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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had a great time at work last night, though. "I'll fucking show you incidental."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do any of us ever truly know who we are? (Jumpin' Jack Pratt, that sounded pretentious as all hell. "Aw, crap, now the bugger's asking 'What does it all mean?' questions." "This can't fucking end well. I hate this 'quest for meaning' shite.")

Every time I try to give people the benefit of the doubt, I wonder why. It's not like a single one of these experiments has ever proven me wrong. I'm trying to be fair to people, and I'm really staring to regret that. Case in point: last night after The Daily Show, the Flying Dutchman and I watched Leno's opening monologue. Sweet merciful crap! The man was doing Clinton intern "jokes"! (Clinton intern jokes? Somebody get this man a calendar!) Ugh. So, the Dutchman's prestige took another direct hit, since after this horror he still had the nerve to say, "Okay, there may have only been two good laughs," an overestimation, I assure you, "but that's still two more than we would have had watching Letterman." The kid may very well have to be downgraded from "respectable" to "another worthless friend of Brad." I swear, except for me, the kid's friends are a sorry lot. I'm no prize, but these kids are pathetic.

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

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