Escape From L.A.
Well, I can finally get K. Steeze and The Professor off my back, my flights to and from Los Angeles have been booked... and they won't cost me a dime! Bwah ha ha ha ha! My sincerest thanks to my dear mother for allowing me to take advantage of her credit card reward points, of which she had accumulated more than enough to wisk me to the City of Angels and back again to the Motor City. So, the week after our annual pilgrimage to Mosquito Mecca, also known as Schroon Lake, New York, to visit the Mountain of Love at opera camp, I shall visit California for the second time. I expect to derive exquisite joy from my time with the boys and the Belle of Texas, currently in LA as part of an internship, and from my first experience with BTWest, the very first incarnation of the BTW House. Woot!

In all my life I never thought I'd be this excited to be going to Los Angeles, described by William Faulkner as "the plastic asshole of America." (I've never read Faulkner, I just like that quote.) Hooray for Blue Tree Whacking.

The Dreadful Sick
By Saturday, the stabbing brink in my stomach had all but disappeared, replaced by a curious soreness in my stomach muscles, as if I'd done a number of sit-ups. I cautiously snacked on some cinnamon-sugar toast and a bowl of Corn Chex without milk. I had eaten nothing at all on Thursday and Friday; so, even the small portions I ate of these mild foods gave rise to some gastro-intestinal hijinks. Apparently, digestion is not like riding a bike; it does not come right back to your stomach and sundry intestines. Nevertheless, this was a major improvement over the queer and disconcerting deadlock of Thursday and Friday. I am still eating smaller portions than those to which I am accustomed, but in view of my ponderous bulk and a desire to do away with some of it it would be a wise policy to adopt modestly sized meals as the new order of things. In short, I am not simply better, I am well.

And of course I blame this entire episode on Skeeter and the spooky coincidences that have recently marked both our lives. Not Invader ZIM's "Halloween Spectacular of Spooky Doom" spooky, but still pretty spooky. I assume The Watergirl is just an innocent bystander caught in the spooky crossfire. Spooky!

High Fives All Around
This afternoon, I weed-whacked and chopped up the branches I had haphazardly pruned over the last few weeks. Sweet merciful crap, it was hot! I do not recall the last June to have so many days marked by afternoon highs in excess of eighty degrees. And, alas, they have not been hot, dry days, but rather monuments to heat and humidity. That's right, dear readers, it's been hot and muggy.

Foreign Affairs
I'd remark on the new leadership in Hong Kong or the new hardline (but mostly powerless) president in Iran, but you people wouldn't care. The utter lack of response to last week's question about your feelings on the European Union demonstrated the futility of trying to engage you Philistines in a discussion about any more worldly than the regrettably sorry state of American journalism. Go back to your spicy chicken wings and NASCAR standings, no need to think about the world beyond our borders.

You know, it must suck to be the Philistines. Thousands upon thousands of now forgotten tribes fought countless wars in the lost mists of pre- and early history, and most of those tribes must have lambasted their enemies as the most abominable people on Earth. The Philistines just had the rotten luck of making an enemy of the one damn tribe (technically, twelve tribes) whose chronicles would go on to be enshrined in the holy text of the numerically largest religion in the world. I'm sure in many ways the Philistines were no worse than the Israelites. This brings to mind FDR's famous words on dictators, "He may be a son of a bitch, but he's our son of a bitch." The Israelites may have been as savage as the Philistines, but the Israelites are our guys; so, the Philistines are remembered as the Philistines, and you'd be well advised to take umbrage at being called a Philistine, as you were in the previous paragraph.

Also, be mindful. Like most anime, FLCL is much better in the original Japanese. The subtitles come fast and furious, but it is a small price to pay for the wonderful voice acting. Fooly cooly, y'all.