I had my first Jell-O shot yesterday! I didn't want it, but as soon as I got to the party Mary (Catwoman), our lovely hostess, bushwhacked me and shoved it into my hand. I would have refused, except she's an adorable drunk; all smiles and stumbling, and concerned that you're having a good time, too. Britta's (Butterfly) costume was amazing, sparkling and translucent, but I was not able to speak to her for long. (Yes, these are all people that I work with, because those are the only people I knew at this party.) Wiz (Shower) looked great, with a shower curtain, simulated water, and a soap dish all attached to his person; now that's a Halloween costume! Anyway, as I was talking to Britta, and making a sincere effort to not let my eyes drop down from her face, Chris (tourist in Hawai'i) struck up a conversation. The things he says are vapid, but that's not what really bothers me. The cadance of his voice is annoying, too, but it's the tone that cuts through my like a knife. "Sorry, kid. It's the laughter of children, it cuts through me like a dentist drill." I honestly cannot stand to hear the man talk. It drives me insane. So, I pulled my patented high school move and fled. No goodbyes to anyone, just a few brisk steps and I was out the door. I was only there about an hour and would have liked to have stayed, but circumstances were quite out of my control.

What can I be next year? A superhero? A punk? A mod? President Lex Luthor? A milk crate? So many possibilities. Jumpin' Jack Pratt, I love Halloween. Holy shit, that's it! I can go as Jack Pratt! Sure, nobody from outside Grand Blanc would get the reference, but who the hell cares what they think? Sweet! Last night, several girls commented that I made a great Elwood Blues because I bear a resemblence to Dan Aykroyd. Maybe they've never seen Dan Aykroyd. (Nobody would know who I am, but a great costume would be Superman villain Manchester Black.)

I'm glad I decided not to add a commenting feature to the ol' Secret Base. From watching other blogs, they seem to malfunction all the time; more importantly, this is my blog. If you want to say something, start your own. Right now, I really really want to link to the funniest thing on the Internet. But I can't because a friend asked me not to. Rassom frassom friendship. It doesn't help you guys, but please know that I just had a good belly laugh thinking about it; so, at least one person's day has been made a little better. But if I can't link you to the funniest thing on the Internet (must... resist... temptation... Skeeter... will... kill me), I can at least link you to something funny on the Internet. Try this, and read Get Fuzzy every day.

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.)

Dylan, I guess I could wait, but I want it now! "It can flash-fry a buffalo in forty seconds." "Forty seconds? But I want it now!"

Um, ooo... brain fart. I forgot what I was going to post. Yep, I'm an idiot.

It has come to my attention that the Flying Dutchman* does not enjoy the film Rushmore and lists the Dave Matthews Band among his five favorite bands. Hmmm, bad things may have to happen to him. (*Based on Friday's identification of Jim and Dan as "the Plate" and "the Pikachu Tamer," and inspired by The Watergirl's blog, I am experimenting with using nicknames as primary identifiers. For example, "the Bald Mountain" for David and "K. Steeze" universally in place of Kevin Stermer, etc. This is not being done to protect anyone's anonymity - the Flying Dutchman is Mike Lindemulder - but because I like nicknames.)

Although they are not what the once were and I hate their whoring out to MTV, it must be said that "Rock Show" by Blink-182 is still a good song. Poppy, but Blink's always been poppy. And I love the line "I fell in love with the girl at the rock show" because it makes me think happy thoughts about Linz (instead of crappy, dwelling on how terribly I miss her thoughts).

Here's the chain of thoughts that lead to that comment: Tonight, the Plate, the Pikachu Tamer, and I are going to see Mustard Plug at St. Andrew's Hall in beautiful Detroit, Michigan. Both previous Plug shows I've attended I did so with Linz (both at Ann Arbor's Blind Pig). The first ska show Lindsay ever attended was a Plus show at the Pig by my invitation. And although I did not know her at the time I wrote the line, one of the lyrics of the Real Can of Yams song "Riot Grrl" is "Raging in the pit she's oh so cute" and this is perfectly true about the lovely Ms. Shaw. Elsewhere, she is never magnificent in quite the same way as when she's crushed between sweaty punks in a hopping pit. So, Plug tonight, Plug with Linz, Linz at the rock show, "I fell in love with the girl at the rock show."

It's no "Josie," but "Rock Show" proves that there is still something worth saving in Blink-182.

DYLAN HANEY, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND DECENT WILL YOU PLEASE BLOG!

Okay, here it is folks, your guide to understanding the Crisis on Infinite Earths and why it matters. I can tell you this: DC Comics has an incredibly complex post-Crisis continuity. However, had there never been the Crisis, DC continuity - pre-Crisis plus the intervening seventeen years - would be indecipherable to any newcomer. In large measure then, I owe my love of comics to the Crisis on Infinite Earths. (Yes, one day I hope to do an entire Newsletter column about being a fanboy.)

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
45. You should know all this and more without my telling you.
Yeah, I know, I thought the ending sucked, too. I understand that it's hard to come up with forty-five new yet true statements about relationships, but if you can't do forty-five there's no shame in stopping at a lower number.

The Newsletter is in crisis. Not a cool crisis like the Crisis on Infinite Earths, but a crisis nonetheless. I think I have to fire Brad. We'd retain his column (pathetic drivel though it is), but as far as being an editor, the kid is fucking worthless. He's my friend and I don't want to kick him when he's already down about Missy, but it's unfair to us for him to not pull his weight. We're asking him to do things he's unwiling to do, but we're only asking because he told us he was willing to do them. No, there's no other way.

(I'll probably go back when I have more time and find a cool link for the Crisis; so, look back for that later today or tomorrow.)

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
44. I remember everything about our relationship.
No, my love, you do not. Neither do I. None of us do. We all forget, often because we want to, sometimes just because we do. But you remember all the important things, and all the things you can use against me, and for that I love you.
Tomorrow, the conclusion of "45 Things She Wishes You Knew."

On Saturday night, I saw a girl get struck by a car. I couldn't tell you anything about the car except that it was dark. I bolted to the girl; the first person to her, sitting there in the middle of State. Her boyfriend grabbed her other arm and we lifted her from the pavement. I directed them to the wall in front of the Union and sat her down. A crowd of strangers were gathered around us, cell phones in most of their hands, calling an ambulance, calling the police, shouting at each other to get the license plate number. Another car stopped and told us the plate number. She was bleeding from a cut above her right eye and crimson marred her white shirt. Her fingers tinged with blood and spreading it to her shoulder, she crossed herself; it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

It took some coaxing, but using my best lifeguard voice I got her to lie down. "I'm not trying to minimize this, but it's a head wound and they bleed profusely; so, don't worry about the blood." She asked if her tooth was chipped and I said yes. Later she asked if anyone could see it lying in the street.She never lost consciousness, but she was starting to go into shock. I talked to her and told she was going to be okay. Some frat boys bought napkins from their house, the one next to the Union, and we started to clean her up. She walked to the wall with our assistance; so, there was no major spinal damage. I didn't check for broken bones, but she didn't mention anything specifically hurting. She asked why someone would do such a thing - "He looked right at me" - but I told her that she'd done nothing wrong and that she was going to be okay.

The Fire Department and the police came. They took her to the U of M hospital. The boyfriend was stunned; I told him not to worry about the car, just to tell her she was going to be all right. "And take care of yourself, man." I hadn't seen the car hit her; I'd reacted once I heard the thud, though I did see her white shirt suspended in the air for less than a moment, above the hood and off to one side. Then, I just ran full out into traffic. Thank God I didn't have to think. I hadn't seen the car before it hit her and I didn't see the driver; so, after he took my name, the police officer didn't need anything from me. He told us that they had the car, though. I was kind of freaked out Saturday night, but I'm cool now. I just kept seeing her doing it over and over: She crossed herself. She crossed herself. She crossed herself.

I'd like to be against a war with Iraq, but I'm just not capable of that kind of moral cowardice.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
42. It's cheating as soon as you're doing something with her that you wouldn't want me to see, hear, read...
and
43. For the record: I'd rather you break up with me than cheat.
I cannot agree with this strongly enough. If you are with someone, you are with them to the romantic/sexual exclusion of all others. Period. I don't care if you're dating the worst person in the world, as long as you haven't broken up with her, you will conduct yourself with complete fidelity. In a surprise move, Brad ripped the Band-Aid off; he broke up with Missy on Monday. On Sunday, I told him, "I mean, I don't know if you're even interested in looking for another girl, even a rebound girl, but you will not do anything until you've talked to Missy and it's over. I don't care how dead your relationship is, until there has been a formal declaration, you are still with her." I despise anyone who has ever cheated on their boyfriend or girlfriend. It is far better to dump a girl hard than to cheat on her just a little bit. And if you do cheat, whether or not to confess is your business and depends on your relationship, but I hope your conscience eats you alive. There is no higher virtue than loyalty, and infidelity is one of the gravest forms of disloyalty.

Lindsay does not approve of my purchase of Avril Lavigne's Let Go. This would bother me more if Linz weren't a devoted fan of (snicker snicker) Aerosmith.

The second season of Enterprise got under way Wednesday night. The good continues to outweigh the bad. I am deeply concerned about this December's tenth feature film, Star Trek: Nemesis.

Yeah, okay, I fixed the nickname problem, by who in the hell do they think they are to reset my information like that?

I'm thinking about changing the name of this blog to "Ev Is A Useless Fucker." Yea? Nay?

Okay, good news, The Secret Base is once again functional... but when the FUCK did I change my profile from "Mike Wilson" to "The Last Angry Man"?!? The assholes who run Blogger are worthless sacks of camel droppings. Fucking useless son-of-bitches. I mean it when I say a pox upon their heads. Terminal? No. But I want those Epsilons good and sick for a long fucking time; maybe a nice bout of the clap or some kind of festering boils.

A pox on the heads of the morons behind Blogger! A pox, you hear me, a pox!

Oh, and guess what? The email address for Blogger support is no longer functional. You receive a reply directing you to the help section of the webpage. There, once you have identified your type of problem, it tells you to use the email address for Blogger support. Fuck the Blogger people, they are Epsilons of the worst kind.

Some folks have been experiencing this error since last Friday, and they still can't publish. I know no one can read this, at least not right now, but I'd appreciate suggestions for a new host. I like the format of Blogger, but not being able to publish entirely defeats the purpose of having a blog; so, The Secret Base may have to move. Damn it.

It's not even fucking worth it to try "45 Things" or anything else right now.

Other blogs are working, but neither of mine. I feel so special. Perfection in performance is a ridiculous fantasy, but this malfunction is becoming almost routine. The only part of this that makes me angry is that the error message contains a link to a troubleshooting page, but my error is not among those for which help is provided. The assholes who run Blogger can go fuck themselves. Don't offer to help people and then do nothing; just say you can't help. Just be honest, you worthless collections of bile.

I had an atrocious time at work last night. I hated the bitch I was working with. The entire time was spend listening to her witless prattle about needing to get laid. It was honestly worse than any possible caricature of the most boorish frat boy. She was, perhaps, the most base human being I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. I will do everything in my power to never again work with her again. If I have to, I may just try to get fired to get out of it.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
41. Even nice girls like hushed dirty talk in public.
I would not know where to begin. I am a funny guy, but I cannot tell ribald jokes. They just don't work for me. Same principle here; so, I just don't think I could make that work, even were it what she wanted.

This morning, I once again dwelled upon the fact that you can have known someone for years, and then in one moment you realize that everything you've ever said to each other isn't a lie, but it's just no longer true.

Blogger is non-functional. Again. Joy. But, at least it's letting me post, if not publish; so, I'll write this now and post it once possible.

Dan got dumped hard in August and Brad is about to break up with Missy (about friggin' time). Hmm, like celebrity deaths, the disintegration of couples seems to be a grouped phenomenon. So, last night Brad kept me up until 2:30 trying to work up the fortitude to do it; I fully support this decision, I'm just annoyed that it will take a few more nights of his agonizingly slow decision-making process before he's ready. And Dan and I will watch his old tapes of Mobile Suit Zeta Gundam; ah, sweet anime, lessens the pain.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
40. I love holding your bum in the palms of my hands.
Um, okay. Fantastic, as long as it isn't a PDA.

I forgot that I have to work tonight; so, no trivia night at Conor's for me. *sigh* But, at least tomorrow's a sleep in day, meaning I only have to wake up in time to watch Hamtaro!

I was going to pull my air conditioner out of my window and rearrange my room (and I may yet), but now I'm feeling tired and beat up from the Flounders. I've played all three days this week, and last night I had a broomball game at midnight (followed by work this morning at 8:00). My hands are all cut up and both elbows are bashed to hell. My right shoulder has some discolored bruises, there is a painful scrape on my right shin, and my lip is a little puffy. I love violent sports.

After the game last night, I was so excited about our victory that I called Linz. We talked for forty minute and I laughed the entire time. It was truly excellent.

If things go according to plan, I'll be going to Monday trivia at Conor's with Zach , Sarah, and Katie. For seemingly no reason, I keep seeing this girl I know, Veronica Capellos, everywhere. Seriously, I've seen her at least three times this week. And Brad Schnieder, too. I've run into him almost every day since the weekend. It's beginning to creep me out.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
39. A lady should always be greeted with kisses.
I would if I could, I would if I could. If you'll forgive me, now I'm going to dreamily remember what her lips felt like when she kissed me....

Remember kids, if you see something you don't like on the internet (yes, they do have the internet on computers now), just resist the temptation to look at it. Of course, if I'm doing something that somebody doesn't like, it would be unreasonable to ask to ask them to simply not look at it. Better to ask me to stop doing what they don't like. Wacky.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
38. It's best to consult your gal pals for gift ideas.
Ha ha! Wrong! Radio Free Wilson, the ska and punk mix CDs I compiled and burned for her before she moved to Berkeley, was an entirely male-conceived idea. Okay, so a mix tape is not anything new, but no gal pals were consulted. And, man oh man, you should have seen her reaction; one of the greatest moments of my life. For a more typical guy and a more typical girl, though, consulting probably isn't a bad idea.

I've woken up no later than 8:30 for the past six days. The only hard part is a two-hour drowsy spell from 10pm-midnight. After midnight, I gt my second wind and it's hard to go to sleep before 2 or 2:30.

I hate writing birthday cards. Lindsay really liked my card, but I don't remember exactly what I said. Yeah, I know the main thrust of it, but it would be nice to have a transcript as reference material. And it's frustrating when there's been tension, and you're not completely over it. Because whatever that tension is, it's just contemporary dingo's kidneys, whereas you want the card to last forever. I want every card I write to be dated, to very much reflect the exact moment in which it was written, but to still be endearing in twenty years. (I say twenty years even though I know these things get thrown away; however, I save them because whatever my mind knows gets trumped by my intuitive assumption that everyone else saves them as well.)

Anything I could say of any consequence about today's anniversary I said in The Newsletter. God bless America.

Yesterday was Lindsay's birthday. The card was very well-received, as was the phone call. When I mean to be, I can be rather adept.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
Tuesday's...
36. Celebrating our anniversary, even it it's only been a few months, earns major bonus points.
I remember the day I met Lindsay; I remember the date. I remember the terrible night we saw Hannibal and she eviscerated me. I mentioned the anniversary of our meeting and she seemed surprised I remembered. I remember everything.

Today's...
37. I love it when you're sweaty.
Man, she must love me all the time then, because I'm the bastard who helped invent Sweating Like A Wilson.

I attended a truly great party at David's new apartment on Saturday night. It was the perfect atmosphere, the perfect number of people, within that number the perfect number of people I already knew, the perfect amount of drinking. A grand time standing around and talking to people I don't see very often. Aided by Bacchus, a number of them were extrememly happy to see me, which is a boost to the ol' ego. Man oh man, it was fun.

Also this weekend, I was told that the smoking of some good pot reminder the smoker of me. It was explained that the quality of the pot spoke to my well known insistance on quality. Nevertheless, I think this is the very first time I have even been associated with pot to anyone anywhere in any way.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
35. I like it when you tell me what you're thinking, even if you don't know yourself.
The last time I told her what was on my mind, it got my in trouble. I was staring off into space and she asked me, "What?" Before I even thought about it, I turned to her and said, "I'm trying to figure out what I did wrong." An intense and meaningful discussion followed. Now, that it not to say that the above is not true. Maybe then it was time we discussed some things, her departure being very near at that point. I like this one.

The July and August issues of The Newsletter have finally been mailed out. (I am a firm believer in "better late than never.") Excellent progress has been made on the new website and it should be launching shortly. (Maybe we should have a vastly inflated IPO?) The envelopes are all ready for September's first issue, Vol. IV, No. 1 - which will be mailed out on Monday come Hell or high water - to be followed two weeks later by an issue marking The Newsletter's first birthday.

Tomorrow, I get to recert for new Lifeguard and CPR cards. I don't know why, but lately I've had this great sense that things are starting to come together; the dark bastard remains silent, which is his way of pouting. "I have great faith in my own invincibility." Anything repeated often enough eventually becomes the truth. All this, and my shameful infatuation with Avril Lavigne continues.

I'm back from DC. The drive was actually really fun. I start to get bored when I drive anywhere by myself, but since I had to minimally concentrate on the truck ahead of me, I was alert and engaged the entire time. I wish I'd brought more than eight CDs, though. I actually talked to people on the plane home, a first for me. Not a life-altering experience, but noteworthy nevertheless.

45 Things She Wishes You Knew
34. Discussion of ex-gf's and ex-bf's should be avoided at all times.
I disagree. Why? Because I want to know everything. I just do, it's how I am. This isn't about jealousy or inadequacy, just curiosity. I want to know about Marrying Mike and what made him so precious to her. For good or for ill, you can tell a lot about a person by his associates. So, by knowing something about the guys she has dated, I could learn more about her. Of course, for my part the closest thing I've ever had to a girlfriend is Psycho Hose Beast. However, if you ask I'll tell you everything I know about her. It isn't a "knowledge is power" ego trip, I just like knowing things. And I'm secure enough to not freak out... too much.

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.