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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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