cog in the faceless corporate machine. God willing, soon I will be...

David, Kevin, and Jon (the Bald Mountain, K. Steeze, and the Professor) dropped by last night like a bolt from the gray, thundering sky. Although pants are, in fact, pretty great, what you really can't beat are friends. You can't beat friends! Also, I spoke to Lindsay yesterday, which is always a good thing.

Mike Alber now lives with Justin and Emily. Excellent. I really want nothing to do with him, and this very conveniently takes care of that. (Justin and Emily might as be the yeti, since they are only heard of as myth and conjecture. Of course, given their habit of hanging out with Mike and SSG, I can't really say it's a bad thing I don't see them....) All the "friends" I have made in college have been revealed to be anything but, and I'm left here wondering what on God's green Earth made me think these people were worth knowing. My Ann Arbor friends are essentially the Bizarro opposites of the BTW gang.

I sat down and wrote in my journal last night. Really wrote, not just three sentences on what I'd done that day. It felt great. It would be unimaginably good for me to do that more often, but it's hard to make the time; blissful solitude eludes me. Tonight I've got to organize my pictures. Ugh. I don't want to do it, but the X-700 produces images too beautiful to be lost in a pile of unlabeled Kodak envelopes.

I love irony. Yesterday, while I was out of the house, writing that Lindsay will never call, she called and left a message. (She didn't like my message, though I can't fathom why. "You've reached Brad Dupay, Dave Schoonover, and Mike Wilson. If we're not here, there's a good chance I've gone to see Star Wars.") So, I'm about to call her back. Just a moment ago, though, I had a waking nightmare. It's about noon in California; so, I imagine I might catch her in bed. Only to my horror, a male voice answers the phone, and I try to carry on as if nothing's happened. Oh joy, now I'm coming unglued....

Well, RCY practice went very smoothly last night. It seems like almost every weekend I'm making the trip back to Grand Blanc, but oddly enough I'm not minding at all. While the kids were working on "Carpe Diem," a song new to Liz and John that does not feature my patented "hackosphone," my thoughts slipped to Lindsay.

I kept rerunning through my mind that last night at Conor's, how she felt in my arms when we hugged goddbye, and how it felt when she kissed me, both as we parted and to thank me for Radio Free Wilson. "I can't breathe." It was the first time in a couple days that I'd allowed myself to be overcome by the darkness. She arrived in Berkeley on Wednesday, and the last time I spoke to her was when she called Tuesday night. So, now all I can do is wait for her to call or write from Berkeley. Of course, the dark voice in the back of my head whispers, she won't call. There's too much that's new and exciting in San Francisco, and she never really liked you anyway. I'd tell him to bugger off, but over the years that dark little bastard has been right too often to dismiss.

Fuck.

I'm going to watch A New Hope with the Mountain tonight. Last time I saw it, a couple of weeks ago, I was explaining things to Lindsay whenever she asked; so, I wasn't able to give it a close watching.

Eights days. What the hell is wrong with me? Well at least I rectified things last night.

Two paths to a Lindsay-friendly blog:
1. Create a mirror of the Secret Base that contains all the same posts, only with romantic references to Lindsay removed.
2. Direct Lindsay to the Secret Base and create a separate blog just for my thoughts about her. (Of course, who the hell would want to read that?)
I haven't made up my mind one way or the other, but blogging is just such a great way to stay in touch.

David directed me to a THX version of Star Wars available on eBay, but for an unknown reason the registration process didn't work. I'd open their registration form and input the first page of information, but every time I clicked Continue the next page wouldn't load and I'd get a "That page cannot be displayed" warning. Curses! It would have been nice, but at least this has provided me with one bad personal experience on which to base my already low opinion of online auctions.

Julie just gave me the best idea! Our culture is such that even thin, very attractive girls feel the need to lose weight. But, if they could all just date fat guys, then they would feel better and more secure in their appearance. That's perfect for me! This is like fucking tailor made for me and my fatty ilk. It should be called The Mike Wilson Plan! That's my new selling point! "Hey, baby, sure I'm not much to look at, but think how much hotter you'll seem standing next to me." Hell, if she's still feeling insecure, I'll do the jiggle dance for her! (I love doing the jiggle dance.) I'm not being sarcastic, this would be a great strategy. Yes, okay, so whatever relationship that resulted would be shallow and purely physical because of how I feel about Lindsay, but she'd have a better self-image, I'd be seen around town in the company of a beautiful girl, and... you know, *wink, wink*. (Hi, my name is Mike and I've still got the mentality of a fucking middle schooler.)

Speaking of beautiful girls, I ran into Jessica "Hell-ya" Hale yesterday. (Most people run into old girlfriends, I run into girls for whom I used to pine.) It wasn't a situation where I asked myself what I was thinking at the time, because I know exactly what I was thinking; come on, Jessica's gorgeous and reasonably funny. But I wonder how I convinced myself that I didn't have a shot with her. I had one really solid chance to make a move on her, and it wouldn't have been a random hook-up because we were sort of friends at the time, but I just didn't. We were lying there on her futon and I really wanted to kiss her, but I just didn't. I thought, despite plenty of evidence to the contrary, that this would be seen as an unwanted advance. How in the hell can I walk around being me all day (because let me tell you, you've got to believe the crap you're spouting if you're going to pull off being The Last Angry Man) and then have my confidence erode so completely around a girl. I don't think we would have seriously dated, but we could have had some fun.

I never hesitated with Lindsay, though. Not once. Odd, that.

Kevin and Zach Nie! threw a major monkeywrench into my plans for the evening, but that's fine as I didn't really have so much of what you'd call a plan. Mostly I was just there at the house, reading today's rather large stack of comics and BOOM! there they were. Two tornados accompanied and encouraged by the Bald Mountain. After disappearing into the bathroom for a while, Zachand David went out back to play with lightsabers. Then Kevin followed them, fully expecting me to come along. I did, of course. Come on, dude, lightsabers.

So, while David and Zach managed to destory my Darth Maul double-bladed lightsaber, Kevin and I choreographed a pretty cool duel. We had thrusts and parries, jumps and evasians, and more spins than you can shake a Wookiee at. Kevin broke out his camera and had David film our epic battle from a number of angles. I swear, those two are so married. So, I hope that turns out. It's humid as hell today; so, I was dripping during the lightsaber battle, but, man, that was so fun. Yay, Star Wars!

Lindsay called me from a hotel in Nevada last night. She thanked me profusely for Radio Free Wilson, but really I think she needed to talk to someone. A meaningless detail had set off her dad's temper and she was upset. She puts up a good front, but if you know her weaknesses, Lindsay's rather fragile. I grew up with Rick; so, I do know what she was going through. I just learned to steel myself years ago. To not let him get to me. Crying never occured to me as a viable option. It was great to hear from her, but it caught me completely unprepared.

Moving to San Francisco is too obvious a ploy, but how the hell am I going to win her from across a continent?

It's been too long since I've seen Star Wars. Fear not, this will not stand.

Though he's a *shudder* classic rock fan, Dylan would profit, I think, from the MxPx song "Responsibility."

Responsibility, what's that?
Responsibility, not quite yet
Responsibility, what's that?
I don't want to think about it
We'd be better off without it
I don't want to think about it.

Of course, he'd also profit from not being a fan of *shudder* classic rock.

Really truly honestly, today I'm fine. I posted five pieces of mail on my way out the door this morning. One was a bill and another a parking ticket, but I enjoyed it. I like sending mail. As much as freshmen love getting mail in the dorms, I enjoy sending mail. Or maybe just today I do. Either way, I've been in good spirits all day. I'm going to go visit David, see if maybe I can rain on his parade.

Steve's blog just moved. Excellent. I'm glad it didn't disappear; I can't say I check it every day, but I'd miss my several-times-weekly doses of the Squirrel King.

In the course of today, I've wanted to hit __2__ people in the face with a brick. I gotta buy me some bricks. (And it's not just because I'm upset about Lindsay.)

Does anybody know what happened to Steve's blog? I'd directly ask him, but a blog can be a very personal thing, and he may have reasons for shutting it down or moving it that he doesn't wish others to know. And I respect that. But, if anybody's got the dirt, and it's not supposed to be a secret, I'm curious.

I'm conflicted: blogs are a great way for friends to stay in touch. So, I'd like Lindsay to be able to visit The Secret Base. However, at present that would require greater censorship on my part, lessening the cathartic value of ye olde Secret Base. Hmmm. I could create a separate blog, but I don't think I've got enough content for two. "Meditate on this, I will."

Far and away the best thing about this weekend was seeing Julie. Julie's great because I know she means it when she says, "I hate you. I only see you every six months." (If you don't understand why that's so great, consult your copy of Good or Suck! and listen to the lyrics of "Riot Grrl." Or just cheat and read them here.) I adore her. Being her friend is truly one of the great priviledges of my life. Like most good things in my life, at one point or another I've tried to destroy it, but thankfully Julie's always taken me back. Maybe the single best thing about Boston will be being able to hop on the train and see her on the weekends. It's years off, but I'm probably going to hate her husband. He'll be great, but I know that I'll never really give him a fair shake. In the back of my head I'll never think he's good enough for her.

A true life blast from the past...
"I want a RIOT GRRL." -MW

"I want to be a riot grrl." -JS

Grand Blanc. It's a hell of a town! There is nothing extraordinary about Grand Blanc as a place, but the citizens are amazing. There is nothing special about my parents, except that they've always been cool. I couldn't see it for a long time, but more than anyone else's parents, they've let us do as we please. We come, we go, we dye our hair, we get tattoos, we have no idea what we're going to do with our lives, and they're relatively cool with it. Not that they are saints. God knows there's something wrong with a father who sits his children down to have a talk with them about A-'s on a report card, and Mom is frustratingly dedicated to the June Cleaver way of life, but we could have done far worse. Dad was sporatically intolerable this past weekend, and Mom was ever hovering, but mostly they just let me keep David company as he recuperated from having his wisdom teeth removed. Above all else, and I know that in my self-righteousness I too often tend to forget, they are my parents. Who I am is largely a result of them, or who they are and what they've done. They are a mirror. Or maybe just a black box, an indirect indicator of where things "went wrong." They are me and I am them. This doesn't mean I won't still do a jig on the old man's grave, but I know I'll miss him, too.

Steeze is back, but only for a couple weeks; so, it feels more like the annual BTW Christmas Flurry of Activity (ha ha, get it? flurry? Christmas? snow? it's a pun!) rather than another Summer of Steeze.

Lindsay's gone.

Why last night ruled: "I'm drinking Guinness in an Irish pub. Of course I'm in a dark humor." And by the end of the night, I was in possession of a pair of ladies thong panties. But, alas, it's not what you think, and at the end of every joke a cloud descended upon me as I was reminded why I was having such a good time drinking Guinness in an Irish pub: last night was Lindsay's goodbye party. "I wish, I wish I hadn't squished that fish." Metaphorically speaking, I really need a drink.

I woke up this morning and I knew everything was going to be okay. Brad and I walk together about halfway to campus in the mornings. Then, he continues up State and I take the Northwest Passage. This morning, even his frosted hair and love for his insispid girlfriend didn't bother me, because I know it has nothing to do with me. It's not a part of my life. Brad's just a temporary part of where I find myself now. When nobody's got a claim on you, nobody can touch you. I am as imperious as Caesar, as removed as Kublai Khan at Xanadu.

I've finally figured out why Julie had to leave, and I'm ashamed of the way I treated her. Not that I was wrong, I was right and meant every word I said, but I was blind. I couldn't see and I couldn't understand. It had nothing to do with any of us, it was all about her. She wanted to leave, but even if she hadn't, she needed to leave. She couldn't have stayed, not as the person we all love. I'm sorry, Julie. I should have been wiser. More importantly, I should have trusted you.

The world's got nothing on me, and soon enough I'll be gone. If only because we all need to be somewhere.

Man, I could go for a ham sandwich right now.

I was walking from work to the Blue House to drop off some CDs in David's room, when a green-haired punk rock girl with a tattoo for an eyebrow and another on her chin stopped me. She aked me about my tattoo: if it is my first one, and why I selected a skull-and-crossbones. I told her I just liked it as an aethetic design, and then we had a laugh about people assuming I want to be a pirate or am poisonous. She said she liked it and then asked what my major is. I told her that it was political science, but I didn't push too hard on the verb tense issue. Her eyes lit up, and she leaped behind me to look at my backpack. "Yeah, yeah, I saw you walking through the law quad. 'Long Live the Revolution.'" I can't be certain what she thinks that means, but I am sure she doesn't know what it means to me. But, we were having a pleasant conversation and it didn't seem appropriate to rain on her parade. She introduced herself as Brooke (I'm assuming the silent e), I said I'm Mike, we shook hands, and she said she was sure she'd see my around.

It's almost as if I've joined a secret society. Neat.

Things Are Going to Get Worse...
Lindsay is leaving forever at the end of the week. She's found an apartment she loves.
David is still in Grand Blanc with jury duty.
I saw Dan Clark yesterday, and we both knew there was just something missing.
I'm wasting my life.

...Before They Get Better
I'll probably be able to see Julie this weekend!
I saw Star Wars twice this weekend, both times on Dad's dime. Grand total: 9.
I've known Dan for twenty and a half years (we were both two); we'll be fine in time.
I've decided to move to Boston, and all my efforts over the next eleven months will be toward that end.

There are so many thoughts rattling around my head, but I can't find the energy to articulate any of them. Lindsay's flying to San Francisco today to look for an apartment. She's leaving with all of her stuff next weekend. All the world is darkness.

So, Radio Free Wilson, the CDs Lindsay asked me to compile for her, is proceeding at a glacial pace. Brad, as usual, is worthless. I asked him months ago if he had the technical means and powess to rip and burn them for me. His answer was yes. Now, he's not sure if he even has the right programs installed (and he's been having trouble installing sortware). Infuriating individual. You just cannot find good help these days.

Hee hee, so yesterday afternoon I saw Attack of the Clones again. There is nothing at all like a Summer of Star Wars. (Julie, don't worry, even we fanatics know the dislogue, um... can leave something to be desired. But, George Lucas has said that essentially these are silent films; so, don't let the dialogue distract from the magnificence of the endeavor.)

Last night, I was so bored I considered calling people. It was really, truly bizarre. I was so bored and restless that I forgot to watch the Biography of Mark Hamill! I wanted to see it and it would have been the perfect cure for what ailed me! Dammit!

Fucking sweet, dude, last night Lindsay and I sat down and watched all three movies of the original Star Wars trilogy. Lindsay wasn't raised in a pro-Star Wars house, but she wanted to see them, it's not like I forced her to watch them. I love that girl.

I've spent the entire morning thinking about how terrible Padme's life has too become in Episode III and right now I almost feel as if I could cry.

The scene directly before entering the arena, in which Padme admits her love for Anakin, is beyond my meager ability to describe. Thank you, Mr. Lucas.

I'm so happy. I'm beside myself with glee, and he's going epileptic with happiness. It is far too nice a day to savagely attack a dear friend. (By way of contrast, I can poke light hearted fun at another dear friend: Led Zeppelin sucks!)

I appear to have caused offense. I'd apologize, but it wouldn't be genuine. My entire day has been terribly off schedule; so, I'm not in the humor to write now. We'll see whether I go through with my planned response tomorrow or if calmer heads will prevail.

Thirty-one and a half hours to go. So close now...

There is nothing wrong with not living in New York City, no matter how many times it is implied. I'm not trying to be trite, but one of the worst things about 9/11 is that we are no longer allowed to hate New York, despite how obviously the inhabitants hate the rest of us.

First things first, I'm blogging on a Saturday night (even though it is officially Sunday morning). I do this because I am a loser and have no friends. Or rather, all of my friends are either otherwise occupied (Lindsay's at the opera with her aunt and uncle, David's watching a movie with his Blue House housemates [I was invited, but I didn't want to impose... fuck, I'm back in high school], Brad's home for Tulip Time [the poor bastard's from Holland, Michigan], and Mike's on his way to the airport to pick up SSG) or I really wasn't up to calling them (I toyed with the idea of calling Justin and Emily, but did I really want to go over there just to be pestered with questions about my future and watch Saturday Night Live?). Obviously, I need more friends. But, finding persons of any conversational worth is so terribly difficult, and I really do think I just wanted to lounge around my place alone tonight.

A new meaning for SSG...
Based on a comment Lindsay made to our tattooist yesterday, those of you who find SSG (Slutty, Slutty Girlfriend) sexist may now alternatively define the acronym as Soul-Sucking Girlfriend. This time, there can be no debate, for SSG is a ravening incubus, greedily devouring poor Mr. Alber's soul. Of course, he's serving it up to her lightly seasoned with a light broth.

Lindsay sez
"I need to marry a man with more initiative." More? More is an inherently comparative term. More compared to whom? Compared to me? So, I'd be marriable material were I simply more ambitious? This, dear friends, bodes well for the future. *wink* I can tell you this much with absolute conviction, my relationship with Lindsay is like no other I've ever had. I was friends with Skeeter for quite some time before my ill-advised attempt to court her; by contrast, my singular and uniquely disastrous date with Lindsay occured scarcely a month after I met her. Our friendship did not really begin, or resume, depending on one's interpretation of events, until several months after that. (I shall explain it some time, but tonight is most emphatically not that time.)

But marital implications aside, I really don't know whatever happened to my ambition. I'm beginning to suspect that I never had any. Dreams, but no real ambition. I was always just content to be as I was, and the only thing I ever really worked at was swimming. Ambition and achievement will not win me Lindsay (were she that sort of girl, would she really be my sort of girl?), but they will be necessary just to stay in the game. This is not some schoolboy crush. It is my intention to win her, if it's the last thing I ever do. She will be mine. (Of course, I predict she'll find a boyfriend in San Francisco within six months, at most, of her arrival, and then you'll all suffer the priviledge to bear witness to my rapid disintegration and descent into a pit of hopeless, bleak despair.) At least for me, the old Chinese curse has come true. These are indeed interesting times.

I'm going to wear a long sleeve shirt when I see my parents on Saturday, just so as not to ruin Mothers' Day, but I'll tell them about it on Monday and they can see it when they come down for Star Wars on Wednesday night.

Well, fuck, now I've got a tattoo. Hurrah for me. While it was going on, it felt like a weird tickle. It hurt, but not very much. I'm lucky mine is much smaller than Lindsay's; by the end, her back was so sore she was tearing up. (Okay, maybe this makes me a bad person, but my God she was beautiful. She was trying to remain stoic, but her eyes were puffing up and the color had gone from her face, and it was all I could do to not hold her.) For the curious, it is a black skull and crossbones on the upper part of my left forearm. Right now it feels like a bad sunburn, and I'm not looking forward to the scabbing and peeling, but I've got a tattoo. And I'm sure it won't be my last. Yes, that's right, I am now officially a poser. "Hey, man, I'm hardcore."

Brad, our tattoo artist, was listening to Marilyn Manson and Primus. He asked what I though of that kind of music. I was charitable. Yes, it sucked, and sure I lied to him, but I figure it's best not to piss off the man who is permanently scarring your flesh.

I talked to Zach Nie today. Yeah, he's got more crazy Star Wars theories.

And Now, the Misinterpretation of an Innocent Gesture...
Hurray, Lindsay's back! Tonight we had dinner at Pizza House. I thought she was just going to stop by to say "Hi," but upon her arrival she gave me a hug and asked where we were going to dinner. We walked and talked and she showed me the pictures from her vacation, and it was so cool to see her again (yes, it had only been nine or ten days; shut up). She returned my copy of Fight Club, but Invisible Monsters is still her favorite. (She's also read Choke. She's got a thing for drag queens and transvestities; so, it's no suprise she loves Invisible Monsters.) And she also gave me a book to read, Kissing in Manhatten by David Schickler (all the previous by Chuck Palahniuk). Damn it, I don't have time to read a book! I'm finally reading Barbara Tuchman's Stilwell and the American Experience in China, 1911-1945, and as soon as I see the movie I need to read the novelization of Attack of the Clones. And Kissing in Manhatten is a library book; so, essentially, I need to make it my priority.

I didn't ask to borrow a book, because I've got books to read. (After Stilwell and Episode II, I've got to read Patrick Tyler's A Great Wall.) And I didn't give her Invisible Monsters and Fight Club on my own.She asked me to give her a book to read. (I decided on Chuck rather than Nick Hornby because his writing is much more challenging, more daring.) Why is she offering me a book? Probably because I've given her books. But what am I suppose to take from it? I suppose I have to read the book to puzzle that out. Still, despite its obvious innocence, I've decided to read this gesture as provocative. (Christ, I'm a fucking maniac.)

She was amazing today. The world will be a grayer place in her absense.

I have in my hands tickets to a screening at 12:01am on Thursday, May 16 of Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones. Additionally, the lovely Lindsay is back and David just got up. I couldn't be more happy! (Well, I could, but it seems unlikely I'll wake up on May 16 having seen Attack of the Clones the previous night and with Lindsay sleeping angelicly next to me.)

I'm trying to get David out of bed. He's been bitching that he keeps oversleeping and wasting too much of each day, but now that I'm over here, addressing the problem, he's just lying in bed. Violence may be our best option here. Good ol' violence!

Julie said I should move to New York City. "Yeah, I know you'd be miserable here, but at least I'd be happy." Julie is so cool it's fucking unbelievable. Okay, seriously, if you were dating Julie, how could you ever fuck it up? How could you possibly think that there's any way something else would be better? Christ on a crutch, man, if you're lucky enough to have somone that wonderful in your life, you owe it not to yourself but to the Providence that supplied her not to screw it up. Some people are just idiots, mostly the morons who didn't realize what they had.

But, she's right, I do hate New York. It's nice to visit, but I'd be miserable there. Do you know why? Because New York is the Mike Wilson of cities, not nearly as cool as it thinks it is and when you get down to it, a real jerk.

Lindsay gets back tomorrow (for those of you just joining us, Lindsay is my friend with whom I am hopelessly in love, though by no flight of fancy is she now nor has she ever been my girlfriend). But if everything goes according to plan, I'll be in Grand Blanc. Hopefully, I will see her on Thursday, but if not, most assuredly on Friday when we go to get permanantly scarred. (That's right, kids, peer pressure is FUN!) Just over a week to Attack of the Clones; I can't believe it's finally here! I kid you not, the first time I saw The Phantom Menace was one of the greatest nights of my life. This is an unbelievable feeling.

I read the most amazing thing in Esquire yesterday. It was from the new "Ten Things You Don't Know About Women" section, this issue by novelist Lucinda Rosenfeld. Item No. 10, describing why an ugly braclet bought as a present is never worn,"We haven't returned it because we love you too much. And we really do love you." I don't know why, but to me it's poetry; I can't get that line out of my head. My only theory is because it resonates with my profound lack of understanding how women fall in love with men. Men falling in love with women I understand. Women, for all their faults, are amazing creatures. They are wonderful in all the ways we are not, and their very presence is magical. Why would they love us? How could they love us? With lamentably few exceptins, men are Epsilons. Of course, so are most women. For now, though, that matters not. The world does not exist, for the words of Lucinda Rosenfeld are dancing in my head, and I am happy.

Dude, sweet! I've been spending so much time with David that I'm only now beginning to realize how much I miss him during the school year. Sure, he may live in the same city, but he's on a completely different planet. We saw Spider-Man on Friday and rented Superman on Saturday; so, it was a good weekend to save the day and get the girl... or decline her advances to protect her. (About the Spider-Man link, sorry, but there just isn't a good movie site.)

Of course, with Spider-Man already thoroughly enjoyed, now it's time to get down to the serious business of the Summer: Star Wars. Specifically, Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones. Friday, I'm going under the needle. (Note to self: Call tattoo parlor and find out proper protocols.)

Oh, yeah, and I some point I need to find a real job. This effort is frustrated by the fact that a couple days ago, I think I decided to move out of the State of Michigan. I don't know where I'll go. Much as I love the Midwest, I don't know if I could do Chicago. I'm thinking Boston or San Francisco. I love Boston. The only reason San Francisco is even an option is Lindsay. Still, it's not even a preliminary plan yet, just an idea for a plan.

Lindsay left for Mexico yesterday; so, distraction's the name of the game this week. Thank you, George Lucas!

Hee hee, I'm kidding, but that would be funny. Wow, I'm just a jerk, aren't I?

Just to annoy my friends (specifically Julie) and make them question what exectly they get out of the friendship, I think I'm going to reenvision this blog as a place to air all the things that have been told to me in confidence. Prepare to have your secrets revealed!

Happy May Day! I am now and have always been a happy little capitalist, but I've always loved May Day. I despise labor, but I loved the parades the Soviets used to have. I was nine when the Berlin Wall fell and eleven when the CCCP finally disintegrated; so, for me the fall of Communism is a historical inevitability. I was never afraid of the Soviets the way my parents were. I was never afraid of the world ending in a thermonuclear holocaust. So, the Red Army, et al., being more of a historical curiosity than an unstoppable death machine, I love watching footage of the old May Day parades. All those old missiles and stern faced Politburo members are wicked retro. (I was born in 1979, I'm allowed to use "wicked.")

I hate my father, but I refuse to allow that to be the defining center of my existence.

The big graduation weekend was wonderfully representative: on Saturday, Mom, Dad, David, and I had a lovely dinner back in Grand Blanc and then went to the movies; on Sunday, Dad told me that he loves me but that I'm never going to amount to anything. I don't think this is the way families are supposed to work, but I'm not really sure since this is the only one I've known. It's weird that for all the reasons my brother, sister, and I think our parents did a spectacular job raising us, my father thinks he failed abysmally. But I do know that this much was and is wrong with the household in which I was raised: I find it odd almost to the point of confusion when the parents of one of my friends visibly and honestly love each other. Growing up, I was too little to recognize Mom and Dad's misery; so, it's not like I've always believed marriage is synonymous was unhappiness. But, as I've grown older and matured, the marriage which necessarily functions as my model, or at least as the model with which I am most familiar, has been a loveless one. I think that's really sad. The only thing more sad is that Dad still believes he loves me; he only loves me in the way I love him: over twenty years of familiarity and the societal expectation that parents and children love one another.

When I was in high school, the speech I was given this weekend made me hate myself and everything around me. This time, while of course I'm upset, the primary effect has been to reinforce my desire to spare my children the ill-fortune of that man's presence. Even with all this, though, I'm still much more fond of my father than either my brother or sister... and my big plan for his funeral is to do a little jig on the bastard's grave.

Sometimes you want to hit a person in the face with a brick and thus reveal to them, by the bloody mass to which you have reduced their face, the vast, and in its own way impressive, expanse of their stupidity. Sometimes you want to hit the whole world in the face with a brick. Sometimes you want to hit yourself in the face with a brick. Sometimes you look around yourself and ask, "These are my friends?", and then you want to break down and cry.

And sometimes Nick Coliadis calls you out of the blue and saves your life.

I saw Justin and Emily (notice the subtle implication that they've become one person) today for the first time in a long time. Of course, the first thing Emily said was about graduation. I know I should have expected as much, but I can't help being disappointed. Everyone is asking about graduation. I understand that it is the "biggest" thing going on in my life right now. But can I be blamed for wanting one person to ask about something else? "You are not your job." I am not my degree. Fuck my degree.

The girl at the next computer is wearing headphones. She's listening to country music with the volume turned up so high I can actually make out some of the lyrics. Does it make me a bad person that I sincerely hope she does permanent damage to her hearing?

I've been wanting to burn a mix CD for Lindsay for months, but I never got around to doing it because I knew it'd be interpreted as what it is, a gesture of unrequitted love, not just friendship, and we just couldn't handle that level of weirdness right now. (Side note: yes, I too like the idea of a mix tape more than a mix CD, but she doesn't have a tape player in her car and I don't know if her stereo has a tape player; so, the project has been technologically upgraded.) In any event, a few weeks ago Lindsay asked me to burn a whole bunch of discs for her before she moves. I don't know if she knows what a gift that request has been to me. So, now I'm drawing up lists of songs and organizing them into compilations; I'm putting all my favorite songs on there, not just ones I think she'll like, so that these discs will be a (hopefully) constant reminder of me. David is helping me out by letting me use the software he uses to design the Real Can of Yams discs and liner notes. Last night, we designed the CD stickers, and I think they're going to look awesome. Of course they're black, and I've decided to go minimalist. On the lower half, in large, plain white lettering (Courier New, so plain that its plainness is a statement of sorts), is each disc's title (because the music will be divided up by genre: ska, punk... okay, so my only genres are ska and punk, but I've still got some sweet titles to use). In the upper half, in the same font, but smaller, it will simply say "for Lindsay." I'm very excited about these discs. Plus, as an added bonus, it's always fun to work on something with David. I love just hanging out with him, but I have to admit that sometimes I get a little jealous of how much he and Kevin work together on BTW projects.

I've decided. I don't care if it takes the rest of my life and all my resources, I'm going to marry that girl.

I wonder what it's like to have a really good relationship with your parents. All the way into high school, I thought I had a really good relaionship with mine, but then something changed. I don't know if I changed or if they changed, or if I was finally old enough/mature enough to see what was going on. I fear the truth lies closest to the last option. I'd love to be one of those people who is excited when his parents come into town, except my parents never come into town. At least not for anything other than an occasion, usually one of David's performances.

I know that Mom wishes we were more normal, but at the same time I know she loves us more than she can say anyway. I just wish I could have more respect for the way she's lived her life, but it's hard. She's never tried to figure out how to make herself happy, and as she quite clearly isn't, she tries all sorts of things, like redecorating the house or switching jobs. Why did she switch jobs? Yes, the new one is more money, but she loved the old job! No person could even be more suited to a work environment than she was to the old office! Damn it! And she didn't even check out the new job like I told her to. Mom, you're so frustrating. I think her life is, in a lot of ways, like her Christmas and birthday wish lists. We go out and buy her earrings and banana hangers and cheesy paperbacks because that's what she asks for. When we press her for what she really wants, she just tells us she'll like whateve we get her. AAAAAARGH! MOM, IT'S FUCKING OKAY TO ASK FOR WHAT YOU REALLY WANT! IT'S FUCKING OKAY TO WANT TO BE HAPPY!

And Dad, there's just no helping a man who loathes himself that much. Do you know what it does to a kid to idolize his father for his whole life, only to find out one day that his father hates himself and thinks of himself as a failure and thinks he's failed in raising his children? I do. It was called being seventeen.

I think it is, if not healthy, certainly educational to indulge in despair every once in a while. Not suicidal depression, but your regular garden variety hopelessness. A pernicious malaise can be your best friend.

The air conditioner I bought from Mike is working perfectly. I've had to minorly rearrange my room, but that's no matter compared to the infinite comfort of artifically chilled air on a hot Summer's afternoon. "No pleasure, no rapture, no exquisite sin greater than central air." (Okay, okay, so mine's a cheap little window unit. The point is valid nonetheless.)

A bit of wisdom I've acrued in my career as the liar man: In this world, there is nothing more true than the worst lie. The fiction we make up for ourselves is more honest, more to the core of who we are (who we are being a function of how we see ourselves) than any of the petty details of the banality that can be everyday life. We are luminous beings.

I don't know why, but April is the single worst month of the year. Maybe it's just because of college, and I've come to equate April with finals, and this year, graduation. I cannot say for certain. All I know it that every April I feel this overpowering malaise, with more than just a hint of melancholy. And hanging out with Lindsay the past two nights hasn't helped, it's just made more acute my awareness of how soon she'll be gone and how much I'll miss her.

And I'm jealous of Julie's blog because it is so very much better than mine. So much mor honest and insightful. God, I've got to get out from under this cloud. I can't do anything when I'm in this state. Maybe if I bought Mike Alber's air conditioner... because God knows that buying stuff is the road to happiness. (Actually, it sort of is. I bought a new watch yesterday and it felt great to once again be wearing a working timepiece.)

I hate avoiding my parents. Well, I don't hate avoiding them at all, I just hate the hassle of avoiding them. But, when my dad's in a piss-poor mood and I'm in a piss-poor mood, it's just best that we don't speak. At least until David achieves financial independence, then the whole bridge of communication gets burned down. Life is too short to squander on idiots and bastards, and there is no larger bastard than my dad. I love him, but I'll still do a jig on his grave.

It's the first hot day of the year. Fan-fucking-tastic. The Mustard Plug show on Friday was incredible. Saturday was my second Animania screening as Vice President, and the last of the transition. The old core staffers are gone, leaving things in my incompetant hands. Oh, yeah, this is a good idea. Both Dan and Sangita are gone, and they supplied almost all of the club's tapes. Crap! If I have any extra money this Summer, I'm going to have to do a little fansub potpourri. Dammit. Plus, I want to do some mailorder from Asian Man, specifically Ultra Panic by MU330 and A Go Go! by Potshot. Aw, crap.

At least my tax refund should be on it's way soon. Why do I always wait until the 15th to do my taxes? At least this year, I planned ahead: I finished them Thursday night, even if I didn't mail them until today.

David printed out a part of my blog that was rather uncomplimentary and posted it on his door. The most important thing is to make sure I don't start censoring myself.

A good day for Star Trek, which makes the current lamentable state of the enterprise's health all the more distressing. Pun intended.

Man, that lunch thing yesterday? That worked out well. Great even. I had lunch and read some comic books. It was everything I knew having lunch and reading comic books could be. I woke up late on Wednesday; so, to punish myself, I didn't shave. Ugh, I hate being all scruffy. Ew ew ew.

Jim wants to have a "summit" to discuss the future of The Newsletter. It's incredibly dorky, but I'm really excited to hear that. Yes, I know what you're asking, Why would a three-man editorial staff, especially a three-man editorial staff in which two of the three live together, need to have a summit? Why can't we just have a meeting like normal people? Or talk it over at Big Boy? Fuck if I know, but I regard The Newsletter as a long term project (I'd love to one day write a column about how disgusting the birth of my first kid is. Come on, all that uteral fluid, and then the placenta? You can't tell me that isn't six kinds of gross) and I'm delighted at the prospect of someone, even Jimmy Judas, sharing that "vision."

The Mustard Plug show is on Friday. Sweet. The Eyeliners last Friday and Mustard Plug this Friday. Life would be nearly perfect were there a ska or punk show every Friday...
"What's going on this weekend?"
"Dude, rock."
"Oh, yeah, sorry. I'm still used to the bad old days when rock shows were all too few and far between."
"Yeah, it's a brave new world, my friend. Not in the totalitarian, 'year of Our Ford' way, as much as the great music every Friday night sort of way."
"It'd be cool if it was sort of like 1984, though. We'd have the Ministry of Punk Rock, Minipunk!"
"This is one seriously fucked up discussion."
"Only instead of Big Brother, we'd have Joey Ramone watching over us!"

Though twenty-two, I'm still having formative experiences. I want to relate one that happened just recently, but I don't think I could do it justice right now. Right now I'm too concerned with lunch and reading today's comics. Needless to say (but, curiously, said anyway), it revolved around Lindsay, since she seems to be all I think about recently (and if anyone reads this, I'm sure you're getting sick of it).

Weird day today. I want to ask Lindsay to marry me, but that's just about the single worst idea ever. Maybe I'll just go home and the watch the "Clone War" trailer again.

Remember last Thursday when I said it'd be great if Lindsay stayed the night? Well, Friday she stayed the night. It was only because she was parked in (she slept on the couch and I in my bed), but it was absolutely fabulous. We talked until 5:30 in the morning, and when we, went out for breakfast. Sadly, there is a good chance she will never be mine. Nevertheless, I shall count myself lucky to be her friend. I know that she is already one of my dearest friends, perhaps the dearest I've made in college (the Blue Tree Whacking staff don't count, because while we may have become friends in college, I've known them since the halcyon days back in Grand Blanc).

About an hour or so ago, Brad and I had a frank discussion about how poorly his girlfriend has been treating him. I want to like Missy, but she doesn't seem to even like Brad; so, when she starts screwing with his head, it's hard for me to see her side. This weekend was their first anniversary, yet Missy went home to study and to be with her mom. Yes, Missy's parents just got divorced, but trust me, she is going home as much to hit the books as to comfort her mom. She went home rather than celebrate their anniversary; were it me, I'd cut my losses and be free of her before she hurt me any worse. Brad, however, has convinced himself that he's in it for the long haul. So, I don't know how to help him.

I attended a town hall-style meeting today with Senators McCain and Bayh. This was perhaps a mistake, as it was not nearly as interesting as I'd hoped. For my money, give me a good political lecture. The way to suck the life out of the room is to give every idiot a microphone and let him believe that his opinions matter. God, one of the questioners introduced himself as a raging pacifist. I think it would be really fun to start a fight with a pacifist. Like a fist fight. You know, see if idealism boy would fight back. I have no interest in real physical violence, it's just that I hate pacifists so much. They are so fucking misguided that it's incredible. My God, did these people learn noting from the Second World War? If the pacifists had had their way, the Third Reich would still be standing and there would not be a single Jew, Roma, or Slav alive in Europe. I love democracy only because it is the best system of governance thus far devised, not because of any inherent respect on my part for other people.

Still, it was fun to see Adam, an acquaintance of mine and dedicated liberal, be so happy to see as ardent a conservative as John McCain. Even as a Republican, I'm far more liberal than McCain. But you can't deny that the man's got something, a certain populist charisma. Except that he lost, because he did the same thing everybody does: he underestimated Bush. He let Bush goad him into breaking his own promise to avoid dirty campaigning; he let himself believe that Bush was as dumb as he let on. Fortunately for the country, the Democrats are going to keep making that mistake, both in this year's congressional races, and in 2004's big dance. Excellent.

"Your conscience may force you to vote Democratic, but deep down inside you want a cold-hearted Republican to cut taxes, brutalize criminals, and rule you like a king!"

I had the most lovely weekend! I saw Iolanthe twice, attended The Eyeliners' show in Detroit, and saw Lindsay Friday, Saturday, and Sunday! Consider yourself fair-warned: in late May/early June, when she is packing up to move/has just moved to Berkeley, I am going to be very unpleasant to be around. I'm going to be miserable, and when I get miserable, I get mean. I'm not proud of this, but that's what is going to happen. God, that's going to suck. But, carpe diem, so for now I shall take every opportunity to bask in the Sun that is her smile.

I just lost a really good post because Monopolysoft Internet Explorer decided to crash for no fucking reason. I'm regarding this as the last straw in an already bad day. Fuck this shit, I'm going home.

There are so many times in life when being able to lie better would have been so useful... Last night, SSG asked me what I was doing. Without thinking, I said "Nothing." So, blinded by the promise that Lindsay was coming over, I got roped into hanging out with Mike and her. "The four of us can watch a movie or something." We ended up doing nothing but going to Bennigan's, which is not bad, but if I'm going to have to endure SSG, I want more of a reward than Bennigan's. A reward like a movie. (I love movies. Yes, more than most people. I don't mean I love movies more than most people love movies, I mean I love movies more than I love most people. Cold? Sure. Whatever. All I know is that movies never puke on my shoes and if they are vapid, I can just turn them off. SSG doesn't come with an off swich and murder is kind of hard to get away with.) Ugh, adding insult to injury, SSG's been at the house all week doing laundry, and because of Eddie (the bat in our basement), she's afraid to go down there by herself. So, I've escorted her like three times. (Fuck! Why? Why do I keep doing the right thing? I'm not trying to sound pretentious here, I'm just pissed off at myself for not having the strength of conviction to just tell SSG to fuck off.) Yesterday wasn't as bad as all that. I just wish it had ended better, like with Lindsay staying the night or something. (In my mind, I'm still 17.)

Okay, so I'm sitting here working on my latest masterful column (and holy crap did it turn out well!), and I start emailing back and forth with Julie. She's teasing me about how I need to go to NYC to visit her and I keep telling her that I want to, but there's no way I can do it right now. Anyway, I finished my column, which turned out so much better than I thought it would (which I largely attribute to the good mood talking to Julie put me in), wandered over to the Warped Tour site and hatched a wonderful, awful idea! The tour is going to be in NYC about a week before the show in Detroit (in the parking lot of venerable Tiger Stadium). I want to see Julie just to see Julie, but if I could see Julie and get to see the Warped Tour twice, I'd be the happiest Last Angry Man this side of the Continental Divide! I must start planning now to make sure this all comes together. Dude, sweet!

New comics aren't coming in until tomorrow; so, I've got this big block of time I can dedicate solely to my column, but I don't want to write it. But if not now, when? Sadly, I know what I'm doing all day for the rest of the week. I hate having that kind of foreknowledge. I like to play things by ear. Knowing when you will be doing what makes time pass far too quickly.

Ah well, back to the proverbial salt mines with me.

Tomorrow, this blog is going public. It has always been public, but only in the safe, anonymous way that you can tell absolute strangers things about yourself that you'd never dare reveal to those you love. To this point, only Julie and Dylan have known about this (if you know us, I hope you got a nice chuckle out of the irony of that); Julie because hers was the first weblog I ever visited (before she told me about it, I had no idea such things existed) and Dylan because he lives over a thousand miles away and doesn't know most of the people involved (again, the intimacy of the stranger). As far as I know, they are the only two people who have ever read it, save me.

I'm not inviting everyone (and inviting is an odd word, since anybody could happen to wander in here), just a few individuals I truly consider friends, the kind of guys you stay in touch with even over thousands of miles, not just friends of geographic convenience. It is telling that as much as I care for her, I won't be inviting Lindsay. The level of self-censorship that would require would essentially nullify the point of having a weblog. In a way it is sad that I can't be that honest with her (or as it specifically involves them, pretty much any of my friends), but to change that would be to change the fundamental nature of human discourse, and I've got better things to do with my weekends.

So, the first wave of invitations (a mass email, who am I kidding) go out tomorrow. Just a few individuals, mostly the Blue Tree Whacking gang, but I hope to expand until I've invited everyone I consider a friend to visit The Secret Base of the Rebel Black Dot Society. Maybe someday I can even invite Lindsay.

I had one of the grandest nights of my life on Saturday.

I'm sorry for the couple of times I've gotten pissed off at Blogger for not working. I realize the whole deal's run by just one guy, and he's been exceptionally kind to all of us by allowing us this opportunity. It is wrong of me to get pissed at him when Blogger doesn't work. Computers are cruel mistresses, I'm sure as much to Ev as to the rest of us. So, I'm sorry. I was wrong. Thank you for all of this.

I've decided to get three tattoos. Sadly, none of them is M I K E. I still don't have the courage to get that. Lindsay called me a coward for not getting it, but at the same time she suggested I should just get it temporarily tattooed again and again. I may be a coward, but at least I know I'm a coward. I am not brave enough to get M I K E tattooed on my knuckles, not yet. It is better to admit that you are paralyzed by fear than to live in denial. "Hey, man, I'm just not sure if i want to get it." I'm sure, I'm just not brave.

Of course, that's all bullshit. There's only one question in the whole of the universe: are you in or out? I'm out, but I'm pretending to be in. I hate me today, but Ira will make it all better.

There is no better show on radio than This American Life. NPR is the only thing worth listening to on the radio, and This American Life is the best show on NPR. My poor planning forced me to be out of the house during this week's broadcast of TAL (I'm an idiot), but I'm making it up to myself by listening to a past show off ye olde Internet. Sweet.

Oh, yeah, I'm not at home. My brother needed the car this weekend; so, I can't take it back to GB. I love the kid, but I swear he is the single most selfish human being you could ever meet. He's not evil, he just literally never thinks about other people or their needs. It never occurred to him that I might need the car, or that I might want to go home (that I didn't is beside the point, I'm talking about principle here). He just knew that it would make his life a little easier to have the car and so that decided the whole matter. By no means am I mad at him, but I pity him the adulthood he's going to have. Most people will detest him for his selfishness while he will remain utterly oblivious to the problem. (And before you go thinking I'm a bastard for not helping him, I've tried to tell him this. But he doesn't want the truth and when he hears it he sulks for days and then brings it up to bitch about for months after that. We Wilsons are a passive aggressive lot.)

Sure, I should have done this years ago, but I have just discovered Elvis Costello. What the fuck was I doing before this? Oh, well, no use crying over the years lost, all I can do to make it up to myself is make the most of the time I've got left. (Which, reckoning by my diet, should be about twenty years. Or twelve. Either's fine.)

Julie. For some reason, I've been having the worst time creating links lately.

Seriously, what's wrong with me? I was home three weeks ago for my dad's birthday, but only for the evening. My parents looked so sadly pathetic I felt the need to make them feel better; so, I agreed to spend this weekend at home (well, first it was last weekend, but I had to push it back). I don't want to be with them for a whole weekend! That's near the top of the list of things I least want to do. (Along with stick my hand in a fire and go see Dave Matthews live... okay, okay, they aren't that bad. Virtually nothing's that bad. Except maybe country music. Yeah, that's right, the Dave Matthews Band is just as bad as redneck country music. Worse, maybe, because it is more insidious.) Anyway, I wish I weren't the "good" kid. I don't want to go home this weekend.

You have to understand, it's not that I don't like my parents, I do, but they are getting crazier by the day. They're just unbearable. Maybe I can tell my kids they died saving orphans from a sinking ship of something...

I have to go home and write a little before bed. And if Brad gets in my way, there may be violence.

Okay, so both the Oni Blue Monday sit and the Official Blue Monday site aren't much use; so, here is the best source of general information you'll find. If you like music and teenage angst, you'll like Blue Monday, even if you don't like comics (though in my experience, most people that "don't like comics" have absolutely no experience with them). And if you don't like Blue Monday, then you're kind of a worthless twit, aren't you?

I swear to the Almighty that Brad is killing me. Not physically, but he's eating away at my soul. It's so bad that I've fled my house to find solitude; I'm not running from the Idiot Brigade, I'm running from my good friend. I have yet to record my awesome weekend in my journal, because every time I'm about to start he knocks on my door. He never wants anything; he's just killing time so as to avoid working on his papers! We are rapidly approaching the point where I will have little choice but to scream, Fuck off, you monotonous son of a bitch! And this is the way I treat my friends. Seriously, though, I've been very fair here. If I don't want to be disturbed, I put a sign on my outer door saying as much. Yesterday, he violated the sign. That selfish fuck.

I want to write a novel, but I don't want it to be another disillusioned rant by a twenty-something white guy. Yes, that's what I am, but God knows the world has enough of those already. And I'm not disillusioned. (Notice that yesterday, when I said I was disillusioned, I placed it in quotation marks.) I know what I believe in and how I want to live my life. I'm only disillusioned in that what I want and how I am is different than how I was told I was supposed to be.

Saturday
I'm disillusioned because I let Lindsay drag me out on Saturday night, even though she admitted herself the people with whom we were going weren't very cool. The group was a conspiracy of circumstance, a mishmash of people who have lived together because of the odd circumstances of collge life and their friends, so that some members of the group truly loathe others. The players (by couple - this was not my idea, and Lindsay and I are not *sigh* a couple, but we arrived first and conducted a headcount to give the server some idea of how many to seat): Lindsay and I, Mike and SSG, Orin and Jenni, Jeremy and Heather, Matt and Kami, and Jack. The Lord was merciful and Jack's horrible girlfriend stayed in Cincinnati, where they live. Of that list, I hate spending time with: SSG, Orin, Jenni (but only because she's always with Orin), Jeremy, Heather, Matt, Kami, and Jack.

I didn't want to go, but it was easier to go than to tell her, "You go ahead, I have no desire to see these peole; so, I'll stay here. If you want to come back and watch the movie later, I'm cool with that. But I really do not want to go with these idiots." But there would have been an argument, and I probably would have had to talk to SSG. So, I went and pouted the entire time. She told me I needed to be more social; so, I talked to Jenni, whom I really like. Orin was distracted by Mike, so the one thing I have against Jenni wasn't there. She's too nice the way my mom is too nice, but she's funny, too. But, when I started to talk to Jenni, SSG reared her chipmunk-cheeks and spewed forth some of her usual idiocy and I scowled and scowled and scowled. Mercifully, we left before anyone else.

Afterward, Lindsay said it was important for me to go. She's "working on me." Why? For fuck's sake, it's not that I'm antisocial, I just hate most people. I love nothing better than going out with the BTW gang; I just don't want to go out with those whom I despise. Does that seem unreasonable, to not hang out with people who aren't in any way your friends? The thing I love best and simultaneously hate most about Lindsay is the double-standard by which she judges everyone. She didn't want to spend time with Jeremy (they are long-time enemies), Heather, Matt, or Kami. So, why was it a good idea to go? I will never fucking understand why I should change if change means more time spend with the Idiot Brigade and their misbegotten ilk.

I had the most unbelievably great weekend! I really hate to give you that teaser and then not provide the meat, but I just don't have the patience at the moment. I wouldn't even be blogging if the stupid printer wasn't being so slow printing out The Newsletter. Does it seem like I spend too much of my time on The Newsletter and not enough on school? If it does, it is because I love doing The Newsletter and I don't like doing school.

Personally, I have never been more "disillusioned" in the whole of my life. It isn't at all important to me to finish school, except that I know I would regret it later. But honestly, I don't even want to go to graduation; I'm only going to make Mom happy. I don't want to hang my degree up on my wall. I don't ever EVER want to open a conversation by saying, "I graduated from the University of Michigan." If I do, and you have ever considered yourself my friend, please shoot me in the back of the fucking head.

I've only wanted to hit one person with a brick today, but I wanted to hit her repeatedly. I lifeguard with her on Mondays and she talks through the entire shift. She doesn't care that it is agony to me, she just wants to jabber on and on and expects me to nod attentively. Sometimes, it's amusing. Other days, it's like it was today. If yesterday hadn't been the worst shift of my entire life, today might have been in the running. A moment ago I discovered a cool new blog, but I'm not yet sure if I can support it enthusiastically enough to endorse it. Only time shall tell.

Read Chynna Clugston-Major's Blue Monday! (I don't have the energy right now to establish a link.) It's ace!

This past week, I've been so in love with Lindsay it's hurt. That is the greatest feeling imaginable.

(I've actually been in the lab here for an hour or so, but I've been designing The Newsletter and Publisher is only available on the retarded Dells, which get along with Blogger even worse than my beloved Macs. Still, while I'm in here I just had to zip over to a Mac to blog. Well, back to the salt mines for me....)

Dylan's the best. He made a sly reference to the Secret Base in an email he sent yesterday, and it made the world a brighter place. I know exactly why I lost contact with him, and I do not regret it, but at the same time I'm glad to be "talking" to him fairly regularly. I lost contact with Dylan for two reasons: a) I attend the University of Michigan, he attends Brigham Young University; b) he spent two years as a missionary.

a) When you no longer see someone almost everyday in the halls at school, of course you aren't going to stay in as constant of communication. But, that's not really it. Even before graduation, Dylan and I didn't hang out as much as we had. And why, you ask. Why do you think? There is only one thing that can come between two truly good friends: a woman. When Dylan and Julie broke up, it drastically altered our social circle. As time went by, I was one of the only people welcomed into both camps. Still, though, in the eyes of both camps I was tainted. I wasn't ideologically pure. And eventually I just started hanging out with Julie more than Dylan. (Hanging out is a deceptive term, since I was relentlessly yet fairly teased for almost never going out, prefering to stay in and spend time with my brother.) In any event, once we were in college, we emailed some, but we didn't really see each other much, not even when we were both in Grand Blanc for breaks. I think that's mostly my fault.

b) Dylan went to Mexico on his mission for his church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Yep, my caffeine-loving buddy's a Mormon. Although letters were allowed, I chose not to send any. I wanted this experience to be Dylan's. He was in a foreign place, speaking a foreign tongue, preaching his church's version of the Faith. I wanted him to be a Petri dish. I wanted his experience to be as pure as I could make it, to see how it would change him. I sent his parents a letter explaining my theory, placing it in trust to them to give it to Dylan upon his return. Of course, they misplaced it, but that doesn't really matter. Once he was back, it took us a while to get back into any sort of rhythm. I think we're still finding it. All I know is it's good to have my friend back. (Too much sugar, I need to go puke.)

For those in the know, it's been a slow day. So far, I've only got one.

Think about your day so far. How's it going? Well, I hope. Anyway, here's a little experiment I just devised. I don't know if it will tell you if you are having a good day or a bad day, but I think you'll find it amusing, and that has to be good. Here goes: think about everything you have done since you got up this morning. All the sights you've seen, all the people you're encountered, all the tasks you've perfomed. Now, how many times today have you wanted to hit somebody in the face with a brick? Not that you would even if you had a brick handy, but how many times have you wanted to? Just walk up behind the person, tap him on the shoulder, and hit him in the face with a brick.

So far, I'm up to five.

Here I sit, writing my next column, "Pax Americana," and these two frat boys are standing behind me discussing how to make a PowerPoint presentation. Argh! I know this isn't a library, but damn it! People are trying to get work done! (Okay, maybe what I'm doing qualifies more as recreation than work, but it's important to me, and I'd like to be able to work on it in peace.) Jerks.

I watched High Fidelity last night. I love that movie. I think it's my favorite John Cusack movie. Emily and Brad both favor Say Anything, but it's too sappy for me. Brad once said, "Dude, you need her dad to be guilty. Without that, it's Sixteen Candles!" Exactly. It's just too damned nice. There's nothing wrong with Lloyd. Rob Gordon (Rob Fleming in the book), though, he's an asshole. Not a villain asshole, an asshole the way real people are assholes. I said "asshole" three times in one sentence. Nice.

The second entry was about how losing the first entry very fittingly tied into the theme of the first entry. The first entry had been about my continuing concern that having a blog will siphon ideas away from my Journal, my column in The Newsletter, In Search of the Perfect Lesbian, new lyrics for Real Can of Yams, and the indie comics I one day hope to write. (Best indie companies: Oni Press and Slave Labor Graphics.)

This is a test message. Yesterday, I lost two good entries because either a) Blogger just decided to be an asshole and not work or b) the University's servers and Blogger were fighting. Either way, both times the POST and POST & PUBLISH buttons would not work again, and the first time it made the whole computer crash. Here goes nothing.

What could be better than Lindsay, K. Steeze, and Zach Nie! at the Less Than Jake show? Lindsay, K. Steeze, Zach Nie!, and the Bald Mountain at the Less Than Jake show! Alas, my beloved brother could not join us. Still, nobody loves their fans as much as LTJ, and nobody has a better pit. And the State Theater is the perfect size. Bigger than most clubs, but by no means an ampitheater; I never want any of my bands to get bigger than the State. (Note: Blink-182 was never good in concert, but they were a better live act before they toured ampitheaters and arenas.) Less Than Jake does it for the kids.

I didn't know her at the time I wrote the lyrics, but now I realize that "Riot Grrl" is about Lindsay. Fuck.

Friday night for the late collegiate/post-collegiate: nothing to do, nobody has the energy to go to the bar because half the group had had to go to work that morning, so we just went over to Justin and Emily's. The boys watched basketball, the girls talked about whatever the hell girls talk about (and because Mike's girlfriend, SSG, was there, I can assure you the discourse did not rise above the second-gade level). Still, there are worse ways to spend an evening, and for the most part SSG didn't bug me. I was the only single person there, the only person with no reasonable expectation of being engaged in the next twelve months.

NOTE: Mike's girlfriend's initials are not SSG. SSG stands for a rather insulting nickname. You see, her name is Julie. But I already have a Julie. And Mike's is vastly, immeasurably inferior; so, I derived the nickname SSG from somthing one of her old high school chums called her. I think it's hilarous, though I have to be careful not to use it around Mike. Sure, I don't intend to ever speak to him after college, but for the next few months he is useful.

Oh, yes, before I forget, I'd like to wish everybody a happy Ides of March. Let me just say this about the value of believing yourself right even when all the world tells you you're wrong: Caesar was ordered not to cross the Rubicon by men who've faded into the mists of history, while even 2046 years later, we still remember on what day he was assassinated. Sic transit gloria?

In a world where A.I. passes for intellectual, can you blame me for thinking of most people as Epsilons?

I tried to blog on Wednesday, but the program would not respond. I could access my site to read what I'd previously posted, but I couldn't add anything new. The POST and POST & PUBLISH buttons just wouldn't work. It was frustrating, but in hindsight an example of Mike Wilson Luck. The things I wanted to post would have been petty and stupid, temporary lapses in being who I am; so, the technical failure worked to my ultimate, if not immediate, advantage.

Mike Wilson Luck is the principle that little things go my way all the time. I'm not talking about the big things, like being an upper middle-class American born in the late twentieth century, a time of unparalleled advancement and prosperity. I'm talking about little things, like not being able to post stupid blogs of which I would later be embarrassed. Sometimes I can't see Mike Wilson Luck working around me; that's when I know I've given in to self-pity. It's like a canary in a mine. Anyway, I'm glad for this one instance of it, and thought I would share.

Zach Nie and Jon Mace dropped by last night, and we hit Conor O'Neill's (far and away the best bar in Ann Arbor) for a few pints. We were joined by the lovely Sarah Kline, Zach's beloved (yes, they love the song "Zak and Sara"). Much fun was had by all. Jon came up with the perfect title for Zach's new Newsletter column, which means it's fucking awful and completely inappropriate. Hmmm, Guinness, the only beer for me. That's not the point, though. After Zach and Sarah split (back to Lansing), Jon and I went to get Slurpees. Of course, this entails driving all the way to B.F.E. (you know, Ypsi) because Ann Arbor is full of bleeding-heart liberals who won't allow twenty-four hour convenience stores within the city limits because they attract the wrong crowd (God, I hate the hyprocrisy of this fucking city). Don't worry about me driving after two Guinnesses; I'd nursed them both over the course of the evening, and I am, as near as we can tell, invulnerable to libations. So, we drive all the way out to the 7-Eleven, and they are out of Coke Slurpees. The machine was recharging. Damn it! I settled for orange; Jon got a blue/vanilla mix. We approach to counter to pay (my treat), and find a woman buying two 40s with nothing but change. She's counting it out slowly and incompetently. She counts out $2.47 in dimes, nickels, and pennies, even though the display clearly show her total as $4.47. The clerk tells her she is two dollars short; the woman pulls out a wad of bills. She has bills?! That bitch. So, she hands the clerk $2.00 and then demands a paper bag. Paper bag in hand, she says, "Go ahead, gentlemen." I step around her and set our Slurpees down on the counter. I pay the clerk.

As I'm getting my change, the woman asks me, "So, how are you doing this evening?" I tell her the truth.

"Actually, I'm a little bit gassy." The clerk almost burst out laughing, visibly restraining herself; the woman acts as if I've said the most natural thing in the world.

"Well, that's you business. Have you ever been to Deja Vu?" Have I ever been to Deja Vu (a chain of strip clubs)?! Why in the hell would she ask me that? Old drunks don't go around asking college kids if they've ever been to Deja Vu, do they? At this point, things took a decided turn for the bizarre. (And see, here I thought I'd thrown her a curve with the gassy bit.)

"No, actually I'm a bit prudish." And I am; hey, if you'd grown up with my mom, you would be, too.

"Well, where are you guys headed." I look over at Jon. He's stiffling a laugh; no help there.

"We're just going to drive around a little bit."

"Looking for trouble?"

"I'f we can find any." Why in the hell did I say that? I stay in most Saturday nights. The last thing I want is trouble. I guess I thought I was still in control. Yeah, I'm an idiot like that.

"Where're you from?" By this point, I've got my change, I've put my wallet away, and I've started for the door. Bear in mind that I'm from Grand Blanc, Michigan. I've lived there my whole life (except for college).

"Originally? I'm from Texas."

"Yeah, where?"

"Houston." I'm walking toward the Mousemobile, keys in hand. Jon's heading for the passanger door, eyes aimed straight ahead.

"Hey, where're you going? Can you do a girl a favor?" A girl? Lady, you're forty-five if you're a day. I unlock my door. "Can you do a girl a favor?" I get into the car and reach over to unlock Jon's door. The Mousemobile is an '86 Chevy Celebrity; powerlocks would fit in as well as a flux capacitor.

She knocks on my window. SHE KNOCKS ON MY WINDOW! "Hey."

I start the car and pull away as quickly as I can. As soon as we hit the road, Jon and I burst into uproarious laughter. "What the fuck was that?"

"Dude, the clerk almost lost it when you said you were gassy."

We laughed all the way back to my house, where Jon crashed on the couch. It was hilarious, the prefect way to cap off the night. Zach would have loved to have been there. We just kept reciting the whole scene over and over again and laughing until we cried. I had buckets full of fun last night, all of it spontaneous. Aw, man, good times, good times....

Of course, when the woman knocked on the window, a scenario flashed through my mind: We let her into the back seat and gave her a ride and as I drove, she slit my throat.

"Clone War," the full theatrical trailer for Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones, aired last night; I'm in fanboy heaven. If you missed it, shame on you. Redeem yourself by downloading it now! I'll wait.

So, the Plate and I finished designing the latest Newsletter issue last night, and we had a merry old time. We made fun of Mike and Brad, and turned the issue into an ad hoc shrine to Jed Ortmeyer. The Newsletter will continue just fine without Mike, of that I am confident. I'm not trying to puff myself up here, but I think we've created something truly extraordinary. I will not let apathy destroy that. Death at the hands of some manner of megalomaniacal archvillain, that I could live with, but I won't let The Newsletter be shrugged into oblivion.

Sure, technically it is Monday, but to me this is still Sunday night. So, when I said yesterday, I meant Saturday. My rainy rebirth was on Saturday.

I was caught in a monsoon yesterday. The wind was so fierce that the rain hit my face with such velocity as to sting. Real pain. The front of my pants were soaked, while not a drop got on the back. Avoiding a puddle, I slipped on a bit of mud and fell flat on my butt. My shirt was untucked, so I got some mud on my boxers (ew). I felt and looked like a drowned rat by the time I got home. Not surprisingly, as soon as I'd arrived, the wind died and the rain became a gentle drizzle. (Nevertheless, I maintain that I love irony.) I peeled off my clothes; I felt disgusting. I took a warm shower, exchanged a dollar bill for some quarters in Brad's monkeybox, and put all my clothes (including my beloved crappy blue jacket) in the washer. And then I was reborn.

Working on The Newsletter had put my in a foul mood, but after I cleaned myself up, all that was gone. I was happy. Just incredibly content with everything. It was weird in the best possible sense of the word. I felt like that the rest of the day. The world was luminous.

"We are luminous beings." -Yoda, The Empire Strikes Back

The Newsletter
Last Fall, along with my erstwhile friends Mike "Uncle Jerry" Alber and Jim "The Plate" Platte, I founded The Newsletter. The idea came, as most good ideas do, from an episode of The Simpsons; Homer says to Bart, "Your ideas are intriguing to me and I wish to subscribe to your newsletter." We think our ideas are intriguing; so, we signed our friends up for The Newsletter. Vol. I, No. 1 was two pages; our columns were just a declaration of purpose, what we hoped to accomplish with them. For Vol. I, No. 2, we added Brad Dupay, and expanded to three pages. By Vol. I, No. 3, we hit four pages and this has since become standard. Each issue is photocopied onto a piece of 17"x11" paper, double-sided, then folded in half, stuffed into a letter-sized envelope, and mailed off. We've recently devised a method to steal copies; so, our only expense is postage. Each issue is theoretically available at The Newsletter Online, but Jim has fallen behind and the site hasn't been updated since January.

Now, Mike is planning on quitting. He says it isn't fun anymore. How that can be, I have no idea, but if that is how he feels, I won't try to stop him from leaving. I pity him, really. Mike is the most talented writer I know, in addition to being a fantastic artist and a truly hilarious human being. But, instead of doing something with those talents, Mike just likes to watch TV. (Listen, we all love SportsCenter, but Mike has been known to watch the same episode three or four times in a row.) Really, that's pretty much all he does, watch TV and play video games. By himself. And I'm not just upset that Mike doesn't want to be part of The Newsletter anymore (if anything, since the new year he's been less than half-assing it and hurting the rest of us); it just infuriates me to see so much potential going to waste. With his howntown friend Gabe, Mike has written a first draft of a screenplay. A full-length, professional-formatted screenplay. I've read it. It's hilarious. Yet, Mike isn't doing anything about revising it. He knows there are areas where it should be stronger, and he even knows how to make those areas stronger, but doing so would seriously cut into his heavy schedule of sloth-imitating. Damn it, Mike, how in the hell can you just give up on yourself like this?!

(True, if I had his girlfriend, I'd be miserable, too, but she's a noose with which he's hung himself. The poor bastard's even convinced he wants to propose to her and I have no doubt they will get married. It's really too bad Mike doesn't drink, because he could use a nice, stiff shot.)

Adding insult to injury, before he goes Mike is trying to convince Jim that nobody cares about The Newsletter. That may very well be true, but Jim is a melancholy kind of guy anyway, and telling him that is just plain cruel. It's bad scene, which, I'm becoming more and more convinced, is the nature of Ann Arbor. It's just a bad scene, man, and if you aren't careful, it'll eat you alive.

Ha ha, I have been to the dentist and I have conquered! (He drilled into my teeth while I lay helpless, my jaw numbed, and expending all my energy just trying not to drool, how is that conquering anything?) Quiet, you. The aforementioned dentist was Dr. Tom, my new dentist, son of my old dentist, Dr. Bowles, from whom he is inheriting the practice. Dr. Bowles is George Bowles, DDS; Dr. Tom is Thomas Bowles, DDS. Now, Dr. Tom was kind enough to let me come in today, even though he normally doesn't work on Fridays, but I'm not yet comfortable around him. Dr. Bowles has been my dentist since I was a wee tike; I almost looked forward to his disapproving stare at the end of my cleanings. It was a very central part of the ritual of going to the dentist. Most importantly, we didn't call him Dr. George, we called him Dr. Bowles. He wasn't your friend, he was a competant professional. I understand that Dr. Tom might not want to be called Dr. Bowles so as to establish his own identity, rather than assume his father's, but if he really wanted to be his own man, he shouldn't have taken over his dad's practice.

My archive is not as it should be, nor as (I think?) I set it. Hmmm, a puzzlement. I shall have to investigate.

Seriously kids, never volunteer for anything. How in the hell did I end up being elected Vice-President of Animania? I see now that I was being groomed the whole time. How else to explain it? The first time I was on staff, I dodged screenings for several months and then claimed that I was just too busy to be on staff. Months later, Dan, the president and my buddy, invited me to join again, if my schedule permitted. Feeling guilty over my first tenure, I did my best to be a good staff member. Then I'm nominated to be Veep and PRESTO! I'm elected. Aw, crap.

This is a lot like the time I was elected to the student government here at the University of Michigan, MSA. Heh heh, that was funny. I'll tell you about it some time. Oh man, that was great. How the hell do you accidentally get elected to anything? Officer, you gotta believe me, I didn't know the thing was loaded! I was just standing here and the darned thing went off! Nobody was suppsed to get elected. Let this be a lessen to you all: don't play around with democracy. It's all fun and games until somebody gets elected.