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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I told you I was a monster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blogger was having one of it's periodic spasms earlier today, and would not allow me to post. Then, I'd allotted time and was in the mood for blogging; now, not so much. Also, I ran into Matt *asshole* Lindeman. Oddly enough, today's still been a pretty good day.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
24. I'm very impressed when you ask for my advice.
Um, okay. Why? In my specific case, I can understand, as I am reluctant to ask anyone's advice, largely owing to the fact that I hold the intelligence of the average person in the same esteem as that of the average dog. So, if I do ask for your advice, it means I must think you're either really smart or have a specific field of expertise that I may find helpful. In general, though, what's the big deal? Are most guys so caught up in their own insecurities that they play macho and won't ask a woman for advice? If so, that's really sad. Sadder still, it's not surprising. If I've solicited your advice, and please don't take this comment to be as arrogant as it will sound, that's one of the highest compliments I can give.

Also, Skeeter, if Anne doesn't know much about the Bible, it's mostly because she was raised Catholic. There is no major faith on the face of the earth that does a worse, more lackluster job of exposing its youth to the beauty of its own traditions than Holy Mother Church.

Yep, Brad's thing last night was about as bad as I'd thought it would be. Not terrible, but I had to listen to his moron friend Joe's opinions on pop culture. Joe's a nice enough guy, and he's funny, but he has all the wrong ideas. Seriously, he loves crap and denigrates quality. Movies, tellie, music, it doesn't matter what. Joe's got an opinion and it's one hundred eighty degrees wrong. But, I've suffered through worse. Then, out of the blue, the Mountain showed up. I guess Brad had mentioned it when David was over on Sunday night. I love seeing David, but it threw me for a complete loop. Not only was it unexpected, but it invoked the hated mixing of friends (for those of you who knew me in high school, I haven't made any progress on this one, nor do I want to) and involving David in an overall unfortunate situation. Honestly, I'd really rather not have David subjected to people acting like idiots on their birthdays. Despite attending the twenty-first birthday "celebrations" of many associates, and some beloved friends, I still think it's fucking stupid to waste your birthday drinking for the amusement of others.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
Monday's...
22. If I slept over, you owe me breakfast.
If she slept over as in sleeping together, yes. If she just crashed on the couch after a fun night of platonic revelry, no. Now, breakfast would still be a nice thing to offer, and of course there's always the fun time of going out to breakfast, either as a pair or a group, after a late night of fun and frolicking.

Today's...
23. If you ask me out directly, I will say yes.
Bullshit. A month after meeting her, I asked Lindsay out. I said, "Do you want to go out this weekend?" Not "Do you want to hang out?" or "Do you want to do something?," but "Do you want to go out?" That's a date folks, yet when she showed up, she pretended that the whole deal was just two friends hanging out. Bullshit.

21. You should never tell me what to do. cont'd
True. A loving relationship is based upon mutual respect, not dominance. Requests and suggestions are fine, orders are not. Now, there are of course exceptions. After a night of drinking, when I'm sober and everyone else is drunk, it is perfectly fine for me to tell you to not walk in the middle of the road. And sometimes people just have to trust each other, like I have to give you specific orders to follow and I just don't have time to explain right now, but please trust me and I promise I'll tell you everything once this is all over. That's fine, too, as long as it's a legitimate emergency, not standard procedure. A specific complication is that Lindsay does not take unsolicited help well. Some people can't wait for others to offer to help, she hates that. The why is her private business, but we've talked about it and it's something she's working on.

I know you'll all seriously contemplate hari kari, but I urge you to not panic. I just don't feel like writing today. I've got stuff to say, but I'm not in the mood to say it.

Okay, one thing. As a gesture of friendship, I was going to take Brad up to Conor's today, his twenty-first birthday. Unfortunately, he and some other friends were already planning to go to Charley's. Ugh. So, I'll make as short a guest appearance as I can manage. It would be dishonest to say I'm surprised, I'm just a little disappointed in Brad for being so very much himself.

As David said yesterday, I'm a monster.

Big thanks to both Julie and Dylan, who both remembered my birthday. This is the first one in years to not freak me out. 23. How about that?

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
Wednesday's...
19. A man I love plans the occasional fancy-schmancy dress-up date and impromptu weekend getaways, and he buys my favorite cnady in advance when we're just going to the movies.
Okay, the candy thing I can do. The other two, well, first I'd need the opportunity that has thus far been denied me. However, I did fly out to California, far and away the first person to do that, just to see her, and I timed it specifically so we could go to Warped together. The bridge of "Riot Grrl", the part about my perfect girl in the pit, I wrote that before I met Lindsay, but it could not be more her.

Thursday's...
20. You look hot in hooded clothing items.
I've chosen to read this as saying I'd look hot in a hooded Jedi robe.

Today's...
21. You should never tell me what to do.
This is a complex one. I'll come back to it tomorrow or Monday.

I had lunch with Seth Perkins today. What I love about Seth is that he lets me ramble on and on like a bloody madman and he just sits there laughing and nodding his head. He finds me both funny and insightful and has a general distain for people. That's not true, it's just that people don't get Seth and Seth doesn't get people. So, he tends to just keep his mouth shut. When he does speak, though, he's fucking hilarious. We once had a conversation about Hee Haw that was the funniest ten minutes of my entire life.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
18. When I compare my flabby tummy to a kangaroo pouch, say nothing.
I love Lindsay's stomach.

I had to attend a housewarming party at Alber & SSG's new apartment on Saturday. Well, that was not much fun. It wasn't terrible, as I'd feared it might be, but it certainly wasn't a good time. SSG hugged me twice, when I arrived and departed. What the fuck? Okay, I've never been a big fan of women hugging in lieu of a handshake, but I can live with it. However, in the almost two years I've known her, SSG and I have never had a hugging relationship. Either it was simmering mutual animosity or simply the fact that I saw her four or five times a week. Probably the latter, but I keep a candle burning for the former. I haven't seen her in a while, though; so, now it appear we hug. To quote The Thing, "What a revoltin' development!"

Justin asked me why I hadn't called Scott while I was out in California to get in touch with the two of them and Steve. I told him I'd run out of time. This is true, but not the entirety of the truth. Steve and Justin planned to go out to California. They had no intention of inviting me. I only found out when I told Scott I'd be out there to visit Lindsay. The three of them planned this without me; I'm not saying this bitterly, it's just the facts of the case. I was not invited to be a part of it; so, why should I invite myself? Resentment? Maybe a smidge, but I can't blame them. The three of them shared a single room together for their first two years of college. That has to have formed a hell of a bond.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
17. I own a Debbie Gibson CD, and I'm not afraid to use it.
It's worse than that, Matchbox Twenty is her favorite band. Music is perhaps the issue on which I am most annoying. But, it's only because I believe passionately in the music I love. However, music's an issue on which we're reaching an understanding. She is in love with Mike Herrera, the lead singer/bassist of MxPx, and is as fierce and fearless in the pit as anyone. Plus, when I specifically requested we listen to Matchbox Twenty while she was preparing her absolutely delicious lasagna, she admitted that she could see how I wouldn't like them from a musical point of view. My taste in music can work for me, not against me, I just need to learn to heed Coach Oldham's advice and not overpower people. Hmm, on that note I should try to get back in touch with Oldham. I miss that old bastard.

To whom it concerns: I sincerely appreciate all the love that's been steered my way over the last week. Thank you all. You're far better friends than I've earned, and living proof that my comeuppance has not yet come. I'm recovering from the hysteria of Tuesday and Wednesday, and once again gaining some perspective.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
16. Shoes determine whether you're fashionable or not.
Black, high-top Chuck Taylor All-Stars, baby! Fuck yeah.

Today I'm wearing a new Flogging Molly T-shirt I bought at the San Francisco Warped. It's the Molly shirt we're all been waiting for: black with a white skull-and-crossed-swords, Flogging Molly written in red in an archaic looking font. It's awesome. My only concern is that between the shirt and my tattoo I've got too much skull going on. Actually, I'm entirely certain I've got too much skull going on, but I love this shirt too much to care.

David's against me getting more tattoos. I think he's afraid I'll become some sort of tattoo guy. This stikes me as an unreasonable fear, in that during all of my visits to the tattoo parlor, I've felt very much that I do not at all belong, other than the fact that I have a sweet tattoo. I've never belonged, no matter where I've gone. So, why should the tattoo parlor be any different? (Or, he's just worried that I'll look like a tool. Have faith, my blue friend. I know what I'm doing.)

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
15. You did something bad. I seem cool with it. I'm not. (See directly above. [In our case, yesterday's item.])
On the contrary, Lindsay very clearly lets me know when I've done something to piss her off. I hear about it. Hell, I even hear about it when I haven't done anything wrong. I don't hold it against her because I well understand that none of us is perfect, and that I am perhaps the least fair person I know. But, I understand the principle, in that we often overlook things for the sake of someone we care about, but that it would be really cool for that person to appreciate that he or she has done something and to freely offer an apology.

It is at times like these that I really wished I cried. Or got drunk. Something cathartic would be really helpfully. (Example, sleeping with Lindsay. Wait, crap, the whole problem is that I can't do that. Damn it!) (This is one of my facetious, non-crazy moments; so, please take this as gallows sarcasm.)

I think it's perfectly reasonable for me to feel incredibly lonely right now; so, I'm not going to beat myself up about it. That's the predominant fact of my life at the moment: the absense of Lindsay. Right or wrong, there it is.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
14. I'm more forgiving of you than I really should be.
The absolute truth is so rare, that we must savor the beauty of it when seen. At best I am an oaf. Easily, I am an ogre. I am afraid that I am a monster. All of my friends are patient souls, lest they would have fled from me long ago. I am terribly trying. This is true of no one more than Lindsay. She has a terrible temper (which I am only now beginning to understand and predict), yet she puts up with so much from me. It's fucking incredible. At one point last week we were talking about why she liked me, and she said, "It's inexplicable." At this, I started teasing her, "Ha ha, you like me!" Poor girl. My task now is to be better than I am, better than I've ever been before. To be less of an asshole. To be less frustrating. To be what is good in me, and not what's bad.

I've never loved anyone as completely as I love Linz, and to be honest it's scaring the piss out of me. I'd never spend more than a consecutive day and a half with her prior to this trip and was worried about the theoretical effects of prolonged exposure. But after five days all I wanted was more time with her. We talked about when we'll probably next see each other; I'm not going to last until Christmas...

I'm back. "45 Things" resumes tomorrow. Those were perhaps the greatest five days of my life. My head's all screwed up; so, be prepared for major and disconcerting mood swings.

Bought a new Hawai'ian shirt at Sam's Store today. Man, I love that place. What a great concept: a store that sells Chucks, Levis, Hawai'ian shirts, brimmed hats, Swiss Army knives, Maglites, and monochromatic T-shirts. And has a pair of size sevety-six levis hanging from the back wall.

"This one's for all the suckers who still believe in love / This one's for you."

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
13. I'm scared of losing my independence.
I'm not sure if this one is true. Many girls seem to be ravernous, blood-sucking demons who want nothing more than to attach Ramora-style to a guy and slowly kill his will to live. Since she has to stay attached to him to do this, her independence would then seem to be forfeit. (Are these critiques overly bitter?) Now, when Lindsay rejected my first advances, she said that she is a very consuming, possessive girlfriend (saying this to illustrate that I wouldn't be happy with her even if she'd have me). It's rather hard for me to reconcile that with desiring independence. Hmmm, further thought shall be required.

I saw Attack of the Clones this weekend with Dad, in digital projection in Birch Run. I have equalled the number of times I saw The Phantom Menace during the summer of 1999, though I need to see Clones one more time to tie Phantom's total theater screenings (remember, they rereleased it in December 1999 with all the proceeds going to charity).

1500 yards today and Friday. If I can keep this up, progress will be swift. I'll never again be what I once was, but I can be far more than I am now. I should seriously look into joining a Masters team in the Fall. I had much to write on Friday, but Blogger was down for server maintenance; it would have pissed me off, but it seems entirely reasonable that the server would need work now and again, and as this is a free service, my temper was held in check. Nothing I would have said was terribly important, and it would be impossible to reconstruct now; it was very much of the moment. Tomorrow will be the last I'm heard from in a week. Try not to miss me too terribly.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
12. Only rock stars are allowed to wear leather pants.
True, and even then only because most people listen to fucking terrible music performed by loser, has-been, dried up old piece of shit rock stars (sorry, but Lindsay really likes Aerosmith and it's really pissing me off; I may very well go out of my way to be critical of her music while I'm in Berkeley). You'd never see Dicky Barrett or Chris of LTJ (why don't they have last names?) wearing leather pants. Now, Aaron Barrett probably would, but that's not to say it wouldn't be unfortunate.

Seven days until California. Weird. It has been hot as Hell* in Michigan for the last two weeks. We've got high humidity and temperatures in the nineties. Nighttime lows are around seventy, and we all know that there's no chance of recovering a day when you're woken up hot. This weather pretty much sucks, and, I would argue, given how warm a Winter we had, these high tempeatues are also profoundly unfair. If we'd had a nice, snowy Winter, then I could at least understand a hot Summer. But we had the pussiest Winter on record. Where the fuck is the balance?! Hmmm, maybe last Winter was warm because last Summer was cold. That I could live with, because it suggests that this coming Winter will be a beast. Excellent.

Anyway, given the suffering caused by the heat and Julie's dire warnings about New York as a pressure cooker, I'm going to put off visiting her until the Fall. Since I've bought Brad's football tickets (one of the few nice things about Ann Arbor is Michigan football), I'll find a nice non-football weekend and go see the colors in Central Park.
(*I would have said "hot as Hades," just because I like the word Hades, but as anyone who has read their Greek myths can tell you, Hades was not a sea of sulfur or lake of fire like the Christian Hell, but a place as cold and gray as the grave itself.)

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
11. I expect you to call me.
And I do. Although... I don't know.... It used to be that I would always call Lindsay. She usually seemed rather short on the phone; rather eager to get back to whatever she was doing. Now, yes, I do have more than just a slight tendency to be longwinded (i.e. brother, do I know how to not shut up), but I always read that it was more than that. Maybe she had other things to do. Now, given my phone-as-rude-interruption theory, this shouldn't have bothered me. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't. Now, however, she calls me more often than I call her. She initiates contact more frequently than I do. I'd like to think this is because absense makes the heart grow fonder, but most likely it's because she's just moved to a city where she knows no one, and she's lonely. Still....

The phone. The phone is an incredibly rude device. At my whim, I can call you up, and almost regardless of what you are doing you are expected to drop it and respond to the ringing like Pavlov's dog. Yet, amazingly, this is not considered rude. And, as I do not forego the use of the phone, I am as guilty of this as anyone else. Think about it, though. Of course, there are exceptions. Last night, David and I had just begun watching Schindler's List when the phone rang. I sprang up from the couch and unplugged it. David had hung on my door the sign reading, "DO NOT knock unless it's important." Nevertheless, a few moments later, Brad knocked on my door. I stopped the movie and answered it, emplying one of my best scowls. He said, "I know you don't want to be interrupted, but it's from California." Lindsay! Hurray! Brad made the right decision; so, I thanked him and took the call. So, yes, sometimes it is good to be interrupted. The moral of the story is that philosophical purity is very attractive, but dauntingly impractical.

The Mountain and I finally saw Attack of the Clones again last night. It had been fifteen days since I'd last seen it. What the hell is wrong with me? I didn't want to go that long without seeing it, and I did have a lot of things going on, but it's my own fault for not making it the priority I should have. Rest assured, "I won't fail again."

I spoke to Lindsay last night. I'm feeling better about California, though still distrubed by Sunday night's festivities. Hmm, "dangerous and disturbing this puzzle is. Mediatate on this, I will." (Seriously, everything I need to know I leanred from Star Wars.) Do I say too much about Lindsay's and my inner dealings? I'm intensely pivate, yet I mention almost everythig we do here. I helps to work things out, if I can get them out of my head and before my eyes, but am I violating her right to privacy? Am I airing our dirty laundry in front of this gawking rabble? "Use the Force. Think." I'll have to give it some thought.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
10. I get turned on simply seeing that I have an e-mail from you.
This is a complex one. For me, this is absolutely true. A day's fortunes can rise and fall on whether or not I have received an email from her. (Yes, I prefer to spell email as a single, hyphenless word.) I think that is as it should be. I'm thrilled to receive word from all of my friends, and it is thus appropriate that I'd be especially excited to hear from her. Now, the complexities anter in diving what, if anything, she meant to be read into this statement. Linz and I have a complicated relationship, making her comment near the end of our one date very prophetic; "You're going to make this complicated, aren't you?" Though she knows I have strong feelings for her (I've never said to her, "I love you."), we pretend that I don't, so that she has openly discussed in front of me how hard it is to find quality guys and other such matters. Mr. Alber has been highly critical of this practice, but as I have said before his inexplicable affection for SSG renders his judgments void. So, is it insensitive of her to have sent me a list contain an item such as this? Or, is it a piece of advice she believes in, and she feels comfortable enough in our friendship to share it with me? I don't know. It's complicated.

I'm beginning to feel weird about California. There's a strange vibe in the air. Last night, rather late at night (past midnight in Berkeley), I went online and started IMing with Lindsay. She said she was tired of typing and asked me to call her. As soon as I did, she asked me what was wrong. I was taken aback, because there was genuine concern in her voice. Lindsay's delightfully abrasive, but when she gets serious her voice become softer and painfully beautiful. Her voice was very soft. My mind raced to find something I'd done to make her think anything was the matter, but found nothing. I said nothing was wrong, but she persisted and asked me again what was wrong. Now, to my horror and embarrassment, you all know that I am an ogre. I trample over people's feeling without any regard, not out of malice (usually), but out of emotional oafishness (or, less charitably, retardation). So, I'm trying to be more open. In the parlance of the Beltway, more transparent. I asked her, gently, what I'd done to make her think something was amiss. She told me that I'd been combative the last several times we'd talked. I told her that nothing was wrong, and pleaded with her to tell me what I'd said to give her such an erroneous impression so I could avoid doing so in the future. Still speaking very softly, she told me not to be a dick.

For a time last night, I entertained the thought that she doesn't want me to come to California. Upon learning of my impending visit, her friend Teresa, a former co-worker here in Michigan, in whom Lindsay has confided about our friendship, told her that by having me visi so soon after her departure that she was leading me on. This prompted Lindsay to beg me to reassure her that she had, in fact, not been leading me on. I told her the truth: of course she hadn't. Linz and I are dear friends, and the timing of my visit was determined by the San Francisco dates of the Warped Tour, that is why I am coming out. And this is the truth, because she and I are friends. It is not her fault I'm in love with her. Alas, time grows short as the lab is closing. More on this later, as I am sure it will dominate my thinking.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
9. I'm terrified of becoming my mother even though I admire her.
This, my friends, is the truth. We all fear becoming those we have idolized, though we've idolized them for good reason. I don't know why this is, except perhaps the fear of being not ourselves, but mere clones. And as we all know, a clone is neve quite as good as the original. But, it may be a good deal more complex. I hope to revisit this topic.

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.