She's gone again, but something in the way she hugged me last night makes it hurt not as much as previous partings.

The show was a triumph. As with last year's big Christmas show, I really liked Tommy's Frogs, but I thought we were the best band of the night. There were also two personal victories: a) I nailed the horn part to "Dude, Weak," a feat of which I did not think myself capable when I woke up yesterday morning. b) Lindsay, Skeeter the Nano-Human, Saturday Night Latham, and The Watergirl were all in attendence.

Real Can of Yams! Look for the new album, CODENAME: Koala, sometime in the indefinite future, maybe... well, if it ever comes out, it will be on Blue Tree Whacking Records.

There's nothing like reading In Pharaoh's Army with From Russia With Love on in the background. Now I'm going to ruin it with a shave and shower. Still, what an idyllic early afternoon.

REAL CAN OF YAMS!
Tonight! Live on Stage!
The Flint Local 432!
Be there or curse yourself with regret for a thousand thousand nights!
The Old Hats! Good As Monday! MuZal! Ben Frick! Real Can of Yams! And direct from Coe, Iowa*, Tommy's Frogs! More rock 'n' roll than you can shake two sticks at!

*It should be noted of course that Tommy's Frogs is from the town of towns Grand Blanc and that there is no Coe, Iowa.

I am of the opinion that M&M will, in fact, not be fired. This is very unfortunate, and I sincerely hope that I am wrong, but I've got this sense that though things are bad, the Fords, in their infinite wisdom, want to give them another year, based on the potential of Joey Harrington and the many excuses the media (yes, that's right, I'm using the media as a catch-all bogeyman) have floated for the Lions' awful performance lo these last two seasons. Such as: the Lions did win 50% more games this season than last and, prior to losing their last eight games, they were 3-5, not an entirely unacceptable record for a team with a rookie quarterback.

Based on his middle name, I'm contemplating whether I should continue to dismiss Lindsay's boyfriend as Lindsay's boyfriend or refer to him as Leroy (not the cool Lee Roy, but the namby-pamby le Roi, which I was informed is the proper pronunciation). His Leroy versus my Patrick; except for the fact that he's sleeping with Lindsay, I've got this kid whipped seven ways from Sunday.

Yesterday was one of those amazing, luminous days, the days that you remember forever, the days that make life worth living. Lunch at Kruse & Muer, Emma's weird wedding, bowling between the ceremony and the reception, staying at the reception until they kicked us out, enjoying ourselves despite the dreadfulness of the GB/Flinttown social scene, and ending up, as so many nights should and do, with late night eats at Angelo's; these things were great, but the real majesty was in the company: Skeeter, Saturday Night Latham, Boof Daddy, Steve Reed (who's never needed a nickname), and Lindsay. I've tried to explain to people, Lindsay included, why Grand Blanc is so great, but I think a better way is to show them. The real magic of Grand Blanc is not in the place (treasure though I do every inch of the drive from Hill Road down Saginaw Street), but in the people: the Blue Tree Whacking gang, the old high school crew. With the lovely exception of Lindsay, all of my dearest friends grew up here.

Tomorrow, worlds collide. For the first time, friends from outside BTW are coming to one of my shows. Historically, I have been against mixing friends, but I never otherwise feel alive in quite the same way as I do on stage, and I want all of my friends to see that part of my life. I am a difficult person to get along with - I am vain and defensive, arrogant and awkward - but up there all I feel is joy, and I want these people, who mean so much to me even though I never do enough to show them, to know that part of me. Also, new friends will be thrown into the mix; fantastic singer/songwriter The Watergirl, an online friend with much potential, will be there. Tomorrow, my friends, tomorrow has the makings of glory.

In the little time I've seen him in the last few days, the Bald Mountain and I have watched episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Two of my favorite things together in the same room; Lord above, I am more blessed than I deserve.

Yesterday: RCY practice, Lindsay came up and we hung out, and Skeeter and I painted the town red (and made a new friend, Doug).

Today: I haven't seen the Mountain all day (he's had The Old Hats and Tommy's Frogs practice), but as I type he's on his way home to pick me up for RCY practice. After that, maybe Dad and I wil go see Star Trek: Nemesis. Shockingly, he has yet to see it. If not that, I don't know how I'll spend my evening, since Skeeter and I decisively proved that there is absolutely nothing to do in Grand Blanc except stay in. (If I ever again find myself at the Grand Blanc Inn, someone please shoot me in the back of the fucking head.)

Tomorrow: Emma's wedding and subsidiary activities. Should occupy the entire day. Good times, good times.

There are, shall we say, issues with the quality and utility of Dad's computer. So, blogging may be erratic. Yesterday was amazing, even with the Trivial Pursuit game that wouldn't end... but eventually did (shades of Alberto Fedrigatti v. Pete Sampras?). RCY practice this morning; sweet fancy Moses, we kick ass! We worked on two completely new songs for the show, and an old Murky Transport Disaster clasic that's never been performed live. Lindsay came up this afternoon and we had a lovely time hanging out. For some reason, she was really insistant that I was weird on the phone Monday, but I'm really sure that I wasn't; she's quite the lunatic.

REAL CAN OF YAMS
Live on Stage! Monday, December 30!
The Flint Local 432
Be there or "I beat your face!"

Mom and Lisa are watching The Royal Tenenbaums; so, I must be off.

Sometimes I'm appalled at how poorly Lindsay knows me. Yesterday, she was pissed off at me for thinking I'm not going to make any friends in Boston. "Why don't you think you'll make any friends?" Because I'm a freak. Because I'm weird. Because my first two years at U of M were the loneliest of my whole life and I didn't make a single original friend (not a hold-over from high school) until junior year. For Pete's sake, I'm going to make friends, it's just going to take some fucking time! So if I want to laugh about that because I think it's funny, there's no reason she should get mad at me. Sweet merciful Magilla, this is the whole problem. This is why I can't give her up, because I know her so much better than she knows me. Aside from the fact that she's just not attracted to me, she's so certain we'd be terrible together. How can she know that when she doesn't even know me? I'm constantly surprising her, because instead of trying to know me, she's comfortable in her little world of assumptions. She's brilliant, but at the same time she's incredibly daft. So frustrating.... If I'm whining, I apologize.

I had a nice, long talk with Mom last night. She really really hates my tattoo. It's not like David's earring (and at times, earrings) or Dad's mustache, both of which she dislikes; she really hates my tattoo. "It's ugly." Mom, I think it's beautiful. I didn't get it to spite you. No, not even a little. She's the dearest woman, but she really does wish we were all more normal.

The Mountain's nowhere to be found. Steeze sez jump and he asks, "How high?" Still, at least they're having fun. Lisa, my sister, is flying in this afternoon. Washington to Detroit to Flint-Bishop. Seriously, who flies into Bishop? Only her and Scottie J, apparently.

This is one of those moments when I choose to be a small, petty man. I'm going to go be depressed about how much sex Lindsay and her boyfriend are going to have in Mexico.

REAL CAN OF YAMS
Live on stage! The Flint Local 432!
Monday, December 30, 2002
(we'll probably go on 9pm-ish)
Be there, or as David would say, "I beat your face!"
Everyone will enjoy this show. If you don't love Real Can of Yams live, then you just don't like fun. If you come and don't have fun during our set, I'll let you punch me in the stomach... with a running start!

Seriously, if you are in the State of Michigan, you have to come to this show. Dylweed and his lovely wife Kristy are excused because they are stuck in Utah; similarly, the Evil Princess can't leave Vermont. These are valid reasons to miss the show. Anything else is bullshit, and I fucking hate you if you don't come. (*Wink*) Really, though, you owe it to yourself to come. Shit, man, even Linz will be there, and she hates being in Michigan.

Woe is me, I have not been found worthy to be selected as The Watergirl's Christmas boyfriend. After a devastating blow such as this, the only reasonable course of action is to turn my anger on the world at large. That's right, I'm borrowing a page from Hank Scorpio's playbook and unleashing the fury of Operation: Arcturus! Be not surprised the day after Christmas when the headline of your newspaper reads: SUPERVILLAIN SEIZES EAST COAST.

"Oh, my God. He blew up the 59th Street Bridge."
"Maybe it collapsed on its own."
"We can't take that chance."
"Oh, you always say that. I want to take a chance!"

In an email she sent before leaving California, Lindsay said, "Point is, we haven't talked in too long." The anti-Lindsay campaign hasn't been going so well because I was pretty aware of all the things I don't like about her when I fell for her. I could really use a good cry. I wish I could just fucking break down and cry. It's not that I have a problem with crying, that I think men shouldn't cry, I want to cry. I encourage crying, people often need that release. But the last time I cried was at Grandpa Little's wake when I just couldn't walk away from the casket. The first and last time I cried over a girl was junior year of high school and I was fucking sixteen. The tears just won't come. After our one and only date, I was perfectly happy to hate her, to write her off as a manipulative bitch. Why did she try so hard to befriend me the following summer? Reconciliation was her idea, she made the first moves. A part of me wishes she'd just left well enough alone.

My aunt and uncle in Austin, my dad's sister and brother-in-law, gave me a subscription to the National Review for Christmas. The gift card, which came to the house in Ann Arbor, included the tag line "The conservative's magazine." Jesucristo, just because I vote Republican doesn't make me a conservative. I'm pro-choice. I don't worship at the church of tax cuts. I'm in favor of an adventurous, interventionalist foreign policy. I will oppose prayer in school with my dying breath. I support gun control. I don't believe America is in moral decay. Gaah, the Wilsons drive me crazy. Seriously, every one of them is a lunatic. My dad is far and away the most normal of his brothers and sister. Do you have any idea how sad that is? Uncle Lin's a Libertarian; the last time I saw him, he was carrying a gun on his person. I've never seen Uncle Skeezy without a beer in his hand; his name's Harold, his friends call him Hal, Skeezy's a childhood nickname that won't die. Aunt Meg and Uncle Fred don't have any kids (with the exception of Coach and his wife, I don't trust people who've been married for twenty-plus years and don't have kids), and as time passes their conservativism is beginning to look a lot more like Lin's anarchism. Of course, maybe I should just be thankful I don't have any cousins on that side. Grandma Wilson's old and increasingly senile, but back when she had all her marbles she was nutty as a fruitcake. Grandpa Wilson, may he rest in peace, was a crazy man; when I was a little kid, I honestly thought he had red eyes.

Dan Rydell on Sally Sasser: "I say she has no reflection!"

Red dragon tattoo
Is just about on me
I got it for you
So now do you want me?
With nothing to lose
Will you be my honey?
In you I confide
Red dragon tattoo
I'm fit to be dyed
Am I fit to have you?

--Fountains of Wayne, "Red Dragon Tattoo" from Utopia Parkway
If you've heard Fountains of Wayne and you don't at least like them, you just don't like rock 'n' roll.

I've done a very uncharacteristic thing. I've submitted my name to The Watergirl's Christmas boyfriend search. A delightfully odd venture to begin with, made all the more surreal as I had already cited an excellent reason why I should not submit my name for consideration. Nonetheless, I was forced to live according to what I preach and so had to file an application: every opportunity should be seized, no matter how small, unless you can satisfactorially answer the question Why not? I couldn't, so here we are. As I've been known to say on occasion, "This is an odd play for the Trade Federation."

It's been a pleasantly quiet, solitary day. Still, immediately after Risk I shall be happy to get back to Grand Blanc. Great Caesar's ghost, Christmas is Wednesday! Man, that's wild. (For those of you keeping score at home, we've now recovered everything lost in last night's missing post, though the original suicide post was better.)

I think the single saddest thing about the last two seasons for my beloved Lions, and there have been many sad things about my Lions over the last two dreadful years, is that I've gotten used to them. Now I expect them to lose. It no longer upsets me. Sigh, the sad consolation of lowered expectations.

On Suicide In high school, I thought about suicide. I never gave serious consideration to ending my own life, I just thought about suicide from every angle I could in order to clearly divine my opinions on the matter. As far as I was made aware, none of my friends contemplated suicide. The first person I knew who had truly dwelled on that line of thinking was The Plate; he spend the Summer of 2001 alone in Pittsburgh and was very lonely. Bachelorette No. 3 told me that she was very close to jumping off of South Quad this Fall. I've tried to be supportive and encourage them both to stop and reconsider, but I'm just not capable of being sympathetic. I can't empathize, I can't put myself in their shoes. The reasons I could never commit suicide:
a) In a way, each of us is the beginning and the end of the universe. I obviously didn't experience anything that happened before I was born, and I won't be aware of anything that happens after I'm dead. Everything I've ever learned about the universe I've learned in relation to my own existence. I could not bring myself to bring to an end the entire universe.
b) It's just about the most selfish thing a person can do. Yes, it's your life, but think about the pain and guilt your absence, if not your actual death, will cause. Were anyone I know to commit suicide, I know that I'd blame myself, that I'd convince myself there were things I could have done and didn't, even if there wasn't anything I could have done. I'm a jerk, but I'm not capable of being that selfish.
c) If I die in a fiery wreck on the drive back to Grand Blanc, I'll shortly thereafter find myself in either Heaven or Hell. I'm not entirely certain sure which. However, if I hang myself, I have absolute conviction that I'll spend eternity in Perdition's flames. I have many odd theological ideas and theories, but in this area I am old school: suicide is a mortal sin from which there can be no redemption.

At the same time, I don't believe committing suicide should be against the law. Each of us has the inalienable right to life. Does that not mean you should then also have control, cruel fate (disease, accident, et al.) permitting, over when and how that life should end? Committing suicide is incredibly, incredibly dumb, but that doesn't mean it should be illegal.

Moving On The Bald Mountain gave me his keys and asked me to retrive from his apartment his attache case, which he had forgotten on Thursday. Man, my brother's just got style. Not only is he the only guy I know who can pull off a purple four-button suit, but he's got a real McCoy attache case. Every trendy chump has a satchel, but it takes a special man to have an attache case. Shaven head, earring, those too cool black-framed glasses, the cat's got style and he's got it in spades.

I'm in a mood neither to sleep nor to write in my journal; so, here's some of what was lost. I love it when I'm wrong; I had a fine time at Justinandemily's Christmas party. Not a good time, but not a bad time, which I had been expecting. When I arrived, I met Justin's brother and sister-in-law, Josh & Lisa. I've seen pictures of Josh before, but in the flesh it was freaky how much he looked like Justin. Almost like they're brothers.... Aside from Josh & Lisa and our hosts, Justin & Emily, the other attendees were Brian & Alyssa (I like them, the're fans of The Aquabats!), Orin & Jenni, Alber & SSG, and Marquina & Z, newly returned from several years living in LA. I was naturally isolated in the group both as the only person not attending with my significant other and as the only person not living with my significant other. Orin has recently given Jenni her long-anticipated engagement ring, and the rock was gawked at and talked about at length. It was more than a little weird. Among the BTW crew, Guy Zach Nie! is unique in having a steady girlfriend, the amazing Sarah. I am alone in the Ann Arbor group in being alone; they have common experiences and interests that I just do not share. With the passing of time, I feel more and more disconnected from them. In the interests of honesty, though, I can't say I particularly regret this.

Among the GBHS reunion crew at Emma's wedding next weekend, I'll be in the minority being single, but not an overwhelmed minority. With all the criss-crossing hostility between Skeeter, Justin, LJ, and me, there is great potential for this to be very awkward. Adding to the fun, Lindsay will be there, which provides the opportunity for things to be just plain strange. Still though, it will be a blast; Emma will be unimaginably happy and Emma's happiness has always been highly infectious.

I just lost a really good post. And yet this test worked. I used the exact same procedure for both. I honestly don't know what I could have done to lose the first one. Well, fuck, that's a kick in the teeth. I'll try to recover it later, or failing that, replace it in the morning. Son of a bitch....

I'm in trouble here, kids, but I think it's going to be okay. The Mountain and I were up until 4:30 in the morning talking. We don't talk enough. But then when we do it's all the more sweet; so, as he'd say, it's all gravy. A preview of things to come: later on tonight, after the debacle at J&E's, the long-in-coming discussion of suicide and why I'm against it.

Now's the perfect time to work on In Search of the Perfect Lesbian; so, why don't I feel any desire to do so? Margaret, Pete, Kari, Mary (or Friday), Parker, Katie: these are all scared, hurt people, caught between certainty that love is a lie and there isn't anyone for them, and the hope that they are just kids and their whole lives are ahead of them. It's about pain and mistakes, misery as a virtue, and the lies you can make yourself believe if you want to. Of course, maybe I'm just a hack; I like creating whole worlds in my head, but the blank page intimidates me to no end. Hell. A girl named Tuesday? Mary Peppard, Friday Peppard, or Tuesday Peppard? Margaret Dykehouse and Kari Putterman. How untalented am I? My story is called In Search of the Perfect Lesbian and my main character's named Dykehouse. H-A-C-K. Hack.

I'm sorry about yesterday's post. I overreacted. But Dad's racist asshole friend Mr. Legacy was here and the first thing Mom did when she walked through the door was go apeshit over my hair. It's been years since she's reacted so negatively to one of us dying our hair. But over dinner (meatloaf! huzah!) things got better, and I'm giving in to the pacifying effect of how beautiful the house is with all the Christmas stuff up.

I've been home five minutes and I already want to leave. What in the Sam Hill happened to the great time I had over Thanksgiving? Save me, Jeebus.

Neutral Man and I had lunch at Mongolian to celebrate the end of his finals (and to celebrate me not having any finals). As always, I used waaaaay too much cayane pepper. Why do I always do this to myself? Of course, what's the point of going to Mongolian if I'm not going to use waaaaay too much cayane pepper? My tummy isn't going to like me for the rest of the day, but he'll get over it. My hair is bleached, my tummy is overly full, and soon I'm going to dye. I'm a happy Last Angry Man. (And I've got a twenty-four hour crush on our waitress, because she was spunky and had hair shorter than mine.)

Field Note (from the ongoing sociological experiment that is me): If you walk around town with your cheeks puffed up full of air (like a pufferfish!), people will look at you most strangely.

Strange Coincidences How much does what happens to you as a little kid determine who you become? a) When the Mountain and I were little (say, first and fourth grades, respectively), we would get our hair buzzed in the Summer. The rest of the year, Mom just took us to Debbie (our lifelong barber) whenever she felt we needed haircuts. But in the Summer, we got to demand buzzes and boy howdy did we! My Uncle Jim, probably my favorite uncle, nicknamed us Buzzy (me) and Baldy (David). Today, I keep my hair buzzed and the Bald Mountain, obviously, shaves his head. Jim Little: the Nostradamus of Kettering, Ohio? b) Also when we were little, the Mountain and I owned two California Raisins figures. We each picked one to be our own; his had a microphone and mine played sax. Years later, in first Murky Transport Disaster and now Real Can of Yams, he sings and I play the saxophone (or as we've dubbed it, the hacksophone). Creepy, no? At the very least, uncanny.

I really hope Senators Nichols and Frist have the nerve to take down Senator Lott. Remember this: no one hates people like Lott worse than moderate Republicans like me, because they make us look bad, and because they've hijacked our party. Liberals should actually rejoice in Lott's obvious racism, as it could be used to the detriment of the entire GOP leadership; make him a liability to W. the way Gingrich was to Bob Dole. (GBers: remember when Dole came to GBHS during the '96 campaign? Man, that was hilarious.)

"Bob Dole hates carrots!! Bob Dole will scream unless he gets a cookie!! Don't spank Bob Dole!!"

Woo hoo! BTW Day lives! Last year, the gang and I celebrated the first ever Blue Tree Whacking Day, a day of merriment and antix (I want to spell antics properly, but I've been outvoted; so, in the context of BTW, I have to use the approved misspelling). To learn more about Blue Tree Whacking, visit www.bluetreewhacking.com. Oh, wait, you can't! Because Steeze hasn't fixed it yet! Anyway, I'll reference BTW and hyperlink to the site once it's back up and running... Kevin! Activities included a pilgrimage to Toledo to see the traveling Star Wars museum exhibit, Good E. Bag Wednesday Super Special Christmas Edition, and The Hour That Nobody Wanted 3. This year, the Star Wars exhibit has moved on, nobody is willing to do The Hour That Nobody Wanted in the cold again, and January 2 is a Thursday, so no Good E. Bag Wednesday. (In theory, we could celebrate BTW Day on New Year's Day, a Wednesday, but that's a day for watching twelve or more hours of college football, one final feast before the eight month famine until next season.) Fortunately, the Bald Mountain, our wise parliamentarian, has ruled that we may have a one-time only, special exception Good E. Bag Thursday, or as I like to call it, Good E. Bag "Wednesday." Christmas, Emma's wedding, the rock show, and BTW Day: life is good.

More on that front: last night the Flying Dutchman was walking around the house chanting, "Al Bore no more in 2004!" With former Vice President Gore's decision not to seek the Democratic nomination for president, the 2004 elections have gotten interesting again. Between the war on terror and the midterm elections, President Bush looks like a formidable opponent; but now, the Democrats are no longer burdened by having a clear-cut frontrunner. The primary thing Gore had going for him was that he won the nation-wide popular vote in 2000; however, after 9/11 the American people have neither patience nor tolerance for assertions that Bush is not the rightful president. And lest we forget, Gore somehow managed to lose the 2000 election to a pre-9/11 W., a man widely believed to be an imbecile, even by some of us who voted for him. The debacle in Floida aside, Gore lost the election. He was the sitting vice president to a personally popular president and had sat in office during an incredibly long period of robust economic growth, and yet his race against the Shrub was so close that one state decided the outcome. His campaign was lackluster at best, a mishmash of robotic speeches, indecypherable themes, and horrid public swallowings of his fascist wife's face. With Clinton's record to run on, an inanimate carbon rod should have been able to beat W. by a margin that resembled Reagan-Mondale ('84) more than Kennedy-Nixon ('60). The inevitable conclusion is that Al Gore's just a loser.

So, the Democrats may be better off without him. At the very least, now there will be a fight for the nomination, and that might actually result in something the Democrats haven't had in decades: new ideas. As I see it, the two leading contenders are Senator John Kerry (Mass.) and Senator Joe Lieberman (Conn.). Kerry represents the left wing of the party, Lieberman very much the right. Some have forwarded the name of Senator John Edwards (N.C.), but I believe him to be too young and too ambitious to risk a potentially disastrous campaign so early in his career. It is interesting to note that no one has successfully run from the Senate since JFK in 1960. LBJ stopped off at the Naval Observatory before ascending to the White House; though he hadn't held elective office in eight years prior to his inauguration, Nixon had most recently been Vice President, too. Ford and G. Bush were V.P.s, previously serving in the House (both of them) and almost every possible appointed position in government (Bush). Carter, Reagan, Clinton, and G.W. Bush were all governors. Does this bode ill for Mr.s Kerry and Lieberman? Probably. But, hey, there are two years until the next election, and in December 1998 who had ever heard of George W. Bush?

Another Saturday surrendered to Animania. I should appreciate them more, though, as there are only four more left for me. I love this club and I like being Veep, but sometimes it seems as if we have a screening every other Saturday.

And now to convince everyone to come to see Real Can of Yams on December 30, here's "Riot Grrl." This song was inspired by Skeeter, but is in no way about her.
"Riot Grrl"
words by M. Wilson; music by K. Stermer
(verse 1)
I want a girl with spikey hair
I want a girl who doesn't care
I want a girl who tells mean jokes
I want a girl who never smokes
I want a girl who likes cheese fries
I want a girl with giant eyes
I want a girl with a rad tattoo
I want a girl who says, "I hate you"

(chorus)
I want a riot grrl!
Little bity girl with big black boots
I want a riot grrl!
Raging in the pit she's oh so cute
I want a riot grrl!
Pissed off at the world for all its lies
I want a riot grrl!
She's so damn sick of phony guys

(verse 2)
I want a girl who likes the absurd
I want a girl who flips the bird
I want a girl who likes to skank
I want a girl who's not a skank
I want a girl who likes ska shows
I want a girl who really knows
What it's like to love a band
How much it means to shake their hands

(chorus)

(bridge)
You'll see her at the punk rock show
Kamikaze diving into the front row
The chaos and the music, it's ecstacy
That's how I know she's the girl for me
Even when you snarl your lips are soft
You looked happiest when you're pissed off
Please don't waste your time with other guys
Come on, riot grrl, we'll find cool dyes

(chorus)

(verse 3)
I want a girl rocks all night
I want a girl who likes to fight
I want a girl whose dreams are grand
I want a girl who's in a band
I want a girl who speaks her mind
I want a girl whose love is blind
I want a girl with a wicked smile
I want a girl who loves denial

(chorus)

Nemesis was good. The final battle was perhaps a little too much like Star Trek VI, but I'll let it slide since it was so satisfying. Other parts I'm not so sure about, but overall I'm pleased.

Today, there is no time. Once again, no good deed goes unpunished. I've been awake since 7:15am, and by my count I've only committed two of the seven deadly sins: gluttony and pride (for only thinking I'd committed gluttony). Yesterday: envy, lust, and pride.

Not to be a guy, but it's been too damn long since I've had my hand inside a girl's shirt. Aw, crap. That's three: lust.

There's a laundry list of items for today's blog; so, we're doing this the way Dan Rydell does Major League Soccer scores, as quickly as possible and with the suggestion, "Make the nets bigger."

REAL CAN OF YAMS! If you are reading this, you are invited to rock your ass off with Real Can of Yams on Monday, December 30, at The Flint Local 432. We're a really good live act, dedicated to showmanship and the proposition that your fun must be paramount. Plus, some other good bands will be there, like the Bald Mountain's side project The Old Hats and GB superband Tommy's Frogs, the night's headliners. Email me for directions or if you're willing to come to Ann Arbor, I'll give you a ride. Seriously.

I use aftershave and Old Spice is my brand. My dad uses and both grandpas used Old Spice, so until recently it never even occured to me to try another aftershave. However, recently I was told I'm too young for Old Spice; so, not that I'm necessarily going to change, but does anybody have any recommendations? (Yeah, I know, if I'm going to be asking these sorts of questions, I really should add a commenting feature. I'm mulling it over.)

My Whole Life Is Here. I've lived in Ann Arbor for five years. I know so many people here sometimes it feels like high school. On Tuesday night, after an Animania postering mission, Snarky treated his roommate El Presidente, their mutual roommate Slim, Latrice, and me to dinner at Pizza House. A good time was had by all. As soon as we arived, we saw two of our fellow Animania staff members out on a clandestine date; a surprise to the others, I'd known about the affair through Bachelorette No.3. So, not only can I not enter a restaurant without seeing someone I know, it's hard to see anyone I know without it becoming fodder for some kind of gossip. Adding to this, our table was visited by Nancy (whose last name I will certainly misspell, so I shan't even make the attempt), a GBHS alumna. She posed the odd question, "Do you still like Grand Blanc?" Yesterday, I addressed a several day-old craving for a burger by having lunch at the Brown Jug. Of course, halfway through my meal who should be seated at the table next to mine but fellow lifeguard Jodi the Crazy Girl, who reminded me that I still owe her dinner. (As as aside, the debt will be settled Friday night, but don't bother asking why I owe her dinner because I honestly don't have a clue.) I cannot enter a restaurant without seeing someone I know. Given the pervasive loneliness that will define my life in a scant few months, I suppose I should be grateful for this familiarity and camraderie. Still, I miss my anonymity.

I'm crushing pretty hard on a girl right now, but I know I can't do anything about it; so, I think it's actually helping. On a related note, from now until she arrives, I'm going to try to adopt an anti-Lindsay stance. I'm going to try to hold in mind all the things I don't like about her, like all the unfounded assumptions she makes about me. That she adores her boyfriend's guitar playing, but I'm "trying to still be in high school" because of RCY. The greatest plan know to Mankind? I have my doubts, but none of my other schemes have propered; so, I can't see the harm in making a go at this one.

Tomorrow is Star Trek: Nemesis. This close to it, I'm not apprehensive about this plot element or excited about that plot element, I'm just giddy because tomorrow there's a new Star Trek movie! Yippy! The Bald Mountain, Neutral Man, the Flying Dutchman, and I are going tomorrow evening... maybe the Plate, too; anybody else is welcome to come. If nothing else, at least Nemesis won't have space-hippies like Insurrection.

Three years ago today, Grandpa Wilson died. Ten months later, Grandpa Little followed him. I'd always said, with perhaps a bit too much pride, that I was very fortunate not to have had any deaths in my family. Those whom gods would destroy they first make proud. Howard Linton Wilson, Senior 1919-1999.

I apologize for the shoddy workmanship of yesterday's main post. I chose not to read over my carelessly typed work, and thus came off as an illiterate baboon. You deserve better, dear friends, all three of you.

Ha ha! Blogger tried to fuck me, but I remembered how to circumvent the problem. Take that, you nonsentient, inanimate server!

On height... Dude, you aren't 6'0". Give it up. In our society, height is equated with status. This is by no means an absolute rule (Tom Cruise is a noteable exception), but we have a great and abiding respect for height. Many of us would like to be taller, as we equate being taller with being better. I am prone to this myself; as a child, Dr. DiGi projected my adult height at 6'2", and I've always wished that I hadn't stopped growing at 6'0". Nevertheless, I've never pretended to be taller than I am, unlike the majority of my contemporaries (note: this mostly refers to males); as in, most guys overestimate their height. Any guy 5'9" or taller claims to be 6'0". I'm looking at the top of this guy's head and he's telling a girl he's 6'0". When I point out that I'm almost precisely 6'0", he tells me that I must have grown since I was last measured because I must be like, 6'1" or 6'2" (by most people's reckoning, there is no longer inch than the one between 6'0" and 6'1"). In fact, being measured about every six months, I have for years been 5'11 7/8". So, no, most guys who claim to be 6'0" are not. I'm not trying to push myself as superior because I live life near the exalted 6'0" altitude, I just wish guys would stop lying about their height. (And for the record, the Bald Mountain, for all his Mountainesque nature is "only" 6'2", not 6'4" as most "6'0"" guys assert.) And if you try to tell me my height in centimeters, we won't speak ever again.

Also, now I'm clean shaven so I once again feel pretty.

I'm a jerk, but that doesn't mean I'm not a nice guy. I want to do the right thing, and I try to help people. Thus, here's my dilema: I can't stand Bachelorette No. 3. I want to ditch her, but it's hard because all she ever talks about is how depressed she is since all of her other friends have ditched her. And now she thinks she has clinical depression, and talks about how she almost commited suicide in October. I begin to think that her friends have a valid point, but I'd also feel like a heel if I ditched her, too. The only viable option I can discern is to avoid her. Let her natural preoccupation with school keep her busy, and just coincidentally already have plans whenever she's free. Of course, she'd eventually catch on, so the real way to play it is to hang out with her (whenever unavoidable), but always for a finite amount of time. "Jess, hey, this has been cool, and I'm glad I can be here for you in your never-ending time of need, but Brado and I are going to clean the gutters at the house so I have to go."

My sincerest thanks to The Watergirl for Can't Stop the Love Sled. If you haven't heard it, you're missing out. Receiving a package - "worst wrapping ever" - was unexpected; so, my joy was doubled due to the suprise nature of the generous gift.

In other music news...REAL CAN OF YAMS Live on stage, Monday, December 30th, 2002 at The Flint Local 432! The Bald Mountain, K. Steeze, the fabulous Liz Ele, John "the damn, dirt lefty" Duffy, and The Last Angry Man bringing you that genuine Yam-tastic sound just in time for the new year! The Local's easy to find and you've got nothing better to do since it isn't New Year's Eve; so, be there or be square!

I found myself awake at four in the morning both Friday and Saturday nights, for the first time in quite a while. Much fun was had, both at Friday's cocktail party at Macho Grande (where I bullied Neutral Man into actually talking to a girl instead of just staring at her from across the room) and Saturday's screening of Die Another Day.

More later, but for now let me just say that I didn't have time to shave on my way out the door this morning, and now I feel icky.

My pursuit of Lindsay is unbidden, and I know she'd rather I gave up on her ever loving me and just concentrated my efforts of being her friend. Some would say that makes me pathetic, the unwanted pursuit. I don't really feel myself on solid enough ground to say it's not, but obviously I'd prefer to not be pathetic. Opinions?

The Bald Mountain and I saw The Yeomen of the Guard this afternoon. Yeomen is a Gilbert & Sullivan comic opera; it was presented by UMGASS, the University of Michigan Gilbert and Sullivan Society. The UMGASS people are lunatics, but I really like the play so in this instance I'm glad the inmates are running the asylum. As expected, EPM was her usual brilliant self as the old maid Dame Carruthers.

Talking to Lindsay last night, I discovered that California schools have a retarded three-week "semester" between New Year's Day and the start of the real second semester. So, if you don't take classes, you get a month off from late December to late January; the downside is that the second semester doesn't let out until the end of May, even later than Narwhal Day (May 23). I asked her what she's doing in January. She said, "You don't want to hear it, but Jake and I are going to Mexico." It is actually the first part of that statement which is bothering me. I don't like it, but her boyfriend (whom I'm going to dehumanize in the manner of Curly's Wife) is a very important part of her life (dark bastard: way more important that I've ever been). So, though she calls me her best friend, I'm shut out from probably the single most important thing in her life. She is doing it to protect me, because she knows that the idea of him causes me physical pain; Lindsay cares about me and doesn't want to see me hurt in any way. Nevertheless, by protecting me she's excluding me. As a consequence, I'm not going to know how important he is to her. I won't even know about the marriage until I get a wedding invitation.

Dylweed, if you call me EminEminEm again, the next time I see you I will have no choice but to beat the living crap out of you in front of your beautiful wife, and nobody needs that kind of embarrassment. I still love you, man, but this has to stop.

I've decided that possibly my favorite thing in the whole world is the Donald Rumsfeld WAR MACHINE, formerly known as the Department of Defense. What more can you ask for in a WAR MACHINE than Rummy? He's perfect. And by that I mean absolutely horrifying. He scares the bejeezus out of Americans, so just think how mind-numbingly terrifying he must be to our enemies. The man's an utterly conscienceless killer. Just point the Donald Rumsfeld WAR MACHINE at what you want killed and he'll neutralize it as secretly and ruthlessly as possible. Also, we should revive the concept of war bonds. What better investment opportunity is there in these troubled times that the Donald Rumsfeld WAR MACHINE? The value of each bond actually goes up with increaced uncertainty!

Also in that vein, I'm going to start marketing a line of WWRD? bracelets, bumper stickers, and other merchandise. WWRD?: What Would Rummy Do? (Hint: the answer is always evade the question by charming the press with your unsinkable ego and razor-sharp wit.)

I've decided that since I don't have the first clue how to go about giving up on Lindsay, I'm not going to try. If one day I realize I'm no longer in love with her, I'll burn that bridge when I come to it. But until then, winning her is my aim and being her best friend is my sorrow. However, I think it's important for her for me to be looking for someone else. I'm not looking for love, just someone with whom to share my loneliness. What I need right now is a frivolous infatuation. Any takers?

And by the way, you're all skankoids.

There are only thirty-seven people in the whole world, and they all know one another. Also, everybody has made out with everybody else, except me. That there, my friends, is a kick in the teeth. To quote the worldy and erudite Skeeter, "Why are they all such skankoids?"

About the wedding, Linz said, "I get to meet the elusive Julie S." What the hell does that mean? It'll be neat, though, the only two girls I've ever loved in the same room. Also, if we're going to compare Julies, mine being Skeeter and hers SSG, I'm going to feel so embarrassed for Linz.

First in high school and then in college, I was surrounded by the best thing in the whole world: girls. Lots and lots of girls. Smart girls. Pretty girls. Funny girls (though few and far between). Girls so kind you were afraid to talk to them because you knew your intentions weren't entirely honorable. Girls so beautiful they could launch a thousand ships. Soon, so very soon, this will no longer be the case, as I'm leaving this college town for the larger world. Loneliness and isolation are to be my only companions. I cannot and will not "pick up women" in bars, and I hate the idea of idiotic "office romance." I've spectacularly failed to interest girls in the target rich environment of my youth, and now I enter the wastelend that is adulthood. Sweet fancy Moses, I'm going to be a virgin at thirty.

On the plus side, tonight I'm going to see The Mighty Mighty Bosstones alone. Sure, it sucks to go to a show by yourself, but David has a class or something that he just can't miss, and I'm glad that Neutral Man has a class and The Plate hasn't called me (as a consequence, I haven't called him). As for Guy Zach Nie! or K. Steeze, who's back in town for the annual December BTW madness, I just didn't think to ask them in time. But it's okay, since nobody else loves the Bosstones like I do, and I can feel all 8 Mile driving into Detroit alone. (It should be noted that I grew up in the 313. Yes, this is just a technicality and Grand Blanc has not been part of the 313 area code for several years, but I can truthfully say that I grew up in the 313 and let people take away from that what they will.)

Neutral Man is a buddy of mine, but not my friend. I realized this last week, when I tried to talk to him. He was once again trying to reassure himself that breaking up with Miss Missy was the right thing to do. I've patiently listened to this same speech for months now. I tried to tell him how I was feeling, more to vent than seek his counsel, but he blew me off and went back into the same tired conversational loop about Missy. So, screw him. Also, Bachelorette No. 3 is becoming a real drag. Yes, she has genuine problems, but why can't she bitch about them to this new boyfriend she's so excited about? Once, just once, I'd like to have a conversation with her that didn't degenerate into what's gone wrong in her life that particular day. I'm a bad person because I'm sick of listening to Neutral Man and Bachelorette No. 3's problems, but I'm a good person because I listened to her whine for an hour and a half last night and I keep telling him he did the right thing with Missy (he did) and that he'll be fine once he's back on the dating scene (after all, he's good looking and inoffensively bland, just what girls say they like). As Major Kira once said (yes, I'm quoting Star Trek, so fuck you), "You can't judge a person by what they think. Or even by what they say. You can only judge a person by what they do." I hate listenig to them whine, but yet I do listen and try to help. Score one for me on the side of the angels.

Thanksgiving was exquisite. My mom finally figured out how to keep the turkey moist, thereby overcoming the only weakness in an otherwise divine Thanksgiving dinner. I ate so much I wanted to puke. And then I had pie. I did the same thing with leftovers Friday night, and Saturday I had way too much lasagna. I didn't get to see Skeeter or the high school gang at Little Joe's, though, dammit. I did get to play Risk until 4:30 in the morning with the BTW gang, though.

Three Coincidences Surrounding Lindsay
a) Friday at Conor O'Neill's, she told me about my new name, Wedding Mike. This is how her Berkeley friends know me, because we're going together to Emma's wedding. Her old boyfriend, Marrying Mike (I gave him that name when she said that if he hadn't dumped her she would have married him), is now known as Hockey Mike (since he works in the front office of the Carolina Hurricanes) to avoid confusion with me as Wedding Mike.

b) The feature "10 Things You Don't know About Women" from the most recent issue of Esquire, written by Cheryl Hines, an actor on Curb Your Enthusiasm: "8. More often than not, we use an adjective before your name when we talk to our friends about you, as in Squishy Steve, Flaccid Frank, Freakshow Charlie, or Perfect Paul. Makes you wonder, huh?"

c) Lindsay loves Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Wedding Mike, signing off.